By the time they’d arrived in Neverland, the shadow she’d stitched onto him had frayed and unraveled, withering like a rose cut from its vine. They’d landed on the beach in the harsh noonday sun and Peter had stood with his hands on his hips, the broken point at the center of a sundial. His Lost Boys had gathered in a circle around him to greet the Darling children, each trailing a shadow stark behind them on the white sand. Peter alone had cast none.
She should have known then, but all she’d seen was the promise of adventure, a boy who would teach her to fly.
Wendy kneels, retrieving her sewing box from beneath the bed. Needles, pins, spools of thread. Her little scissors, wicked and clever and bright. Sewing might not be a heroic skill, but it is hers. Simply carrying these things with her will calm and center her, a little piece of home in Neverland to remind her what she left behind, to remind her what it cost to visit there the first time.
Wendy closes her eyes, rests her hands on her thighs, and releases a breath. It’s still there, the connection between her and Peter, buried deep beneath her skin whether she wants him there or not. She spent years trying to shed herself of him, only to fail. Now she clings to that bond like a physical thread, binding the two of them. He can’t hide from her; she will follow that thread all the way back to Neverland.
Once invited, always welcome. Isn’t that his way?
NEVER, NEVER
A hush of sound, like running water, or a rolling storm. She turns her head toward the sound and finds her eyelids stuck shut. Has she been asleep? Dreaming? She dreamt of falling. No. Flying.
There’s a smell of growing things. It reminds her of Kensington Gardens. She used to walk there with her parents when she was very small, and now that she’s older, her father still takes her sometimes, looking for leaves and flowers and insects for her collections. Her favorite bit is the pond with its big white and gold fish coming to the surface to nibble at breadcrumbs, tails flashing and mouths making little ‘o’s.
Her thoughts drift, simultaneously heavy—sticky as her eyes—and light. She was just in the gardens, wasn’t she? Or she’s in the gardens now, reaching to catch one of the gold and white fish with her chubby fingers. No, that isn’t right. That happened years ago. She was four years old and she wanted to catch a fish to show her papa, but her mama snatched her hand away with a sharp “no!”.
“You must never reach into the water like that, _____, or you might fall in. It’s an important rule, just like you must never go away with strangers, and you must always stay where your papa and I can see you. Do you understand?”
She isn’t that small anymore, or foolish enough to need those lessons from her mother. Only she has gone away somewhere where her mama can’t see and there’s something wrong. There’s a humming blank in her memory where her name should be. If she thinks hard enough, she can see her mother’s lips move to shape the sound, but there’s nothing there. Only _____! How could she possibly have forgotten her own name?
She must know it, somewhere, only there’s something standing in the way. She tries to think it for herself, un-sticks her lips to shout it aloud, but what comes out instead is, “Mama!”
Her eyes fly open, painful, her lashes feeling like they’re tearing as they part wide. There was a boy. He took her hand, and they fell into the sky. Her body jerks in panic as though she’s falling again, but there’s a length of rope lying across her chest and legs, pinning her down. It’s heavy, damp, and smells of salt and the green weediness she mistook for fish ponds.
She tries to sit up, but her arms and legs are clumsy, flopping uselessly when she tries to push the rope away. Is she sick? Is that why she’s so weak? Maybe the boy at her window was only a fever dream.
Calm. She must be calm and take things one item at a time. Analyze her surroundings. That’s what a good scientist would do, and she does intend to be a scientist one day. That much she knows, even if she can’t remember her own name. She breathes in, focusing on what information she can gather while lying still.
The ground beneath her is faintly damp and it gives strangely beneath her. This certainly isn’t her bedroom. None of her things are here—the globe her papa gave her on her last birthday, the magnifying glass she uses to see the delicate scales of butterfly wings and the veins in her leaves.
Her mama warned her about going away with strangers, but she didn’t. Not on purpose. Tightness rises in her chest, making it hard to breathe, threatening her with tears.
The sound of her involuntary, hitching breath makes her angry, and she pushes the fear down as hard as she can. Panic won’t do. She must be rational. Assess her situation, look for clues.
She turns her attention straight up, easy enough since she’s already on her back. Light filters through branches laid together haphazardly, making a shelter. They’re balanced against something solid. She’s able to tilt her head back just far enough to see the curving bulk of a wooden construction, but she isn’t able to make out the whole.
The harsh laughter of gulls calling to each other clarifies the sound of water. It’s the steady hush of waves. She must be on a beach. But how is that possible? Her parents would have told her if they were planning a holiday, and certainly they wouldn’t have
