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.
She can see the boar clearly, but Peter ignores it willfully, smashing through the greenery and breaking the rhythm. The boys wheel around, disoriented, uncertain. But Peter’s reality asserts itself over hers, and they all turn to follow him. He bounds across the path, laughing, the movement itself a game, the boar temporarily forgotten. The tail of boys becomes a snake, whipping back and forth.
She climbs to her feet, breathing open-mouthed. The spear is still in her hand and she throws it away from her, as far as she can, shaking. Neverland is changing her; she can’t let it.
A shout draws her attention as Bertie knocks into a boy called William. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. They tumble into the bush, grappling at each other. The other boys gather around, cheering them on. They aren’t soldiers anymore, just silly boys playing with sticks and toy swords. Until Arthur hits a boy whose name she doesn’t know, the blow deliberate and hard. Blood, shockingly bright, spurts from the boy’s nose, coating his lips and chin and scattering onto the leaves.
Her heart leaps into her throat. She looks to Peter to stop it, and her heart lodges there. Peter grins approvingly as the boys fight. He looks so strange, not a boy anymore, not a person who can be reasoned with at all. He’s something else. He’s…
Timothy reappears, and she remembers her promise to keep him safe.
“Don’t look,” she murmurs, turning his face against her side.
The rolling tumble of Bertie and William crashes into Arthur. Arthur abandons the boy with the bloodied nose and grabs Bertie instead, hauling him to his feet.
“Oy! Watch it!”
Arthur drives a fist into Bertie’s stomach. Bertie doubles over, and the boys fall silent. Her own stomach clenches in sympathy. Someone whistles; feet stamp and applause echoes through the trees.
“Bravo, Arthur! Bravo!” She doesn’t know who says it, but as the cheers fade the boys fall back into line as though nothing happened. Even the boy with the bloody nose. Even Bertie, though he moves slower than the rest, hunched and trying to catch his breath.
She keeps a tight hold on Timothy’s hand this time as she hurries to catch up to Bertie.
“Are you all right?” She falls into step beside him.
“Fine.” He tries to make the word hard and clipped, but it comes out strained, his breathing still not entirely back in control.
“But—”
Bertie whirls on her, his face scrunched, and for a moment she thinks he’ll hit her the way Arthur hit him. And then she sees the water in his eyes, and how hard he’s trying not to let it turn into a proper cry.
“I said I’m fine. Leave me alone!”
He bellows the words then trots away from her, not looking back. Up ahead, Peter gives a triumphant shout.
“The boar! Everyone gather round.”
There’s laughter now, boys falling over each other, elbowing and jostling and getting in each other’s way. She isn’t certain how the boar got in front of them again when Peter was clearly leading them the wrong way, but there it is—bristled hide, wickedly curving tusk, beady, evil-looking eyes. She’s never seen a boar up close before, and it looks so much bigger than she ever imagined. How, with all the shouting and chaos, have they not frightened it away? Any animal with an ounce of sense would flee rather than stand and be killed.
The mass of boys, running and shouting, spills into a clearing. Even then the boar doesn’t move. Curious despite herself, she joins the crowd, standing on her toes to see over the heads of the boys in front of her. The earth is pounded flat in a near-perfect round, closed in on all sides by trees. The boys spread to the edges, forming a perimeter with their bodies, leaving Peter and the boar facing each other in the middle.
It feels deliberate, like she’s sitting in the audience at a play. Only instead of a stage there’s only the ground, and Peter in the center, the sun beaming on him like a spotlight.
Her skin flushes hot and cold as Peter circles the boar. It’s almost a dance. She strains to get a better view and at the same time, she doesn’t want to see what will happen next.
Dread fills her. Peter waves the short sword he’s been carrying, like it’s a baton and he’s conducting an orchestra. The way the blade catches the light, glinting, makes her realize for the first time that it’s a real sword, not a makeshift thing carved from wood. Peter leaps forward, feinting, yelling as if he expects the boar to challenge him. But the boar remains utterly still, haunches up, head down, almost like it’s bowing.
“Run.” She turns to Timothy, teeth clenched around the word.
He
