The rhythm of her stitching picks up. The stars in Peter’s eyes wheel, silver fire. He makes no sound, but his lips shape her name. Wendy falters.
She could show him mercy. She believed him to be her friend once, after all. But the world already makes too much room for boys like Peter, boys who under normal circumstances grow up to be men like Ned’s father, who start wars and send boys like Michael home broken. Boys who never face consequences. She can’t be his mother, or protect him from what he is any longer.
Wendy pushes the needle in again. Neat little stitches join boy to shadow, monster to flesh. And as they do, she watches the memory rush back in, as violently as her own returned. It’s like black ink swirling through Peter’s veins, a visible thing. He bucks, shuddering, and the ground shudders with him. Stones bounce and rattle into the pit.
“Keep going,” Tiger Lily says.
The strain in her voice makes Wendy look up, and she almost drops her needle. The seams in Tiger Lily’s skin have split and widened. Light the same color as the bloody light filling the cave burns from within, and flakes of ash rise around her body. Wendy reaches for her, but Tiger Lily jerks back.
“No. Finish it.” Tiger Lily grits her teeth. Her eyes are brighter even than her skin, and Wendy doesn’t dare disobey.
The air around Tiger Lily shimmers like the air around Peter’s shadow, capturing flecks of ash and drawing them back to settle on her cheeks, on her arms. Wendy sees the force of Tiger Lily’s will, holding herself together. If she stops now, everything they’ve been through will mean nothing.
“Hold on.” Wendy turns her attention to her stitching once more.
The cave shudders again, a chunk of stalactite breaking free to crash to the ground, narrowly missing her. She thinks of Jane and Timothy, hoping they’re safe, hoping they aren’t afraid. Peter’s lithe body arches, trying to pull away from his shadow, trying to tear the stitches free.
Tiger Lily tightens her grip. Her hands smoke where they grasp Peter’s shoulders, but she doesn’t let go. Wendy braces herself. She asked Jane to be brave; she must be brave as well. She pushes the needle in, concentrating on making the stitches just the way Mary taught her years ago. She ignores everything, the crumbling stone, Tiger Lily burning, all her attention on Peter.
He’s still the little boy he ever was—ancient and new and burning like a fever under her touch. It seems an eternity, but finally Wendy tugs the last stitch into place. She allows her hands to shake at last, fear and adrenaline catching up with her. She almost drops her little scissors as she snips the thread, making a knot. It is done.
Her hands fall back to her sides, exhausted. And from the other part of the cavern, Jane screams.
The sound rips through Wendy like lightning. She leaps up, forgetting her weariness, forgetting Peter, forgetting everything. She charges up the slope, but as she does, the stone buckles under her, knocking her down. Her knee strikes the ground painfully, and she bites back a cry. Gravity pulls her back into the bowl where Peter still lies shivering. Wendy ignores the throbbing ache, the feeling of her knee already swelling as she pushes herself upright. She uses her hands and feet both to claw her way over fallen and sliding stone. She has to get to Jane.
As she reaches the top of the bowl, Peter moans. Wendy looks back. It’s only a moment, but it almost undoes her.
“Go!” Tiger Lily shouts.
But her eyes are only for Peter, and she can’t tear them away. He lies curled on his side, shuddering, his monstrous shadow flared around him. It moves when he moves, irrevocably part of him. His eyes snap open, fixing on her. All the breath leaves her body. Wendy is flying for the first time, leaving the nursery far behind. She’s plunging through the dark, and everything wonderful is about to happen. Nothing bad can ever touch her. She wants to run to him. To comfort him, even now. She loathes him for it, and loathes herself even more.
“Go. Now!” Tiger Lily’s words snap Wendy back to herself.
Wendy looks to her friend as Tiger Lily gathers Peter in her arms. She stands, lifting Peter with her, dragging his shadow behind him. He weighs so much more now than he did before, and Wendy can see the strain, but Tiger Lily straightens, meeting Wendy’s gaze, the set of her mouth a feral thing.
It’s Tiger Lily’s eyes that hold Wendy though. They are embers, daring Wendy to defy her. She is beautiful and terrible, still burning, still cracking, but not breaking. And all the while, everything inside Wendy is as fragile as glass. If she speaks Tiger Lily’s name, if she says anything at all, she will shatter. And her daughter needs her. Wendy turns away.
The simple motion is everything, a wound deep at the core of her, but she cannot afford pity now—not for herself, or any other kind. She runs, as much as she’s able, limping through the throb in her knee. Her pulse thunders, and the sound of it is a name: Jane, Jane, Jane.
The cave is still trying to rip itself apart. Above the chaos comes the broken sound of sobbing. It is a sound tied to every mother’s heart, and it goes right to the core of her. Her daughter, crying.
Wendy puts on a last burst of speed. Relief almost steals her legs out from under her as she sees Jane crouched on the cavern floor. But something is terribly wrong.
“You have to get up,” Jane says, voice tear-choked.
Wendy’s pulse stutters. Jane is covered in blood, crimson smearing her arms, her nightgown. She struggles with a weight, Timothy, trying to haul him upright. His body is rag-doll limp. Wendy’s heart lurches—callous gratitude. The
