Chapter 58
Chapter Fifty-Eight
ALICE
The Bandersnatch is gone. Or going.
I take a step away from the wall and the window, my heart still pounding, my breath still uneven. The air feels different now—quieter, lighter—but I don’t trust it. That thing is out there, somewhere in the woods, waiting. Watching.
But Hook’s right. Whatever’s at the top of that hill must be important. Grand, guarded, with a monster lurking around it like a sentry—there’s no way it’s not something the Queen wants to keep hidden.
Hook said it himself. She’s draining Wonderland, stealing its magic to keep herself going. So whatever’s up there? It’s what’s keeping her alive. If it’s the amulet, if it’s the source of her power, then we have no choice. We have to go.
I don’t know how. I don’t know if we’ll survive it.
I move around the room, needing something—anything—to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from circling back to what’s waiting for us outside. My fingers drag over the dusty sideboard, the crumbling shelves, the chipped and forgotten plates stacked precariously. I tug open a drawer.
Empty.
Another.
This one is full of dried leaves, brittle and curled. Someone must have been gathering them for kindling, but they never got the chance to use them.
I let the drawer slide shut, glancing at Hook. He’s still by the window, his silhouette framed against the murky light seeping through the grimy glass. His body is tense, jaw tight. He doesn’t say a word, but I can see it—the constant working of his mind, the endless planning, calculating.
That’s Hook, isn’t it? Always in control. Always one step ahead.
“Why didn’t the Bandersnatch come after us in here?” I ask, leaning against the sideboard, arms crossed. I’m not really asking him. More thinking out loud. “Why didn’t it ram the door or something? Seems like its whole thing is smashing through stuff.”
Hook’s gaze flicks to mine, unreadable. “I don’t know, love,” he says after a moment. “Maybe it can’t see us in here. Maybe it doesn’t sense the same way other creatures do.” He shrugs, rolling his shoulders like it doesn’t matter. “Or maybe it’s just bloody stupid.”
His voice is dry, but there’s a weight to it, something quieter than usual. He’s always sharp, always moving, always throwing words like knives. But now? He feels still. And it unsettles me.
I want to ask him things. I don’t.
Instead, I watch as he moves around the room, assessing, deliberate. He makes his way to the table and chairs, setting them upright one by one. For a second, I think he might sit. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out the map, laying it flat on the table.
I swear it looks different every time I see it. The lines shift, the shapes pulse, like it’s alive, like it knows.
I step closer, drawn in despite myself. Hook doesn’t pull it away, doesn’t shift to block my view.
He leans over it, hands braced on either side of the table, eyes scanning the parchment with the same careful attention he gives everything.
His posture is firm, commanding. But his shoulders—there’s something heavy there.
“Do you have a plan?” I ask.
His eyes lift to mine, sharp but not unkind. “Just that we need to get up there,” he says, nodding toward the structure visible through the window.
If it were me, I’d already be halfway out the door. Maybe I’d make it. Maybe I’d die. Hook doesn’t do that. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t panic.
It’s infuriating.
And it’s reassuring.
I look down at the map, at the golden building at its centre. It doesn’t look the same as it does outside. Here, it’s dull, lifeless, like the heart of something rotting from the inside out. My fingers brush the edge of the parchment.
Hook doesn’t stop me.
The map reacts.
A tingling sensation spreads through my hand, buzzing under my skin. Not quite heat—more like a current, electric and alive. I suck in a breath, startled.
The dull centre ripples. Light spreads outward in faint waves, like drops hitting still water.
“Touch it again,” Hook says, voice low, careful. There’s curiosity there, but something else, too.
I hesitate, but his eyes stay on me—steady, insistent.
So I do it. I press my fingers against the centre of the map again. This time, the ripples spread farther, the dull ink shifting, twisting. Colour blooms in faint streaks, as if the map itself is waking up.
“Your whole hand,” he murmurs.
Before I can move, Hook steps closer, his presence pressing in from behind.
His hand closes around my wrist, firm but not rough.
He doesn’t wait for me to do it myself. Instead, he guides my palm down, pressing it flat against the parchment.
His hand stays over mine, his warmth sinking into my skin.
My breath catches. He’s too close. I feel it, the weight of him, the heat. The air between us thickens, and I glance up—only to find him already watching me. His dark eyes flicker with something I don’t have the nerve to name, something that sends a shiver down my spine.
The map pulses.
The ripples spread outward like wildfire, the once-lifeless centre glowing faintly. The ink moves, reshaping itself, and I can’t look away. It’s alive, reacting to me.
Hook doesn’t let go. Doesn’t step back. His chest brushes against my shoulder as we both watch the map shift beneath my touch.
“What’s it doing?” I whisper.
His breath is warm against my temple when he answers. “It’s responding to you. It knows you.”
In the centre of the map, the faded, dull structure is gone. Now, it’s bright. Vibrant. It almost hums with energy. It reminds me of a theme park map, the kind that makes everything look larger than life, designed to pull you in.
“If there was ever any doubt about where your amulet is,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect, “I think it’s safe to say that’s gone now. This is where we have to go, isn’t it?”
Hook finally lets go. His hand drags down his face before raking through his hair. He’s still watching me, staring in that way he does—like he’s trying to pick me apart, like there’s something beneath my skin he’s trying to see.
“What?” I frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You don’t know, do you?” he says after a beat, his voice low, almost incredulous. “You really don’t have a clue.”
“Know what?” My frown deepens. “There’s some big secret I’m missing?”
His lips twitch, but the smirk isn’t his usual one. It’s not smug, not mocking. There’s something behind it, something raw, something almost uncertain. “You have no idea what you’re capable of.”
He pushes away from the table, his boots scuffing against the floor as he crosses to the window. His shoulders are stiff, his posture tight. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to ask.
“What do you mean?” My voice is quieter now. “Are you talking about magic?”
“When I was in the field,” he says, still facing the window, “I heard you calling me.”
"I was shouting for you to wake up.”
He nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “With Dreamthorn, you don’t hear anything. You’re gone. You shouldn’t have been able to reach me—not even a whisper, not even a hint of it. But you did. I heard your voice, and that shouldn’t have been possible.”
I stare down at my hands, still resting against the table, and slowly lift them. I turn them over, searching for something—some proof, some sign of whatever magic he’s talking about. But they’re just my hands. Pale. Normal.
“Maybe it’s different here,” I say. “Maybe... because Neverland is the place of dreams, and Wonderland is the place of wonder, it doesn’t work the same. Maybe it’s not as strange as you think.”
His eyes are on me again before I even realise he’s turned. That look—sharp, unyielding—pins me in place. Makes my pulse skip. “Like I said, you really don’t get it.”
“There’s nothing to get.” I drop my hands, my fingers brushing the edge of the table.
“It’s just this place, that’s all. Like you in the field.
It was magic. Just magic and this place’s—” I stop, hesitating.
Then, before I can second-guess it, I ask, “What were you dreaming about? You kept calling someone’s name. Someone called Sam?”
His whole body goes still.
It happens so fast that, for a second, I think I imagined it. But then I see it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens just enough to give him away.
“No one,” he says sharply. “It was nothing.”
It isn’t my place—I know that. But the way he stands there, the way he won’t look at me, the way his fingers twitch like they want to clench into fists but he won’t let them… it doesn’t look like nothing.
His movements are slow, deliberate, when he walks to the window. But he doesn’t peer out into the mist. He presses his forehead against the glass, his hands braced on the frame. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to.
It feels like his eyes are closed. Like he’s battling something far heavier than this moment.
“Who is he?”
For a long time, I think he won’t answer.
Then, finally, he shifts. He turns, and I see it—the kind of pain that makes my chest ache just looking at him. The kind of grief that sits deep, so deep you don’t even realise how much of you it’s taken until it’s too late.
Hook reaches into his coat. Pulls out a folded piece of parchment.
He unfolds it carefully, like the act itself is fragile. And when he holds it out to me, my breath catches.
The painting is simple but beautiful, the kind of work that feels alive. It shows a boy—young, bright-eyed, his grin wide and full of mischief. Beside him, a woman, her arms wrapped around him, her face soft and warm.
“Sam was my brother,” Hook says. “And she was our mother.”
He lifts his gaze then, and our eyes meet. My heart aches.