Earnestness shines in his eyes. There is a fragility there too, and even though they have only just met, she thinks that an answer in the negative might crush him. She has had so few friends in her lifetime, and she senses that in that regard, she and Ned may be the same.
“I…” Wendy opens her mouth, dazed by Ned’s vulnerability, dazed by his offer.
She has no idea what to think of the man in front of her, and that alone is enough to intrigue her. There is a gentleness to him, setting him apart from his father, setting him apart from Peter, her first real friend. She glances briefly to Michael. He assured her she would like Ned; perhaps this is what he meant.
“I shall endeavor to be honest with you as well.” Wendy smooths the front of her skirt, gathering herself and burying her nerves in the folds of the fabric. “I have not had many friends in my life. I am not the easiest person to be friends with, in fact, but if you are willing to try, then I am as well.”
The words feel reckless, dangerous, but in the instant, Wendy means them. It’s like the first time she flew, holding Peter’s hand, the way they stepped from the window and fell into the night. Only they didn’t fall. They soared.
She hasn’t decided what she will tell Ned of her life, and she doesn’t know what he may be willing to share of his. All she knows is that she would like to learn more about him. She would like to have someone else in the world besides Mary that she can rightfully call her friend.
Wendy allows herself a smile, a small one, and hope creeps into her chest. For the first time since walking out of St. Bernadette’s gate mere hours ago, she feels as though she can breathe properly.
“Thank you, Miss Darling.” Ned returns her smile, relief in it, and also genuine pleasure.
“Please,” Wendy says, “if we are to be friends, you must call me Wendy.”
* * *
Jane leads Timothy back to the spot where arrowheads and stones pelted her, keeping alert for more unseen assailants. She peers into the blue-blackness under the trees. Where the path splits and the trees bow inward, forming a natural tunnel and blocking most of the moonlight, the air looks almost solid there.
The very thought of walking beneath those trees repulses her, so that she can almost feel hands on her shoulders, turning her around, turning her away, pushing her back. It’s like Peter’s voice in her head, his eyes fixed on hers. Wouldn’t it be so much nicer to go back to the camp? There’s more meat to fill her belly, and more games to play. They can sit by the fire and be warm; no need to wander off into the dark where anything might happen, where monsters might eat them.
She can almost feel her name trying to slip away from her again as the thoughts roll through her mind, and Jane clenches her teeth so hard her jaw aches. The pain focuses her. She’s known since she was Timothy’s age that there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark. It’s just like shadows, something blocking the light, but the light and the daytime always return. But she’s frightened nonetheless.
At home all that might be true, but here… Unreasoning fear grips her, a fear she can’t explain, like the crooked-tailed cat brushing unexpectedly against the back of her legs and making her jump. And just like that, she’s certain. As much as she doesn’t want to go—because she doesn’t want to go—the path through the trees is the one they need to take.
She touches the arrowhead still tucked into her sleeve. It feels like a token for good luck somehow. She can’t say why, but more than ever now she’s sure someone, or something, meant to warn her away, to keep her safe, not merely to frighten her. She offers a silent apology to that unseen guardian for ignoring their unconventionally delivered advice.
Beside her, Timothy stares into the space beneath the trees, his posture rigid, an eerie emptiness to his eyes.
“Do you know where that goes?” Jane asks. She keeps her voice low, but Timothy still startles.
“Peter said we’re never to go that way.” He worries at his bottom lip, and Jane is afraid for a moment he might cry. His terror is real, and after all, she reminds herself, he’s just a little boy.
“But do you know where it leads, why it’s forbidden?”
Timothy shrinks, pulling his shoulders inward. Jane hates to press him, but she needs to know.
Timothy frowns, and once again his brow furrows as though he’s trying to remember something. His hand inches toward the hem of his shirt, but he catches himself before bringing it to his mouth.
“It’s a bad place.”
He points, and Jane follows the line of his pointing, up above the trees, where a faint smudge like rising smoke hangs against the stars. She shivers, but forces herself to put her shoulders back and be brave.
“I’m sorry, but I think that’s the way we need to go. It’s okay,” Jane adds quickly. “I’ll keep us safe. I promise.”
She wants to believe it. If her mother were here, what would she do? Jane remembers when she was just about Timothy’s age and another girl knocked her down in the park. She’d been making fun of Jane for looking at bugs, calling her dirty, and when she’d said she was not the girl had pushed her. She’d landed face down in the dirt, cutting her lip on her teeth and making it bleed.
Fighting back tears, she’d demanded the other girl apologize, but the girl had merely smiled sweetly, claiming Jane must
