All too soon, the car comes to a halt, filling Wendy with fresh panic. She scans the street, wondering if she could run. How far could she get before they hunted her down? John catches her arm as she reaches for the door, as if sensing her thoughts. But there’s more to it than that—the look in his eyes is something else altogether.
“Ned and his father know you’ve been… sick, but nothing more.” A frown works at John’s mouth, but his expression is sincere. “You might tell them it was the Spanish flu, or whatever you like. What you choose to disclose is up to you.”
Choose. The word stops her. She hasn’t had a choice in so long—not of where to go, or what to say, and now John is giving Wendy the chance to reinvent herself whole. The thought is dizzying, and she meets her brother’s eyes, sees everything in them that he is trying to convey without speaking out loud. He wants to be kind. He’s offering her control of her life from this moment on, as narrow as the channel may be. Above all, with a fierceness that takes Wendy by surprise, he wants her to be happy.
All at once, the thought of so much choice panics her. Could she say it was the flu? St. Bernadette’s had been lucky in that way, with few enough soldiers sent to the men’s wards after coming home from the continent that they had largely escaped the sickness that had engulfed other places whole. Will Ned and his father press her, ask her for proof, and what will she say if they do? After so many years of lying, the thought of one more, a lie of her choosing that—if John is correct—her future husband will be eager to believe, nearly stops her breath.
John holds her arm for a moment longer, then lets her go. Trust. A gift, and she takes strength from it, forcing herself to breathe. She can do this thing. Moving stiffly, she climbs from the car. Her body feels numb, miles away and nothing to do with her. The real Wendy Darling flies far above the woman ascending the steps to the club preparing to meet her future husband.
By habit, Wendy brushes down the front of her skirt and straightens her sleeves. There are no hidden pockets, but running her hands over the fabric calms her regardless. Given the situation, she can allow herself this small comfort.
“I’m ready.” Wendy lifts her chin.
John favors her with a smile—relief, and perhaps a little bit of affection. There’s even a note of apology in his eyes as he holds open the door. As Wendy steps through, Michael finally catches her eye. The expression is flicker-brief, but Wendy sees a glimpse of the boy she knew in the nursery. He touches her arm, the barest pressure of his fingers resting on her sleeve.
“Don’t worry, Windy.” A crooked smile, and Michael’s old nickname for her almost undoes her. “You’ll like Ned.”
Those words, brief as they are, give Wendy the courage to keep walking. She will do this for Michael, for John. For Mary.
As Wendy’s eyes adjust to the transition from outdoor to indoor light, a tall, angular man steps forward. His hair is neatly parted, his moustache dark and carefully trimmed. The man’s suit is impeccable—dark gray, the coat long, with a cravat of rose-colored silk stuck with a perfectly placed diamond pin. She’s been out of the world long enough that she has no idea whether this is the current fashion, but nonetheless, she feels shabby. She stops where she is, and the man stops as well, a nervous air about him, making her think of a horse, easily spooked.
Just behind the man who must be Ned is a man she assumes to be her future father-in-law. The resemblance is uncanny. She might be looking at the same man twice, only one with several extra years of age. The iron gray of her father in-law’s hair and moustache is the only thing that sets their appearances apart.
Ned holds out his hand, but his father steps forward, almost bumping Ned out of the way as he grasps John’s hand and shakes it firmly. He greets Michael next, and only then looks to Wendy. His gaze reminds her of Dr. Harrington, examining her like a specimen, a particularly unpleasant one. John puts a hand on the small of her back, steadying her, drawing her forward.
“May I present my sister, Miss Wendy Darling.”
Should she curtsey? No, that would be absurd. She inclines her head, does her best to smile. She’s so focused on what to do with her hands, where to look, that she misses Ned and his father’s last name. Did John tell her already? She can’t remember. It’s to be her name too; shouldn’t it be something she knows? She wants to laugh, feels the hysterical sound trapped in her throat, and tamps it down.
Without intending to, she ends up meeting Ned’s eye. His cheeks immediately color. The reaction catches her off guard, making her want to laugh in a wholly different way. It’s oddly charming that he should be afraid of her. Of all the things she might have expected, that wasn’t one of them.
“There’s a table waiting for us.” Ned’s father’s voice is brusque, and Wendy sees what her brother meant about him being an impatient man. It strikes Wendy that he’s treating the whole thing as a business transaction, one that he would rather have over and done.
As Ned’s father leads the way to the dining room, Wendy tries to catch Ned’s eye again, but he studiously looks everywhere but at her. She contents herself
