Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
HOOK
I’m not sure why our heads do it—some cruel, twisted trick our brains like to play when it’s too quiet. Like, Hey, remember all that rubbish you went through? Fancy reliving it in graphic detail? No. No, I bloody don’t. The first time was bad enough. But here I am, stuck with it.
There are just some things in life that won’t leave, no matter how hard I try to shove them down. And I should be able to shove them away. I’m me. Captain sodding Hook. But sounds, smells, moments—they cling, burrow deep, and claw their way back to the surface when you least expect it.
This place reeks of damp earth and decay, the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there. It’s too damn close to that place.
I lean against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me, arms folded over my chest. Sitting here in silence isn’t doing me any favours, but there’s nothing else to do. I’ve already turned over every escape option a hundred times in my head. There isn’t a way out—not yet.
I sigh and close my eyes, forcing the memories back.
This is bloody stupid.
At this rate, when I get back to Neverland, it’ll be just as rotten as Wonderland is. The sky will be dark, the stars gone. Pete will look like an old man. Wendy...
I never should’ve sent Smee to find the amulet. I should’ve gone myself.
When I open my eyes again, Alice is sitting cross-legged a few feet away, her head bowed over my knife. She’s using it to carve into the dirt floor. At first, it’s aimless—random shapes and swirls—but there’s something almost calming about it.
I watch her in silence, the scrape of metal on earth ... It’s almost rhythmic, the steady drag of my knife as she carves into the dirt. Eventually, she speaks, her voice soft but clear, though she doesn’t lift her gaze.
"I keep wondering if anyone’s missing me back home," she says. "If they’ve even noticed I’m gone.
" She pauses, dragging the knife in a slow, deliberate circle. "Time works differently here, doesn’t it?" Her voice dips slightly, as if she’s asking more for reassurance than confirmation. "The last time I was here, it felt like weeks. But when I went back home, it’d only been hours. No one even noticed I was gone. They just thought I’d been off playing. I…"
Her bitter laugh cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw. She takes a breath, shaking her head. "Ignore me. I’m just talking."
But then she looks at me. Her eyes catch something in the faint glow of the light she summoned earlier, and there’s a rawness there that twists something deep in my chest before I can shove it aside.
"I think…" Her voice trembles, and she hesitates, as if forcing the words out will make them too real. "Part of me hopes time passes differently again. That I do miss my gran’s funeral. That I don’t have to see it."
Her voice wavers on the last word, cracking just enough that I feel it.
For a second, I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I’m good at this—comforting people, offering soft reassurances.
That’s not my role. I’m the one who keeps things sharp and distant, the one who’s always ready with a quip to deflect the pain away.
I’m not good at this—the quiet confessions, the raw, vulnerable moments. They make my skin itch because I’ve got nothing to offer but blunt truth. In a world full of cynicism, the best I can do is not make it worse.
And yet, there’s something about her sitting there, dirt smudged on her hands, her voice steady even as her eyes give her away. Something that makes me want to say something. Something that won’t leave more scars.
“Funerals are for the living,” I say finally, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Not for the dead.”
Her lips press together, and she looks away, dragging the knife harder into the dirt.
“Maybe your grandmother would’ve understood,” I add, leaning my head back against the wall. “If she’s the way you’ve described, she’d probably tell you to skip it anyway.”
A small smile flickers across her face, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“She would’ve, actually. She’d have told me to go to the pub and get drunk.
Not out of sorrow, mind you—out of having a good time.
Or she’d have told me to go do something magical.
Something stupid. Like grab a ridiculous latte from some café and lose myself in a book. ”
I have no idea what a latte is, but I nod.
Alice exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing just a little, and we both go quiet again, letting time pass.
I close my eyes, the smell of the earth nudging at me. For a moment, I’m back there, in that cramped space, counting the minutes until my uncle got bored of tossing scraps down. Counting until the day he finally didn’t.
The memories are heavy, tugging at the edges of my mind, and somewhere in that haze of thoughts and non-plans, sleep catches me.
When I blink my eyes open, the dim light hasn’t changed. But Alice isn’t sitting where she was before.
The spot where she was drawing in the dirt is empty, and my muscles tense. It’s a reflex I can’t shake. But then I see her crouched by the bars, her hands pressed against the mud-caked walls, her shoulders hunched.
She’s muttering to herself, voice low and thick with frustration.
I stay still, watching her. There’s something raw about the way her fingers dig into the earth, the way her forehead bows against the bars. Like she’s trying to claw her way out with sheer force of will.
If only that were enough.
“So stupid,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Stupid, stupid Alice.”
She presses her forehead harder against the bars, her knuckles white as she grips the cold metal. Her breath shakes, and the faint flicker of her light casts erratic shadows over her face.
“Break apart,” she whispers, her voice cracking. She rocks forward, her forehead brushing the bars again. “Just break. Get us out of here.”
Something about the scene cuts through me in a way I don’t expect. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in her voice. Or the clawing desperation that spills out of her, raw and jagged.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve been there.
I’ve been where she is—feeling useless, powerless, and trapped. I’ve shouted myself hoarse, my voice raw as I pounded against walls that wouldn’t budge. I begged, apologised, promised, screamed for my uncle to open the damn door.
But no one came.
I don’t move though. Not yet. There’s a part of me that knows if I do, she’ll shut down. She’ll put up her walls, and not test her magic. She needs this moment, this time.
She’s a little bit like me, I suppose.
Her hand lifts, fingers trembling slightly as she presses them into the mud. The light in her palm flickers with uncertainty, casting faint ripples through the darkness.
“Come on,” she breathes, voice barely audible. “Work. Just do something. Anything.”
For a moment, nothing happens. The light in her hands grows dimmer, faltering like it might wink out entirely.
I watch as her shoulders tense, her breath catching in the stillness.
Then, just as she’s about to pull back, the mud shifts.
Barely anything—a tiny clump crumbles away from the surface and skitters to the ground.
She doesn’t notice me stir, doesn’t see me prop myself up slightly against the wall. The movement is slow, deliberate, so I don’t startle her.
“What are you doing, love?” I ask.
Alice snaps her head around, the light between her fingers flaring brighter for a brief moment. “I was just…” She stops herself, the frustration on her face shifting into something closer to shame. “I’m trying to do something.”
Her gaze flickers down to her hands, still braced against the mud-streaked bars. “I thought maybe I could break it, use the magic, but all I seem to do is create these stupid lights. And they’re useless.”
“Useless?” I raise an eyebrow, shifting forward slightly. “I don’t think so.”
“They are,” she says sharply, cutting me off before I can argue. “I can’t get it open. I’ve been trying for ages. Nothing’s working. Sure, I have magic, but it’s pathetic. Look at this.”
She clicks her fingers several times, and little sparks shoot up into the air like a miniature fireworks display.
They rise higher and higher, glittering as they drift up through the hole we fell through.
For a moment, it’s spectacular—brilliant streaks of light in the dark. But she slumps down, shaking her head.
“That’s all I can do,” she mutters bitterly.
Before I can respond, she flings her hand back, almost in frustration. But this time, the light she conjures is different. It’s not just a spark or a flicker—it’s a ball of energy that bursts out from her palm and shoots through the bars, illuminating what’s on the other side.
I scramble up, my breath catching at the sight it reveals. “Alice,” I say, my voice sharper now. “There’s a tunnel.”
She blinks, as if not quite believing it herself, then leans closer to peer through the bars. “Yeah,” she breathes. “And that means if there’s a tunnel, there’s a way out of this bloody thing.”
“Exactly.” I spring to my feet, rushing over to her, and grab the knife she’s left on the ground. “Get the mud off,” I say, already jamming the blade into the wall. “There has to be something behind here.”
For once, she doesn’t argue, doesn’t throw a sharp remark or question me. She digs her hands into the mud alongside me, clawing and scraping as I work the blade into the packed earth.
The mud falls away in clumps, thick and damp, coating our hands and arms. But with each layer we strip back, the edge of something metallic gleams faintly in the dim light.
“Keep going,” I urge, my tone clipped. The knife slips against the mud, slicing through it as more of the structure behind the bars comes into view.
“It’s a gate.”
“No,” I correct, peering closer as I dig at the edges. “It’s a hatch.”
Her eyes widen, and she redoubles her efforts, her fingers digging into the crevices as I work to loosen the edges. The metallic surface glints brighter now, a faint shimmer of hope in the suffocating dark.
“Please tell me this thing opens,” she mutters under her breath, shoving at the edges with renewed desperation.
“It’ll open,” I say, more to myself than to her. “It has to.”
Because if it doesn’t?
We’re dead.