Finally, the sound of pursuit grows more distant. She doesn’t slacken her pace yet, pulling even farther ahead. Instead of feeling tired, the longer she runs, the lighter, faster, and more agile she feels. It’s like the beach all over again. She no longer cares where she’s going. The air is sweet, almost like the tea Peter gave her to drink when she first arrived. Fear drops away, and she runs for the joy of it, forgetting about finding a place to hide as she leaps over fallen logs and dodges roots and stones.

Her blood sings, giddy, and she gives herself over to a wonderful sense of freedom. Being up past her bedtime. Being clever. And perhaps most importantly, not being it. Imagine Peter’s face when he sees she’s evaded being caught. Perhaps he’ll even declare her the winner of his ridiculous game!

She must have run clear across the island by now, and she feels as though she could go on, running forever, but she slows. There’s an ache in her legs, but in a pleasant way. She can’t hear any of the others, which makes it the perfect time to look around on her own without Peter rushing her here and there.

Plants rise on either side of a faintly visible path, massive dark green leaves glossy in the moonlight. They remind her of elephant ear plants, but even larger, and with blooms nearly as big as her head. She pauses for a closer look. The petals are all coral and sunset at the edges, deepening to purple-red at the flowers’ hearts.

There’s nothing like it in England. It might be a whole new species, and she could be the first one to discover it. Excitement thrills though her, and she touches one of the delicate stamens. Her finger comes away dusty with bright yellow pollen, and she has the sudden impulse to lick it. She imagines it would taste like crystallized honey, like the sweet drink Peter gave her.

“Don’t.” The word startles her, a rustle among the leaves followed by a small, pale face, and she jumps back.

The youngest of the boys, the one who sucked at his shirttail, gazes up at her, eyes wide and frightened.

“The flowers are bad.” One hand is clapped over his mouth and nose, as if he’s trying to stay quiet, or trying not to breathe too deeply, and his words are muffled.

She looks down at her finger, smeared in pollen, and hastily wipes it on her nightgown. Was she really about to taste it? Whatever would make her do such a thing? She knows far better than to put strange plants in her mouth. It could be poison. But the heady scent of the flower, making her feel warm and safe and…