“Holly?” Jane calls. “Is that you?”
But it’s too late. Holly’s already outside.
Standing on the back porch, she draws a deep breath, filling her lungs with air that seems different from the rest of London. The tiny yard that spills at her feet is a riot of color. It’s Jane’s own version of the fantasyland she’s never been invited to visit. And in the summer, it’s glorious.
Here tropical-colored flowers as wide as dinner plates engulf one wall. Half are real, brought into the conservatory every winter, the other half glass-blown. They shimmer iridescently and grow warm from the sun, fooling even the bees. Pots of lemons, of limes and figs, rim the patio, where once or twice a summer Jane holds candlelit dinners for a select handful of friends. In the far corner, white clematis twines about a wire figure. Viewed from the side, it resembles a swooping white bird. From the front, it’s a young girl in a billowing white nightgown. Behind the clematis, pansies and lavender spill from the brim of a giant top hat. Between the two forms, a tiny teddy bear topiary rests as if discarded on the ground, Jane’s nod to Great-Uncle Michael.
And in the center of it all is the statue of Peter, cast in bronze by the protégé Jane found years ago. The artist has portrayed him as young, no more than a boy, and through the clever positioning of filaments and wires, he appears to be flying. At night, tiny fairy lights flicker from a canopy of branches overhead, casting shadows so entrancing one might imagine the figure was alive.
There’s a small fountain in the shape of Neverland, based upon a map Jane drew from Barrie’s description in the original book. It burbles beneath the frozen image of Peter, water spouting from a volcano and creating tiny rainbows in the sunshine. The statue’s hand is outstretched, as if beckoning.
And it’s pointing straight at Jane’s bedroom window.
As a child Holly spent years watching Jane work in this garden. She studied how her mother added elements and stripped others away, and struggled to decode the messages embedded in the landscape. She wondered where her place was in it, if there was a place for her at all.
Today she strides past the statue with scarcely a second glance. Thyme and mint bruise under her feet, releasing their scent, as she lines herself up with the bronze Peter’s foot and counts off thirteen steps. There, directly in front of her, is the back wall of the garden. Old-fashioned climbing roses, their thorns as large and wicked as a small knife, have devoured all but the fence’s outline.
Carefully, Holly slips past the guard of thorns, sliding her hand beneath the flowers, searching for the right board. At first all the wood feels the same, and a bubble of panic rises in her chest. It’s been years since she’s used this particular exit strategy—has Jane replaced the fence? But then her fingers find what they are seeking: a board with a series of knots at its center.
Holly reaches up to the top of the board and pulls. Nothing happens. She tries again, hanging on the board with all of her weight, and it gives a bit. She looks down, and sees that a rose cane has twined about the board, holding it in place. Holly wrestles with it and gets scratched for her trouble, but manages to slide it off. Then she pulls again, putting every ounce of her energy behind it, and the board swings up. A very thin, very limber person could wriggle through the opening.
Holly is no longer fifteen, the age she was when she created this escape. Nor is she twenty-three, as she was the night she first danced with Robert. But years of Pilates have ensured that her body is almost as slender as it was then. She slides through the hole with less grace but much more determination than her teenage self. As soon as she’s through, she pulls the board back into place. If Jane comes to see if she’s really home, it will seem as if she’s vanished from the yard. More importantly, from Christopher’s point of view, should he be watching—and Holly would bet a great deal that he is—she’s never left the house.
She takes a moment to orient herself. She’s in the narrow alley that runs behind her street. Even after such a short time in her mother’s garden, the outside world, with its dustbins and honking cars, is jarring, and she wonders, as she always did as a teenager, if this was what it was like for Wendy and her brothers when they returned from the real Neverland. As a child, Holly couldn’t understand how they gave it up. Now she wonders how they managed to escape.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Once she’s gotten her bearings, Holly cuts through yards and alleys at random, until she’s far enough away to be reasonably certain Christopher hasn’t spotted her. Only then does she take out her phone and call for a ride. The driver is quick—he’s there in less than five minutes. She checks the license to make sure it matches what she has on her phone, then slides into the back seat. Finally she’s on her way.