Didn’t one of her mother’s stories have the Clever Tailor traveling to a land filled with the ghosts of children? The boys around her seem solid enough, but maybe they’re really ghosts. Maybe that’s why they don’t need to eat the way she does. She wishes she could remember how the Tailor in the story tried to set the children free. Then she could help the boys, send them home. Surely they ache for their own mothers and fathers as much as she misses hers.
Peter keeps telling her she’s here to be their mother. That must mean there are no other mothers here, no sisters, or fathers, or aunts, or uncles either, she supposes. Only her and the boys. Which means there’s no one here to help her, or tell her how to get home.
She surveys the camp. The last embers of the fire glow dark orange, threads of smoke whispering away from the ash. There was smoke earlier, wasn’t there? She peers up, but sees nothing but a full moon shining over the trees, unnaturally bright. In fact, there’s nothing natural about it at all. It’s a smooth, silvery disc, like a coin hanging in the sky, or a hole cut in the paper-dark with a bright light shining through, nothing at all like the real moon.
The thought rips through her, and just like that, she’s crying. She’s furious with herself; it’s such a silly thing, but she misses her moon, seen through her window.
Her grandfather took her on a trip to the Royal Observatory on her last birthday. She’d felt very special and very grown up, particularly when he’d arranged for one of his friends there—a proper scientist just like she’ll be one day—to let her look through a telescope at the moon. She remembers how big and close and impossible it seemed—all the shadows and dips and craters not visible without the special lenses the telescope had.
How is it she can remember that moment so clearly, but her own name keeps slipping away from her? It’s as though someone has pulled a curtain over part of her mind; she’s aware there are things there, hidden from view, but they’re gauzy and distorted. If she doesn’t concentrate, they start to vanish. Worse than that, at times she’s found herself not minding the forgetting at all.
After the meal Peter had declared supper, he had dragged them all down to the beach again for a complicated game with rules she never quite managed to grasp. She’d been cross at first, but then hours had slipped away as she ran and tromped with the boys, stamping their feet into the sand and calling to each other. The sun had reigned overhead the whole time, full and blazing and not moving once in the sky, despite the twilight that gathered while they ate. Only when Peter had grown bored with the game had she noticed her exhaustion, and how grubby she’d become, her nightgown stiff with salt and her hair tangled.
What would her grandfather say? The thought almost makes her giggle, but the sound turns into a hiccup instead, and she smudges the tears from her eyes. He’s quick to praise her when she sits up straight, her knees together and her hands carefully folded in her lap. When she forgets and slouches or fidgets, or bounces excitedly, wanting to show him the latest samples from her collection, he turns silent and presses his lips together in a frown. He doesn’t believe science is a proper pursuit for a young lady. But then he took her to the observatory, so maybe deep down in his heart there’s some softness in him after all, despite what her mother believes.
Sometimes, if she’s able to catch her mother in just the right mood, she’ll do the perfect scowling impersonation of her grandfather. She knows her mama doesn’t like her grandfather, even though she’s never said as much aloud. With her father, she’s less sure. Sometimes both her mother and her father look sad after her grandfather visits, but some instinct tells her it’s one of those subjects she shouldn’t ask about.
Thinking of her mother brings a fresh pang to her chest, so sharp it almost steals her breath. She wishes her mother were here now to brush the salt tangles from her hair, to tell her one of her stories properly. Maybe she’s getting too old for fairy tales, but right now, it’s the only thing she wants in the world. The thought makes her cry even harder.
She might never see her mama or her papa again, or Cook. Or her grandfather, who she would be happy to see even if he scolded her or sighed in disappointment at her for looking an unladylike mess. There are so many things she hasn’t done or seen yet. What if she never gets the chance to go to a university and study to be a scientist, or travel around the world?
She scrubs the tears from her eyes and wipes her hands on her nightgown. To her relief, her eyes stay dry, even though they feel hot and achy. She’s sick of feeling sorry for herself. So what if no one is coming to save her? She’ll just have to save herself.
She stands, listening for any change in the breathing around her. At least the too-bright moon makes it easy to see, so she doesn’t step on any of the boys lying scattered around the remains of the fire as she picks her way to the edge of the camp. Should she return to the shore? All ships have lifeboats, don’t they? Perhaps there’s a lifeboat near where she woke up. Could she row herself all the way home? Even though
