Jane ignores Arthur and Peter both, ignores everything but Timothy as she rushes to him and grabs him by the shoulders. He presses his hands against his mid-section, but Jane can’t see any blood. Arthur towers over him, grinning. Jane whirls around, hitting him as hard as she can. Caught off balance, he staggers, tripping over his heels and letting out a stunned grunt as he hits the ground. Blood spots Arthur’s chin, and his hands fly to his nose. Jane turns her attention back to Timothy.

“Let me see. What happened?”

“I got kilt.” Timothy’s voice is a breathy whisper, his face so pale he looks like a ghost.

Jane’s hands tremble, but she makes herself kneel to loosen Timothy’s grip on his midsection as gently as she can. There’s no blood. Timothy’s shirt is whole even though she could swear she saw Arthur’s sword go right through him. Relief floods her, and Jane laughs, the sound bubbling up through her like water from an underground stream.

“There’s nothing. You’re all right!” Jane throws her arms around Timothy, hugging him as tight as she can.

Timothy doesn’t move, doesn’t put his arms around her in return. When she draws back, his face is solemn.

“Arthur got me. I’m kilt now. I can’t move. Those are the rules.” There are tears in Timothy’s eyes.

Jane stares at him, uncomprehending.

“But that doesn’t make any sense. You aren’t hurt. See?” She plucks at his shirt, showing it whole.

“Those are the rules,” Arthur says behind her. His voice sounds funny and muffled.

He’s still cupping his nose. When he draws one hand away it’s smeared red, and Jane feels a nasty surge of satisfaction.

With Jane’s arms no longer around him, Timothy sinks to the ground, drawing his knees up against his chest and hugging them.

“Get up.” Jane is unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with you!”

Timothy presses his lips together, his face a picture of misery. Jane wants to shake him. It’s only a silly game. Why must boys be so infuriating?

“You. This is your fault.” Jane lunges at Arthur with a clumsy swipe, ready to hit him again and break his nose for real. Even though he’s still armed, he jumps back.

“Jane!”

At her mother’s shout, Jane spins around. Her mother takes a step toward her, then freezes as Jane feels herself yanked backward, her feet going out from under her. Peter! She forgot about him. She kicks her heels, scrambling for purchase on the stone, but Peter’s grip is unshakable.

“Let her go.” Her mother’s voice is hard, but Jane hears the tremor inside it.

“Stay where you are.” Peter hauls Jane upright, flourishing his sword; there’s glee in his voice.