“Peter.” Her mother doesn’t raise her voice, and in fact it’s quieter as she says Peter’s name. Her tone makes Jane shiver.
“No!” Peter stamps his foot. “You’re not my Wendy.”
Jane isn’t certain, but she thinks she sees her mother flinch ever so slightly. Peter’s tone is petulant and harsh all at once, but he still has to tip his head back to look her mother in the eye. If they weren’t in danger, Jane might almost find it funny.
Next to her mother, Peter looks like a spoiled and rotten little boy. But threat bristles in his posture, and she remembers how he stilled the boar and what he did to Rufus.
“I am Wendy, Peter. I told you before, I grew up.”
“You’re not supposed to do that. It’s against the rules!”
“You wanted a mother.” Jane’s mother spreads her arms. Behind Peter, Arthur and the other boy shift nervously. “That’s what I am. I’m a mother, and you took my daughter away.”
The words swell inside Jane and her fingers cramp around the slingshot. She wants to make herself known. She wants to run to her mother and throw herself between her and Peter, but she doesn’t dare interfere.
“She isn’t armed,” Arthur calls out, his voice going from uncertain to bold in the space of a sentence. Jane hates him, more than she ever did before. Can’t he see how wonderful and formidable her mother is? Can’t he see she’s someone to be feared? “And she’s all alone.”
Jane bites her tongue, keeping herself from calling out. She nudges Timothy beside her, cutting her eyes to him and trying to convey without words that they must be ready even as they keep themselves hidden.
“You’re not going to hurt me, Peter.” Her mother ignores Arthur, keeping her attention fixed on Peter.
Her mother steps toward Peter. Jane holds her breath. Then everything happens all at once.
Peter darts forward. Her mother lunges, just missing Peter as he twists away, laughing. Arthur and the other boy shout, brandishing their swords. They look silly—boys playing with toys—but at the same time, those toys are sharp. Sharp enough to kill and skin and hack apart a boar. Jane feels like a coiled spring. Movement catches her eye—Tiger Lily, circling around behind the boys—and she clamps down on a cheer.
Tiger Lily’s sword touches the throat of the boy who isn’t Arthur. He lets out a strangled cry as Tiger Lily grabs his shirt, yanking him backward. Beside Jane, Timothy fairly quivers with excitement, and Jane flashes him a grin.
“Peter! They got injuns!” Arthur shouts.
“That’s not fair.” Peter scowls. “You’re cheating!”
The boy who isn’t Arthur squirms in Tiger Lily’s grasp. Keeping her own sword pressed against his throat, she releases his shirt long enough to take his sword and kick it away before moving him over to one of the rock pillars, holding him tightly.
Peter waves his own blade erratically, turning and turning, trying to face them both at once. When he turns their way, Jane can’t help shrinking back into the shadows. His face is sharp and furious, but he also looks as though he might burst into frustrated tears at any moment.
“You’re not playing the game right!” Under the spoiled, whining tone there’s a dangerous edge.
While Peter is distracted, Jane watches her mother draw closer. But before she reaches Peter, Arthur barrels into her. Jane can’t hold herself back. She lets out a shout, scrambling from the rock shelf and charging toward Arthur. Timothy slides down after her, and there’s no time to tell him to go back.
“Leave my mother alone!” Jane pelts across the cavern floor and as soon as she’s within range, she lets the arrowhead fly.
It strikes Arthur’s shoulder. He turns, slapping at the spot as though insect-stung. It’s enough distraction for her mother to twist herself around and throw him off.
“Jane!” Fear lights her mother’s eyes. She holds out an arm and Jane runs to her. She meant to rescue her mother and be a hero, but it’s gone all wrong.
“I tried to be brave,” Jane whispers, hugging her mother tight.
“I know.” Her mother buries her face in Jane’s hair. “You were very brave.”
“Ah ha!” Arthur is on his feet again, running.
At first Jane can’t see what he’s running toward, then she remembers—Timothy.
“Jane, help!” Timothy tries to get away, but Arthur’s legs are longer.
Jane pulls away from her mother, ignoring the hands trying to hold her back. She has to get Timothy; she promised to keep him safe.
“Leave him alone!” Jane wishes she had another arrowhead to shoot.
All she has left tucked in her sleeve is the tiny stone from Peter’s soup, and that isn’t enough to hurt a boy like Arthur. She considers using it anyway. But she’s too late.
Arthur lunges forward with the point of his sword. All the breath goes out of her body, and Jane skids to a halt. The blood drains from Timothy’s face. He stands perfectly still, eyes wide.
“Hooray. That’s it, Arthur, you got ’im!” Peter claps, bouncing up and down.
Jane ignores Arthur and Peter both, ignores everything but Timothy as she rushes to him and grabs him by the shoulders. He presses his hands against his mid-section, but Jane can’t see any blood. Arthur towers over him, grinning. Jane whirls around, hitting him as hard as she can. Caught off balance, he staggers, tripping over his heels and letting out a stunned grunt as he hits the ground. Blood spots Arthur’s chin, and his hands fly to his nose. Jane turns her attention back to Timothy.
“Let me see. What happened?”
“I got kilt.” Timothy’s voice is a breathy whisper, his face so pale he looks like a ghost.
Jane’s hands tremble, but she makes herself kneel to loosen Timothy’s grip
