“You could come with me,” Jane says quickly. The words expand inside her, feeling wild and dangerous, and she finds that she absolutely means them. “And Bertie, and Rufus, too. We can all go somewhere safe.”

Peter stole her, he stole from her; she will steal from him in turn.

“Bertie and Rufus won’t go with you.” Timothy picks at the edge of the hammock, deflating some of the hope growing inside her.

“Why not?” Jane can’t imagine Rufus would want to stay, not after what he’s been through.

“They never remember.” Timothy’s weary expression suddenly makes him seem like the older one between the two of them. “I tried to tell Rufus how it was good of him to stand up for me against Peter, and how I was sorry Peter hit him, but he didn’t even remember that.”

“How could he forget being hit?” Jane thinks of the bruise on his cheek. She glances back in the direction of the camp, thinking of Rufus on his knees, squealing. Will he forget that too?

Perhaps, for his sake, it would be better if he did.

“It’s the tea Peter makes. We all have to drink it, but if no one is looking, I spit mine out. I think Rufus does sometimes, too, but sooner or later he always drinks it again. I don’t think he likes remembering.”

Jane thinks of Rufus hunched and miserable by the fire, warring against himself, wanting to hold on and wanting to forget himself all at once. She’s seen what happens to people who resist Peter. And part of her understands—forgetting is so much safer, so much easier.

Timothy’s frown deepens, his bottom lip sticking out. Jane sees the moment the troubled expression in his eyes becomes something else, fear, like the edge of the moon peeking out behind the clouds.

“When I don’t drink the tea, sometimes I remember scary and bad things.” Timothy’s voice is a hush, barely a whisper, so Jane has to strain to hear him.

“But no one else remembers the things I remember, so maybe they’re just a story I made up in my head.” Timothy looks to her, his eyes wide in the moonlight. And for a moment, they aren’t eyes at all, just darkness, and Jane thinks of ghosts again and her heart lurches terribly.

He blinks, and his eyes look normal again. Just a little boy.

“Tell me,” Jane says. She makes herself touch Timothy’s wrist, to reassure him, and to prove to herself she isn’t afraid.

“Once upon a time,” Timothy starts, as if he really does mean to tell her a fairy tale, “there were other boys here who aren’t here anymore.”

Jane’s pulse trips, unease settling around her like a cloak, but she holds her tongue and lets Timothy continue.