She can almost see her mother’s face, alight with a mix of wonder and melancholy, as though her heart was breaking with too much joy and too much sorrow all at once as she mimed cupping the Little White Bird in her hands as the Clever Tailor did in her story, rescuing the Bird from a nest of thorns. It’s the story of how they met, how they became friends, when the Tailor saved the Bird’s life. A happy story. Perhaps Peter would like that better.

“Come on.” Peter taps his foot again, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out air.

His annoyance sharpens her focus, calling up annoyance of her own. How would Peter know her own stories better than she does, or whether she’s telling it right or not? She straightens her shoulders, clears her throat and tries again. Even if she gets it muddled up, she knows one thing—right now she doesn’t feel like telling a story where the Little White Bird is kind and nice at all.

“The Bird went to the market where all the other birds were selling pies they’d baked or wooden toys they’d made.” Her voice grows clearer, stronger. “He went in disguise, rubbing ashes on himself, so he could steal a feather from every bird at the market and turn himself into the most beautiful and strongest and fastest bird of them all.”

Around her, the boys set down their bowls, watching her intently. They look interested. Only Peter doesn’t seem to approve at all. He scowls, brows lowering over his strange-colored eyes.

She thinks she remembers the next bit, where the Tailor goes in disguise too, sneaking around to all the other birds to tell them the Little White Bird’s plan. They turn the Bird’s trick around on him, and by the time he reaches the end of the market, it’s all his feathers that have been plucked. He looks so foolish he can’t possibly go to the king’s palace, so he goes away to hide on an island in the middle of the ocean until his feathers grow back.

Except she can’t remember exactly how the trick works, even though the stories where the Tailor gets the best of the Little White Bird were always her favorite. They feel important, like her mother was trying to teach her something, trusting her to be clever enough to puzzle it out. She wants to be clever, like the Tailor, but right now she doesn’t feel clever at all. Especially not with Peter watching her, his eyes narrow and sparking with hard-edged bits of light.

“I don’t like this story. It’s boring.” He jumps up. “We’ll play a game instead.”