Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
With ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and offering her his arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged.
Two lanterns swing gently back and forth on either side of the room, casting light on a table with chairs, a wall plastered with maps, and a bed half-shrouded by a crimson curtain.
A small closet stands along the left wall, and the back of the room is a row of windows looking out on the dark sea beyond.
The iron chandelier overhead swings gently with the rocking of the ship, its candles in various stages of drip though none are currently lit.
I grip the door handle behind me and try to turn it, just to see. It’s locked tight. I’m not getting out of this room, but at least Hook isn’t in here … Unless he’s hiding in the closet.
Skirting around the bed, I walk right to the small wooden door and yank it open. Inside are a few coats, shirts, and pants. No feather plume. No spare hook attachment for his hand or anything. Maybe he only has the one.
I close the door and turn to look at the maps on the wall.
They’re spread over each other, layers and layers of directions and cursive place names.
It’s as if it has its own topography, not reflective of the flat sea depicted in each of the wide drawings.
Only, the maps don’t make sense, not all of them, at least. There are some places I recognize—bits of Spain and a particularly detailed rendering of Crete and the surrounding waters.
But there are others that make my mouth drop open.
A map showing the famed city of Atlantis with a note scrawled along the edge ‘Whirlpool, keep left.’ Another map purports to show the Bermuda Triangle, but there’s no way it’s correct, because this map has at least a hundred islands, all of them in a pinwheel pattern that seem to swirl around a central vortex, one shaped like a … triangle.
I step back and rub my eyes. This is nonsense, all of it. But at the very center of the wall is a map of Neverland, which I know for a fact is very much not nonsense. I’m here, after all.
I back up a few steps to take in the entire wall, the parchment curled around the edges and those scrawled notes here, there, everywhere. Captain Hook has spent plenty of time studying this world and many more. He’s been everywhere. So why is he so hellbent on taking over Neverland?
I peer at the Neverland map, the Nevertree in the center reaching out over the island like a golden umbrella. It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. None of this does. What does matter is me finding a way to defend myself from the sea captain.
The wall doesn’t offer anything I can use, so I turn to the table. It’s bare, but it has a single drawer. I yank that open. A couple of fountain pens and a roll of parchment later, I still have nothing to fight off Hook. Still, I grab one of the pens and hold onto it.
After another once-over of the room, I find nothing else of use.
When I go back to the little closet, I dig around in the top and pull down a simple white shirt, much like the one my pirate was wearing.
I give it a test sniff. It actually smells …
clean. I sniff it again. Like sea spray and pine tar.
Not what I assumed at all. I figured there’d be blood stains and stink on anything worn by Captain Hook.
Now I have a dilemma. Am I bold enough to change out of my wet tunic and wear one of Hook’s shirts while it dries? I don’t need it to survive, but damn, my wet clothes are cold, and I’m probably in the last moments of my life. Why shouldn’t I be comfortable?
That settles it. I glance at the door, then turn my back and quickly strip from the soggy Lost Boys tunic.
Sliding the clean shirt over my head, that nice scent envelops me, and I inhale.
At least the monster takes care of his laundry.
The shirt feels clean and soft—far nicer than the rough clothes favored by the Lost Boys.
The fabric swims around me, but it’s warm, and it will do until my tunic dries.
Once I’ve laid the tunic out on the table, I look down at my thin pants. Nope. There’s no way I’m taking those off even though they’re still damp.
I tuck my stolen pen into one of my billowy sleeves and creep toward the door. Pressing my ear to it, I listen for voices over the creaking of the ship and the rustling of the sails.
“—somewhere over on the Cay.” Smee, the accountant, is speaking to someone.
“I don’t mind the Cay. Plenty of entertainment there.” I recognize the posh accent of Starkey. “Widow, too.”
“I’m not interested in the entertainment, thank you very much,” Smee replies haughtily.
“One of these days you’ll find a woman to turn even your pointy head.” Cecco, the Italian from the beach, joins in. “Ass like a ripe tomato. Tits with nipples pointed to the moon. Ah, such a woman.”
Someone clears his throat loudly—I can only assume it’s Smee. For a crew of murderers and monsters, they seem to have a decent camaraderie among them. Maybe working under such a horrible captain has forced them to bond.
Smee clears his throat again. “That’ll be all. You can go below. I believe Cookson’s finished preparing supper.”
“I’d like to speak to the girl.” Starkey’s voice moves closer. “Only for a moment. Take her temperature, you know. It was rather hard to tell how badly she fancied me in the rowboat, but if I could speak to her privately, I could—”
“You could have your guts ripped out by the captain,” Smee retorts.
The other men laugh.
“She’s our boon. Err, I mean our guest. Until such time as the captain has need of her to do what must be done, she is to be treated with respect from a safe distance.” Smee’s sanctimonious tone is almost amusing, but then I stand up straight when I realize what he just said.
Boon. There’s that word again. The one Peter used but then downplayed when I asked him about it. What does it have to do with me? It clearly has a meaning I don’t understand.
They burst into laughter, though I missed the joke, and then I hear them departing. Somehow, I know Smee is still out there standing watch like a guard dog.
I abandon the door and go to the windows along the back. We’re moving quickly now and leaving a wake of white waves behind us. They mentioned something about a cay. I wonder if that’s where we’re headed.
I return to the map on the wall. The only cay near Neverland is Blackbeard’s Cay to the southwest of the island.
That doesn’t sound particularly safe. Was Blackbeard the one who took a bunch of wives and killed them all off?
Or was that Redbeard? Maybe Bluebeard? What’s with all the terrifying bearded pirates?
Sighing, I slump into a chair at the table and prop my chin on my hand.
The adrenaline of being Hook’s captive is fading, and I can’t help but shoot a longing look at the bed that’s partially obscured by a velvety crimson curtain.
There’s no way in hell I’m climbing into it, of course, but I bet it’s soft.
Hook seems to have a fondness for finer things, so it would make sense that he has a nice bed.
A yawn escapes me as I let my thoughts wander back to Peter.
What will he do when he finds out I’m missing?
When he finds Coy’s bod—no. I shut that train of thought down immediately.
Falling apart right now isn’t an option.
I carefully open the filigreed box that I keep deep inside me, and stuff Coy’s death into it right next to my mother’s.
Knowing my limitations has never been a problem for me.
I’m aware of what I can’t face, and—for better or worse—I’ve become adept at hiding those things where no one else can see them.
I stare at the door, waiting for my executioner to arrive.
My legs ache, my limbs heavy from the swim and the draining adrenaline.
Long minutes pass. My eyelids begin to droop.
Then I start dozing off, but I shake myself awake each time.
I have to be on my toes when the monster finally comes to meet me.
A hundred different scenarios play through my mind—torture, beatings, dragged behind the ship, passed around to the crew.
I shudder and rest my forehead on my arm, clenching my eyes shut against all the horrors my mind can conjure.
When I hear a sound, I pop my head up. That’s when I realize I’ve been asleep. Only one lantern still burns, the other one dark.
The door opens, and I scramble to my feet, knocking my chair back as I grip the fountain pen in my right hand.
“Evenin’.” A man limps in, a red kerchief around his neck and a white apron wrapped around his middle.
“I’m Cookson. Bit o’ supper for ya.” He places a plate and a cup on the table in front of me, clearly unworried about the pen I’m holding out like a sword.
“It’s my beef bourguignon, but I admit ter ya the beef isn’t as tender as I’d hoped given that the last butcher’s order I had fulfilled was quite a ways back, so I had ter salt most of the meats ter keep them fresh, but that also means it’s a bit more difficult for me ter judge just how long is needed to keep them in the broth.
” He gives me a nod, his only eye focused on me.
“But suppertime is suppertime, isn’t that the truth, young lady?
” He smiles and gestures toward the plate.
I blink, unsure of how to react. First, the man seems truly kind and genuinely worried about the tenderness of the meat that is currently wafting the most delicious smell to my nose. Second, I can see the food. The plate is covered with bits of beef, carrots, and potatoes. It makes my mouth water.
“How?” I feel like I haven’t seen real food in a year.
“Oh, you want ter learn how ter cook do ya? Well, I’d be happy ter show you around the galley when you get ter feeling better. Take it easy, no need ter rush while you’re still ill.” He pulls his kerchief from his neck and uses it to mop his forehead. “Hot down there, but worth it.”