by A. C. Wise
Colored threads trail from the embroidery hoop and lie across the drab gray of Wendy’s skirt—a tangle of roots, fresh-pulled from the ground. She moves her needle and the hoop just often enough to make it look like she’s stitching, but her attention is on the two attendants monitoring the room. It was a great deal of work to convince the nurses she could be trusted with a needle, even under supervision, acting the model patient for weeks on end. The attendants are always there, watching, and she, in turn, has been watching them. She knows their patterns as well as her stitching by now; she knows when they will grow bored and let their attention lapse. Any moment Jamieson will reach for his tobacco tin and rolling papers, prop the door to the garden open and step halfway outside to smoke.
When his hand goes to his side, patting at his pocket, Wendy bites the inside of her cheek. The papers he’s looking for are tucked into the hem of her skirt, a space sewn to be invisible from the outside. Wendy drops her gaze, taps the side of her embroidery hoop twice, then stands once Jamieson’s back is turned. She doesn’t dare look at Mary for fear of giving them away. Instead, Wendy moves swiftly toward the hall as Jamieson recruits the other attendant, Evans, to help him search. They’re tearing apart the cabinet where the nurses keep their tins of biscuits and tea and the occasional nip of brandy, Jamieson cursing as he does.
In the hallway, Mary falls into step behind her. Farther down the hall is another door the attendants and nurses often prop open in nice weather so they can enjoy the sunshine while they smoke. Mary was the one who came up with the idea of using a small bit of cloth wedged into the lock to keep it from catching properly. Since then, they’ve learned how to hit the door just right to pop it open again, using it regularly to sneak into the garden to pick wild strawberries in the summer, and once in the winter to stage an elaborate snowball fight.
Wendy throws her shoulder against the door now while the hallways are clear and they tumble outside, laughing and covering their mouths against the noise. Wendy grabs Mary’s hand and they sprint across the lawn.
“Strawberries?” Mary asks, her voice breathless.
“Better.” Wendy turns to grin at Mary over her shoulder. “You know the old tree growing right up against the wall in the far west corner?”
“Sure.” Mary almost stumbles, and Wendy slows, steadying her.
“I heard a rumor that a group of patients used it to escape years ago. We’re going to go see if it’s true.”
“We’re going to run away?” Mary stops and Wendy stops beside her, still holding her hand.
A frown curves Mary’s lips, something almost like fear briefly in her eyes. Mary is never frightened, and Wendy opens her mouth when understanding strikes her. Mary hasn’t been outside St. Bernadette’s walls in years. She was a child when she entered, and she scarcely knows anything of London besides the house of her mother’s husband. Mary has told her that even before her mother died, her mother’s husband rarely brought her along on outings. Her mother was lovely enough that her husband was proud to show her off, but Mary, with her rounder face, her gapped teeth, her darker skin, he preferred to keep hidden.
“Maybe not run,” Wendy says carefully. “Maybe just climb and look over the wall.”
“If you go, so will I.” Mary lifts her chin, defiant, her eyes dark and hard again.
Is she thinking of the day when Wendy stood on the narrow balcony on St. Bernadette’s second floor, when she’d meant to fly, meant to leave everything behind? Wendy squeezes Mary’s hand. A thrill runs through her, half exhilaration, half fear. Until this moment, she hadn’t fully thought what they might do.
Could they really climb over the wall, run and never look back? How would they live without money, two lone women on London’s streets? Could they disguise themselves as men and stow away on a ship back to Mary’s home in Canada? Or somewhere else? Perhaps join a traveling fair?
Wendy considers as they resume walking, then all at once they’re at the tree. Wendy stops, gaping up at it. Mary presses against her side, as if the tree itself embodies everything she might fear about the world beyond the wall. Wendy’s certain Mary isn’t even aware she’s doing it, and she doesn’t intend to point it out, even welcoming the sun-warmed length of her.
The tree is gray with age, seeming almost to melt into the stone wall, both running riot with vines. Other sections of the property are guarded with iron fences, buried in thick hedges, but here there’s only the wall, tall enough Wendy can’t see over it. The sky feels tantalizingly close, the tree’s branches scraping against the blue so that Wendy almost imagines that if she did climb, she too could scrape her fingers against it like thick paint.
Boldness seizes her, and Wendy can’t help but grin.
“Race you.”
At the challenge, Mary’s expression turns sly and bright and mischievous, all hints of doubt and fear gone. She answers Wendy with a grin of her own, showing the gap between her front teeth.
“You’re a proper Englishwoman; I bet you don’t even know how to climb a tree.”
Even though there’s nothing at all alike in their voices, Mary’s words bring Peter’s taunting to Wendy’s mind. She pictures him impossibly balanced on a branch that should be too slender to hold him, sticking out his tongue at her and wiggling his fingers by his ears like absurd horns or antlers gone awry. You can’t catch me, Wendy. Girls can’t even climb trees. Everyone knows that.
“I’ll show you.” Wendy answers Peter and Mary at once, gathering the rough fabric of her skirt. “I bet I can climb better than you.”
Wendy sticks out her tongue, then grasps one of the thick vines wound about the tree. She’s in Neverland again, scrambling barefoot up a trunk, Peter darting through the air above her like a nagging fly, half delighted, half enraged. She remembers how the branches shaped themselves to her hand, knots rising for her to grip with her toes. She didn’t hesitate a moment, not even the first time. It never even occurred to her to doubt the tree would hold her. It held Peter after all, and the only thing in her mind had been showing him girls could so climb trees, every bit as well as boys.
Wendy sizes up a knot near the base of the tree. It bulges outward like melted candle wax, almost as good as the trees in Neverland. She plants her foot on it, meaning to haul herself upward until a meaty hand lands on her shoulder, yanking her back down. Her foot slips, and she bangs her knee painfully against the rough bark.
Jamieson. Wendy twists in his grip. She’d been so intent on climbing, on Peter, she hadn’t even heard the attendant come up behind them. Evans is there too, holding Mary, one hand over her mouth to keep her from shouting a warning.
Jamieson hauls Wendy upright just as Mary bites down on Evans’ hand. Evans shouts, shaking the hand, then raising it to strike Mary, but she doesn’t even flinch. He’s nowhere near as tall as Jamieson, but taller than Mary certainly, though that doesn’t stop her from glaring up at him.
Wendy’s heart surges toward Mary, and a cry—so much like Peter’s cock-crow of victory—is almost at her lips before she tamps it down. Evans hesitates, glancing at Jamieson. Wendy takes satisfaction in seeing the skin of his raised hand turn red, looking painful where Mary bit it.
Before either attendant can act, Wendy throws herself against Jamieson’s grip. He tightens it, keeping her from getting between Evans and Mary.
“It was all my idea.” Wendy ignores Jamieson, his pull on her arm, and addresses Evans. “I forced her to come along.”
Mary turns her glare on Wendy now, and Wendy glares right back, willing Mary to stay silent. Even with their escapades, Mary has earned the trust of many of the attendants and nurses. She’s allowed to work in the gardens and in the kitchen, harvesting vegetables and learning to bake, while Wendy is banished to scrubbing and laundry duties. She’d scrub till her knuckles bleed raw though if it means Mary keeping her privileges. She’s seen the joy Mary takes in baking, even simple things. If she could, Wendy imagines Mary would even improve on the dull recipes given to her to pre
pare.
Jamieson snorts, a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.
“You’re always the leader when there’s trouble, aren’t you, Darling?” He wrenches her arm until she has no choice but to face him.
At the corner of her eye, Evans lowers his hand, looking sullen. Jamieson digs his fingers into the muscle of her arm, and Wendy bites back a yelp. She will not give him the satisfaction.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Jamieson leans closer, showing teeth stained yellow-brown by tobacco.
Everything about his expression is unpleasant. It leaves Wendy feeling vaguely sick, but she raises her chin, keeping her lips pressed together. Jamieson’s stance makes her think of Hook, leaning over her on the bridge of his ship. If Jamieson thinks he can frighten her, he has no idea.
“Yes,” she says, voice even. “Always the leader. Just like last time, and the time before.”
It doesn’t matter whether or not he believes her. It’s as though he can smell Peter on her skin, his wildness, his magic, and it’s enough to make him want to break her. She holds Jamieson’s gaze even as his expression hardens, malice glittering.
His smile, already sickening, shifts to something entirely predatory. It’s only then Wendy realizes her mistake. Dr. Harrington is in Switzerland at a medical conference. There is no one to rein Jamieson in. Her pulse turns erratic, beating madly against her skin. She opens her mouth, but it’s too late. Jamieson shoves her hard enough to make her stumble. He still has a grip on her arm, so the motion wrenches her shoulder painfully, and now she does let out a sound of pain despite herself.
“Leave her alone,” Mary bellows, squirming like lightning in Evans’ grip.
“Get her out of here.” Jamieson’s tone is dangerously close to a snarl, but Evans looks almost as frightened of Mary as he does of his fellow attendant.
“What should I do with her?”
“I don’t care. Lock her in her room.” Jamieson turns away, turning his attention back to Wendy.
“Get up.” He kicks at her legs even as he hauls her upright. Wendy grits her teeth, breathing fast, determined not to make another sound.
She staggers upright, lurching toward Mary again as Evans drags her away. Jamieson kicks her legs out from beneath her again, only his painful grip holding her partly upright. Wendy’s hair hangs in her face, not grown back to its full length but enough to get in her eyes. She glares at Jamieson through the locks, breathing hard until he pulls her up again and she grits her teeth against another cry.
He grabs her chin with his free hand, turning her head as if looking for some mark on her skin. Behind the anger, there’s almost bafflement in his eyes, as if even he is seeking to understand why he hates her so.
She knows she is treading on dangerous ground. She knows there are any number of things he could do to her without repercussions, because she would never be believed. She’s heard things, she’s seen bruises, and patients curled in on themselves in miserable fear.
“I could leave you in the sick ward, and say you snuck in there on your own. It would be just like you, going where you’re not wanted. I’ll wager even Dr. Harrington would think it would serve you right if you fell ill from your own foolishness and died. Or perhaps I should give you to Old Nettie?” At his voice, thick and sweet as treacle, Wendy goes cold. He leans in, like he really wants to know her opinion.
She knows the woman Jamieson means—not old, but her hair gray nonetheless, her arms wiry and threaded with scars caused by her own hands. It isn’t fear that curdles Wendy’s stomach but anger and heartache. Nettie is sick; she cannot help the way she lashes out against herself and others. She needs help, help Dr. Harrington cannot give, and Jamieson would use her as a weapon, set her off and turn her against other patients.
“Or maybe I should give her your little friend and make you watch.”
Loathing fills her, so pure it overwhelms her. Starlight bursts behind her eyes and her ears ring. Everything in Wendy longs to fight, to fall on Jamieson and scratch at his eyes, bite at his throat, but if she does, he’ll hurt Mary.
“Do whatever you want with me.” Wendy bows her head.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”
“I said—” Wendy raises her voice, goaded despite herself, but before she can get the words out Jamieson strikes her hard across the mouth.
Her head snaps back and she tastes blood. Wendy glares, showing her teeth, showing them stained red. She understands now—she can’t be too docile, too beaten, not yet. He wants to see her fight, then he wants to see her broken.
He pulls her roughly toward the asylum door and drags her inside. Wendy resists just enough. Jamieson’s stiff shoes make echoing footsteps over the wooden floors and tiles. Passing the common rooms, heads lower, nurses and patients looking away and pretending not to see as Jamieson drags Wendy down the hall toward the treatment rooms.
She focuses on keeping her breath under control. She’s doing this for Mary. If Wendy can keep his attention on her, he’ll forget all about hurting Mary.
Jamieson kicks open one of the doors, shoving Wendy inside. It isn’t until she sees the cast-iron tub full of water and ice that true panic takes hold. Jamieson planned this all along. Perhaps he even planted the rumor of the tree in the first place, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist. How could she have been so foolish, playing right into his hands?
“Let me go!” Wendy thrashes, all decorum and control forgotten.
He will hurt her for real this time; he may not even care if he gets caught. He might even kill her. Accidents happen, and who would ever know? Wendy stomps her heel down as hard as she can, trying to catch Jamieson’s foot. But he’s wearing hard-soled shoes, and she only slippers. He doesn’t even slow, dragging her inexorably toward the ice-filled bath. Wendy throws her weight backward, but it’s nothing against Jamieson’s bulk.
She wants to be brave, to tell herself it’s only water. Dr. Harrington prescribes warm water baths to help her sleep, and once an icy spray to calm her blood. This is different. Her parents drowned in icy water. Now Jamieson means to drown her too.
“Get the blindfold,” Jamieson speaks over her head.
Wendy twists around to see Evans closing the door. She imagines Mary locked in her room, pounding against the door while the other attendants and nurses pretend not to hear. At least she’s safe. Wendy clings to the thought as hard as she can.
Evans approaches, and while Jamieson is distracted, Wendy jerks her head backward as hard as she can. Pain blooms at the back of her skull, but it’s worth it for the feeling of connecting with Jamieson’s nose. Instead of letting go, he punches her in the side of the head. Stars the color of ash burst behind her eyes, and her ears ring again. Her legs buckle, but Jamieson holds her upright. Evans slips a blindfold over her eyes, pulling tight, and Wendy bites her lip against a cry as it tightens over the spot Jamieson struck.
Jamieson lifts her, as easily as he might a child, keeping her arms pinned to her side. She kicks wildly, but none of her blows land.
He drops her into the ice.
Water sloshes over the sides of the tub. Her head goes under. Wendy comes up gasping and choking. The cold burns, like her skin has been stripped from her bones. She scrabbles at the sides of the tub, more water splashing, but Jamieson holds her down. He dunks her under, and time stops.
Blood rushes in her head, magnified by her panic and the water, louder than anything she’s ever heard. Her lungs scream with the need to expand; she won’t be able to stop herself from breathing in a mouthful of water. Pressure throbs behind her eyes, aching as she fights to keep her mouth closed. She can’t, she can’t let him win.
Jamieson hauls her up, dripping and spluttering. Wendy coughs, her body shaking, her jaw clenched against the cold. She braces herself, but Jamieson doesn’t push her under again. He holds her—his hands on her shoulders, showing her how easily he can keep her in place. It’s almost worse, the tension of his arms, the tension of her body, waiti
ng for him to shove her down. She kicks out, but her heels only slip, finding no purchase on the bottom of the tub. She can’t stand up, she can’t escape. She can’t do anything. And just like that, Jamieson has won.
Wendy stops fighting. She wishes she could stop shaking too, but that’s beyond her control. Tears stream beneath the blindfold, and she hates herself. Their heat does nothing to warm her; she barely feels them. Slowly, she pulls her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, trying to preserve heat, make herself small.
She isn’t certain when the pressure lifts from her shoulders, or how long it’s gone before she realizes it’s no longer there. She grips the sides of the tub, her fingers numb and clumsy. She expects Jamieson to smack them down; they might even shatter, brittle with the cold. But the blow doesn’t come.
It takes multiple tries to work her shaking fingers and get the blindfold undone. Water has tightened the fabric, making the knot even more stubborn. When she finally pulls it off, ripping out several strands of hair as she does, she’s alone. Her knee is already tender from hitting the tree, and she strikes it against the side of the tub, slipping as she climbs out. Her legs betray her and she falls, hitting the tiled floor hard. Her breath leaves her in a whine and she curls onto her side, letting misery wash through her for several moment before she even tries to move again.
The drab gray cloth of her dress clings to her skin, weighing her down. Wendy crawls to the door, gets her fingers around the handle. Locked. She rattles it. Pounds on the wood with hands still aching with the cold. Blood stands out beneath her chilled-white skin. She screams, but plenty of people scream in St. Bernadette’s. No one will come for her. She’s trapped until Jamieson chooses to unlock the door. All around her is tile and metal and unforgiving blank walls. There’s nowhere to escape the cold.
Wendy lies on her side, body pulled in tight around itself, eyes closed. Peter. There isn’t even a window here to show her the sky or the time of day. She can’t fly away from here, from this. Maybe she never could. Peter, where are you? Why don’t you save me?
