Chapter 74
Chapter Seventy-Four
ALICE
The Bandersnatches don’t follow us up the path.
They stay behind, watching. There must be six of them, standing in formation like sentinels, their eyes burning in the dim light.
I glance back occasionally as we climb, half-expecting them to charge after us, but they never do. They just watch. Silent.
By the time my calves are screaming and my shins feel like they’ve splintered in half, the Bandersnatches have disappeared from view. So has the gate. So has the path behind us.
Only the climb remains.
The Hall of Memories looms ahead, sharper with every step. Its structure juts outward at odd angles, glimmering under the eerie light. From a distance, it looked magical. From here, it looks dangerous.
I suck in a breath. “How’s your thigh?” I ask Hook, side-eyeing him as I press a hand to my own leg.
He doesn’t seem to be struggling as much as I am, which is infuriating.
He’s injured. He was stabbed. And yet, here I am, huffing like a dying animal while he just keeps walking.
I stop for a second, hands on my knees, trying to get some air into my lungs. Oh. My. God. This incline is vicious.
For someone who runs four times a week, you’d think I wouldn’t feel like my legs are about to detach from my body and roll back down the hill without me. But this? This path is not natural. If it were any steeper, we’d need a ladder.
Winter must turn this place into a death trap. The ice alone would send you sliding straight back to the gate—if Wonderland didn’t just swallow you whole first.
Hook finally slows, shifting his weight, his hand tightening on his sword. “It’s fine. As long as I keep walking.”
But there’s strain in his voice. He hides it well, but I hear it. I see it. The way his jaw tightens. The way sweat gathers at his hairline, dampening the strands curling at his temple.
Good. At least I’m not the only one suffering.
I straighten, forcing myself to keep moving. “What do you think we’ll find when we get up there?” I ask, dragging my gaze back to the glittering monstrosity ahead.
Hook glances at me—quick, sharp. There’s definitely pain in his face. That ridiculously attractive face I should not be looking at.
Especially not at his mouth.
Not at those lips.
Nope. Absolutely not.
He exhales, gaze flicking back to the climb ahead. “I think whatever’s up there is going to drive us insane.”
The path narrows as we climb, forcing us closer together.
What started as enough space for three now barely fits two, and my arm keeps brushing his.
Stone walls rise on either side, slick grey-brown brick glistening with moisture.
Vines pierce through cracks, reaching upward like desperate fingers stretching toward freedom.
We walk.
"How do you think time works here?" I keep my voice low, my eyes fixed ahead, but I need something to distract me.
If not, I'm giving up and admitting defeat.
"If you open the portal and I get back home.
.. will it be the same moment I left?" The last time, it felt like weeks passed here.
Maybe more. A lifetime compressed into dreams.
The Alice who crawled out of that rabbit hole wasn't the same one who fell in. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that whoever walks out of Wonderland this time won't be the same either.
"Do you think time moves differently in all the worlds?" I glance at him. "In Neverland, nobody ages. That's what the stories say. The children stay children forever. Peter Pan never grows up." I hesitate before adding, "Apart from Captain Hook. Who ages slowly."
That stops him. His stride falters, scowl darkening.
"The Hollowlanders stories are wrong." His voice cuts sharp.
"Oh?"
His jaw tightens. Something flickers across his face—bitter, annoyed.
"I do not—" He stops himself. "I did not age in Neverland."
"But you're an adult."
"Yes." He looks away, exhaling hard. "I'm very aware of that."
I frown. "But Neverland is filled with children."
A harsh sound catches in his throat. "Yes. Children and pixies."
The word 'pixies' twists his expression. He mutters something too low to catch.
I chew my lip, thinking. "My grandmother used to tell me about Neverland. About Wendy and Peter."
His scoff turns razor-sharp. "Do not mention that boy to me."
"So he's real?"
Hook's expression hardens, his eyes meeting mine with something dark and unreadable. "Sadly."
I cock a brow. "But he's not the sweet little boy from the stories?"
A laugh without warmth. "No. He is most certainly not." His fingers brush the Vorpal Sword's hilt.
"My gran used to say Neverland was a fairy tale for children who'd passed away."
Hook's silence weighs between us.
"She said Peter wasn't just a lost boy," I press on, "but something else. A ferryman. Like the Grim Reaper, but for children. He'd come in the night, not to steal them away—but to guide them. To a world made just for them."
Hook keeps walking, face unreadable.
"There was a girl who lived down my street. A year older than me. We never played together—she wasn't allowed outside much. Used crutches. Sometimes I'd see her at school, but then... one day she just stopped coming."
Our footsteps crunch against the path.
"They told us she died in her sleep."
Still nothing from Hook.
"I asked my gran where she'd gone. If God had taken her.. She said no. Peter had taken her. She'd gone to Neverland, where she could be a child forever. Where she'd never be sick again."
Hook finally exhales—a sound I can't decipher. Not amusement. Not irritation. Something else entirely.
"Is Neverland really filled with spirits of children from my world?"
He contemplates this for a long moment before speaking. "Neverland holds as much madness as this place. But yes. It's filled with children."
"And my gran was right?"
His gaze flicks to mine. "About what?"
"About Peter. About when he appears in the stories—when he flies into Wendy's room." I swallow hard. "She always said that was the moment Wendy died."
Hook's lips press into a hard line. "Yes."
"Then that means..." I release a shaky breath. "Lizzie is there. The girl from my street. She's in Neverland." I'm not even sure why it matters so much. I'm an adult now. I know what death is. I don't need my Gran's placating stories, but still. "Do you think she's happy?"
"She is not sick," he says quietly.
I nod slowly, but then another thought strikes cold through my chest.
I turn to him, pulse stuttering. "But that doesn't explain why you're there. You're an adult. You aren't a child. You should have—"
The thought stops me mid-step.
My breath catches as I really look at him. At the shadows in his eyes. "Hook," I say carefully, "are you dead?"
His expression doesn't change.
"Did you die?"
Finally, he speaks. "You ask too many questions, love."
His voice comes rough. Quiet.
And he gives me no answer.