Again, there’s that glint of something dangerous in his eyes. She swallows around a lump in her throat and looks down.

“May I at least try some of my soup first? It smells so good.” She wants to seem reasonable, like she’s going along with him. Perhaps by the time she eats, Peter will forget about her telling a story.

She glances around at the others. The boys eat, some heartily, some looking afraid. She turns her attention to her own bowl, confused. It looks just like the mock turtle soup Cook makes at home, only she knows it’s nothing more than leaves floating in water gone cloudy with mud. She watched Peter put everything into the pot, but somehow she can’t hold the image in her mind. There are two truths, one sliding over the other, like the moon in eclipse.

Her stomach growls again. She brings the bowl to her mouth and sips tentatively. To her surprise, the soup is rich and warm. Maybe that’s the trick of it, believing that the soup is soup and not giving herself time to doubt.

She’s about to take another sip when Peter touches her arm, stopping her from lifting the bowl. His eyes are bright as he peers at her face, intent in the way that makes her think of an animal— maybe a fox—watching from the underbrush. Even though he casts no shadow, the leaves do, carving his face up into sections of light and dark. She has the sudden impression that bits of his skin might lift away, like a mask hiding something terrible underneath.

“You can eat later. Now you must tell a story. That’s the proper order of things.” Peter’s tone insists, even though his voice is soft. There’s a soothing hum to it, like a note played on a flute, too low for her to properly hear. She feels it nonetheless, thrumming in her breastbone. It’s like the wind blowing through cattails and dancing in the tops of the trees. It makes her want to go along with everything he says, though she has no idea why.

Perhaps she can remember one of her mother’s stories about the Tailor and the Little White Bird. One story couldn’t hurt, could it? She takes a breath, thinking how to begin, but all the tales she’s heard over the years go tumbling out of her head. She knows the Little White Bird is always tricking people, from emperors and kings all the way down to stable boys and the other birds he claims are his friends. But beyond that, she can’t think of a single specific detail—not one of his adventures or his tricks or anything at all.