It’s colossally unfair. Why should Peter make the rules and no one else gets a say? But she feels it in her bones, an unassailable truth of this place. Everyone hunts the boar; no one stays behind. She looks at Timothy. His eyes are wide and trusting but bright with fear. It hurts, looking at him. She takes a deep breath to prove she can, even though her chest feels tight and funny.

“It’ll be okay,” she says. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything bad happen, I promise.”

A call echoes between the trees. A kind of chant, only she can’t make out the words.

“We’d probably better go,” she says, moving toward the sound.

It’s only a moment before she and Timothy catch up with the rest. All together, their feet make a rhythm on the forest floor, like drums. A flash of bristled fur appears, just to her left, between the trees. If she hadn’t hung back, she might not have seen it at all. Her voice sticks, then she shouts.

“Over there! I see the boar!”

The words surprise her. What is she doing? And more importantly, why? Her blood fizzes, pride and terror flooding her belly. She doesn’t want to hunt anything. But she does. Her grip tightens on the spear; she can’t help imagining what it might feel like to drive it into something living. Powerful. Strong.

It would be so easy, like pushing a pin into a butterfly with the pad of her thumb. The thought makes her smile. Something about the drumming of their feet, the chanting caught between the rustling trees, makes it seem all right. This is good. Everyone hunts the boar. No one stays behind.

She turns and runs and the boys stream behind her just as they followed Peter a moment ago. She swells the way Peter did. She is important, worth listening to. She isn’t holding Timothy’s hand anymore, and she doesn’t care. He’s just a baby anyway.

The thought, in her own voice, cruel and sneering, smacks into her, stealing her breath. Guilt brings her crashing back into herself. Her palm is slick against the wood, and she wants to let go of the spear, but she finds herself gripping it tighter. Sweat stings her eyes. She licks her lips and tastes salt. The air buzzes. No, it’s her head buzzing, like it’s full of bees. She wants to hunt. She wants to do things she never would, or could, back home. Who cares about rotten old London with its rules anyway?

She lets out a joyous whoop, cut off as Peter rushes past her, knocking into her so hard she goes down on one knee. It snaps her out of her desire to kill, and she stares at Peter, dazed.

“It’s this way. I found the boar, it’s over here!” he shouts, pointing in the opposite direction.