FORGET-ME-NOT

He walks in the room
Air reaches me
Skin becomes sheets covering me
Fog carves a crack
Cuts open wounds
Veins made of steel feed all this cold

Your words are heavy
But they lack so much substance
To fall is the cure for vertigo

('Sheets', Promise and the Monster)


- Day 2 –

Part I

That interminable thudding woke her again. The weak, grey light of morning crept beneath Wendy's half-closed lids as she reluctantly dragged herself from the depths of oblivion. To her surprise, she had slept long and deep, far deeper than she could have imagined, given the events of last night. Whether from exhaustion or excitement, she had thrown herself onto the hammock and fallen into a death-like slumber. Waking for her was always like pulling herself from the grave (or the bottom of the ocean –)

Her mood on stirring was somber and sullen; there was none of the previous morning's thirst for adventure. Instead, she set about the task of rousing herself with a methodical sense of routine. There was to be no romanticism or flights of fancy. Whatever lingering illusions she might have harbored of this being a thrilling adventure or idealistic fairytale were gone. Instead, she was grimly occupied with the impending duty that she had assigned herself. Last night, she had fallen asleep with the calm and decided resolution of searching the captain's quarters. The return of day had brought back reason and will-power. One day had already been wasted, and her foolishness of the preceding night still haunted her. There was no doubt she had acted recklessly; if Hook had run his cutlass through her for the shocking lapse of judgment, Wendy would hardly have blamed him. Attacking him (attempting to attack him, her mind whispered derisively) had been a serious error and the last time she would attempt to emulate Peter or her brothers. Physical force was impossible. No, she must use her mind to outwit the captain, set her cunning against his. And the night's sleep had done its work, acting as a restorative on her overwrought mind. The new day brought its own possibilities and she felt resolved and heartened, ready for another battle.

She stared at the dress hanging on her door – the dress that two nights ago had been a beautiful garment of smooth watered silk and ruffled lace of delicate pearl-white. Symbolic white, pure white. White that showed every mark and imperfection, as delicate and fragile as the virtue it represented. Aunt Millicent would have fainted at the state of it now, and Wendy herself was vain enough to mourn the ruin of such a beautiful gown. Smudges of dirt stained the gauzy skirts that were creased despite her best efforts to preserve its natural shape. The sleeves were rendered to tattered shreds thanks to Hook's cutlass, and that memory was enough to make her shudder at the prospect of wearing it again or having the material anywhere near her skin. She didn't want to touch it again. She could still smell the lingering aroma of cigar smoke, rich and potent, from where he had drawn so close, and –

With a haughty toss of her head, Wendy buried the recollection, refusing to think of it. Instead, she threw open the cabinet opposite her hammock and tried her luck there. Her lips tightened with feminine distaste at the garments spread before her. Faded and worn, a motley collection of breeches and shirts stiffened with lack of wear, made for figures far larger than her own. She was no waif, yet the high waistband of her trousers had to be folded down several times to stay in place. The loose shirt hung almost to her knees so she tucked it into the high waistband of her breeches. She could find no fitting shoes, so remained barefoot. Her heavy mass of hair was pulled back with a thin strip of black ribbon, a few errant tresses falling over her shoulders. Despite how ridiculous she looked, she moved with an unconscious easy grace, aware of a certain freedom in being unconstrained by crinoline and petticoats, her neck and collarbones liberated from the suffocating confines of the school's starched collars and the modest coverings of gauzy lace. Today she was merely a cabin boy, not a young woman.

Then, as she turned away, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and the illusion shattered. She merely looked like Wendy Darling, wearing ridiculous clothes far too big for her, a grown woman playing at dress-up. She thought herself too much of an adult to realize that flashes of her childhood still lingered in her features, especially in her upturned mouth, which at the moment wore a look of sullen dissatisfaction. Anyone would know at a glance that she was city-bred, despite the nautical clothes she was masquerading in. Her father would have been appalled, her mother quietly disappointed at the picture she made, so incongruous to the future they had planned out for her –

No. Better not to think about that now. It was easier to remain in the present.

There were still some resources left to her. The fairy dust remained safe and was still her best hope in freeing her from this ship. The captain's cabin might yet reveal some secrets and the crew had proven themselves to be more amicable than she had anticipated and could be persuaded to talk, if necessary.

Then there was the captain. He stole insidiously, like a soft forbidden whisper, into her thoughts and she did not want him there. There was menace in his eyes and danger in his mouth, exulting conquest lurking in that cruel smile that had paralyzed her last night. The recollection turned Wendy cold all over and she froze in place before the mirror, her fingers tracing agitated patterns against the glass.

What had happened in that cabin?

The memory lingered like a raw wound. The phantom sensation of cool fingers on her skin would not leave her alone. The terror of the emotions the encounter had evoked in her was frightening, but what was more frightening was that not all the emotions were terrible. She could not recall a time in her life when her body and impulses had been so utterly beyond her control. Every instinct had warned her to flee, but she had remained motionless, locked in place by the touch of metallic flesh and curving fingers. Silver and smiles. Those cool, unhurried tones caressing and cruel in equal measure. Wendy. Never once losing that gentlemanly veneer of formality. And his eyes. Always so cold, crystalline. Like a pool of still water concealed in a dark cave. A hidden part of her wanted to know what would have happened if she had shattered that stillness –

He had crossed a line yesterday evening, and what was worse, she had allowed him to. That scared her. His crew was coarse and rough and uncouth, yet not one of them had made even so much as a leering remark or looked at her in any way that could be construed as offensive. They had treated her with deference and… respect. While their captain – polite, elegant and cultured – had acted like a villainous rake. His utter lack of gentlemanly conduct was appalling, his complete disregard for limits unnerving.

And she had not stopped him.

She realized how frighteningly easy it would be to lose herself entirely, to be drawn in by that deadly charm and captivating grace. There was an unsettling fascination in his effrontery, the lazy air of possession and familiarity, so different to the fumbling manners of the boys who had approached her before, even poor Charles Quiller-Couch with his kind eyes and earnest face, who had stammered an apology after kissing her on a stupid impulse. None of them had even come close. No one ever had – except Peter. And he was as different to Hook as day from night. The one filled her with joy and the other with dread. Peter was merry and daring and wild. Hook was enraged and vicious and ruthless. The very memory of his touch turned her blood to ice, racked her body with convulsive shivers. Try as she might, she could not forget the searing contrast of the claret-scented warmth of his body against the piercing metallic cold seeping through her skin. Ice outside and fire within.

She would plunge into the depths of the sea, she would dash herself to pieces on the rocks, she would walk straight into the jaws of a leviathan… she would do anything so she might erase all traces of Captain James Hook from her flesh.

But she had not stopped him.

If he could only see what a fragile, weak thing he had made her, how he would triumph. He paralyzed her mind and haunted her thoughts, was an ever-present menace in her soul. This was different to the heart-fluttering, breathless excitement that the thought of Peter had always invoked. No, it was fear that made her blood beat hot and her pulse pound fast. For all her bold words last night, she truly was afraid of him.

But in spite of that, she still possessed the resilient, willful, careless quality of youth that had the enviable ability to forget troubles. And she could never resist a challenge. There was no use in forestalling what she had resolved to do.

Wendy opened her door and stole cautiously down the corridor. Almost in a dream, she approached the gilded door, wondering what madness was impelling her back here. Raising a frighteningly steady hand, she knocked, once.

No answer. Silence reigned on the other side of the door.

In that moment, Wendy was almost tempted to turn back and seek refuge in her cabin, but she scornfully overrode the weakness. If she wanted to escape, she must find the means herself. There was no Peter at the window, no childish hand held out offering to take her away from her troubles. With a burst of defiance and despair, she pushed open the door and entered Hook's cabin.


The aroma of spiced cigar smoke lingered heavy in the air, immediately revisiting vivid memories upon her senses, invoking thoughts and sensations she would rather have forgotten. The long dining table stood unadorned, light raying across the polished wood. Dark mahogany and inlaid gold. Mist clouded the porthole window. The cabin still maintained that indefinable atmosphere of subtle ardor and forgotten secrets though now the air was languid and dulled where last night it had been potent and alive. Smoke curled in shadowy corners. Forgotten dreams surrounded her like curling wisps of perfume, slow and drugging. Deceptive warmth and soft, pulsing light, drawing her mind irresistibly back to the night before. Flames dancing, teasing the candle wicks. As the wine swirled in the decanter and the lights burned low…

There was a sort of artistic disorder to the sprawling decadence of the furnished cabin. Draperies of silk hung over mahogany-backed chairs, gold coins spilled from full chests. Slanting beams of light rayed across the wooden floor, distorted in the captured prisms of the chandelier and glass-cased clocks. Clocks with frozen hands that did not make a sound. Gilt-bound books were stacked from table to ceiling. The pervasive quiet seemed a mockery, heightening the beat of her own heart in her ears. She saw another door opposite which could only lead to the captain's sleeping quarters…

A floorboard creaked underfoot. Wendy stilled, hearing the rapid thudding of her heart. Never taking her eyes from the closed door, she made her way slowly across the cabin. The thought of him asleep on the other side made her pulse race. If she was discovered, what would happen? What would he do to her?

Almost unconsciously, her fingers drifted to her cheek, her jaw, following the ghostly line his hook had traced the night before. That sharp, metallic trail so cold against her skin. It was like he had given her a part of himself. And it would remain with her always.

She explored further, feeling she was entering a Cave of Wonders, moving further and deeper into the luxurious quarters that were so utterly at variance to everything she had seen so far on this ship. A true pirate's hoard met her wondering gaze. Bric-a-brac, wealth and trinkets. Flotsam and jetsam pulled from the tides. Pearls drawn from the depths of the ocean, gemstones garnered from raids beyond count. Wendy was not entirely immune from materialistic weakness; the sight of them captured her fascination, and she stared like one entranced. Many people would sell their souls for such wealth.

But she had a purpose here; and she knew that despite his predilection for fine culture and lavish treasures, the captain possessed a sharp and cunning mind. There had to be some kind of material evidence for his carefully-plotted stratagems. With that thought in mind, and ever-conscious that she might be disturbed at any moment, Wendy turned immediately to the nearest cabinet and tried the first three drawers. Locked. She sighed in frustration. With no clear sense of what she was looking for, and an icy tightness in her heart at the fear of discovery, she was on the brink of abandoning her resolution, but refused to admit defeat so soon.

She tried another chest of drawers – one that opened, but revealed to her disappointed gaze nothing but a collection of minerals and gemstones, all labeled in the same slanting, elegant hand. She turned then to another bureau, trying the drawers again with patient succession, scanning the shelves above. Nothing. A drawer that she suspected held papers from the faint rustling shift she heard within when trying to open it, proved unassailable. She was agonizingly conscious of the minutes passing every time her gaze fell on the still and soundless clocks, the inlaid, glassy faces taunting her with reflections that startled her into thinking the captain had silently returned and discovered her. She could almost feel him watching her. Haunting her as he haunted the dark recesses of her mind, an insidious presence that breathed into every thought she had ever suppressed and every dream she had never dared utter.

The intense silence, the decadent scents of cigar smoke and warm claret were more than her tightly-strained nerves could stand. Wendy looked toward the dining table where last night he had pinned her with the force of his body, and turned away from it, shuddering. She would break down if she thought of it, and think of it she would, if she remained here. She would not stay in this cabin a moment longer.

The whole thing was futile, and she was driving herself mad with fevered imaginings. Another chance tried, she thought hopelessly. And another chance lost. She began to make her way towards the door, when her glance fell once again on the dining table and she paused. The table-drawer, the one place she had not yet looked. Quietly, Wendy pulled it open and looked in eagerly. She pulled out a rolled-up parchment with a sense of growing excitement. It was a map of Neverland, the lines of latitude and longitude chartered along its length, elaborate notes filled in the blank spaces, nautical observations on the weather, wind direction, well-traced courses and trajectories. It seemed the captain was an amateur cartographer among his other interests.

Wendy spread open the map with shaking fingers, eyes rapidly scanning the depiction of the island. Her heart ached at the sight of all those places so dearly familiar to her. To the south lay Marooner's Rock and the Mermaid's Lagoon, where her first great adventure had taken place, and where she had had her first, terrifying glimpse of Hook. The ambush still so vivid in her memory, that crawled into her dreams. The dark-blue clothed pirate, his rifle upraised, lithe and fluid and hunting, hunting. Piercing blue eyes a snare, a trance. Fear gathered tight knots in her throat, impressing on her the utmost urgency of escape.

She knew the Jolly Roger often docked east of the island – far closer to the Lost Boys than the captain had ever realized – but last night Smee had said they were aground on Skull Rock, far further north than she ever remembered Hook being. Given the adverse weather conditions, she doubted they would have moved far from that location. But where were they headed? What and whom was the captain planning to attack?

The paper was worn and creased in places and the top left corner was torn. She had a sudden memory of lingering outside the captain's quarters, hearing his hook thudding into the parchment. Wendy peered closer at the hole in the paper and could discern long-faded, embellished writing that was just barely decipherable. The Indian village.

And so that was whom Hook intended to strike. The Piccaninny tribe and their princess. She recalled Tiger Lily, savage and haughty and imperious with her darkly flashing eyes, a wigwam warrior stained with ageless suns and endless slaughter. The Battle of Slightly Gulch was a distant memory but that hardly mattered; all she knew was that these people had once been allies, and so they were enemies of Hook.

The rapid jump of her heart and the faint stirrings of exhilaration betrayed the resolution already forming in her mind. If she could escape, and somehow warn them and help them, not only for their own sake, but it was a chance of reaching Peter, and – in truth this spurred her on most of all – the opportunity to score a victory against the captain. She had two weapons at her disposal now. If the attack were to happen tonight, all she needed to do was wait until nightfall and steal onto the deck unnoticed – hopefully while the crew was distracted – and use the fairy dust. Then she would finally be free of this place – of him –

She looked again at the map. The river ran to the south of the Indian village, opening out to the sea in a chain of narrow and rocky outlets. It would be a perilous channel to navigate a ship through, but the trees on the north bank would render any approach almost invisible. Dangerous, but the captain was bold enough and mad enough to dare such an endeavor.

But of course, this was simply mere speculation when in fact she was nothing more than a girl with a vivid imagination who had no experience of battle or strategizing and whose talents did not extend much further than holding a polite conversation. Wendy laid the map down with a sigh, the tips of her fingers easing the tense lines of her brow. What was she doing? Did she really think she had a chance of defeating Captain Hook?

With a sigh, she rolled up the map, and was placing it carefully back in the drawer when her fingers brushed against something hard and cold. Her trembling hand drew out a pistol, its polished, metallic edge gleaming in the slanting rays of light. Wendy's heartbeat quickened as she stared at it consideringly. Then, coming to a silent decision, she slid the pistol into the waistband of her trousers, letting her shirt fall loose to her thighs to conceal it. The metal lay caressingly cool against her thigh.

She had everything she needed. Another glance around the cabin to confirm she had left no traces of her presence. She closed the door with painstaking care. Her first priority was to conceal the pistol somewhere out of sight in her cabin; she did not dare wonder what might happen if it was discovered on her person. Better that she leave it in the sanctuary of her room. Yesterday, her cabin had remained untouched; she had not.

Casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, Wendy began to walk rapidly down the corridor and turned the corner –

Straight into the waiting form of the captain.


One leather-clad leg was crossed over the other, a wooden beam supporting the reclining curve of his back. She had not prepared herself for an encounter, and the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly sent her heart slamming into her ribcage, the blood rushing hot colour into her cheeks. The last time she had seen him seared across her mind. Caressing metal. Sharp pain. Sweet ecstasy. Cool breath on her lips as his mouth moved towards hers… With an exertion of will, Wendy forced down the recollection. The pistol was cold and reassuring at her waist but it never occurred to her for a moment to use it.

"Retiring so soon?" He was watching her beneath narrowed lids, the cunning gleam of his eyes startlingly blue in the dim light.

Wendy stood her ground, hoping her expression did not betray her. "I was just taking the air."

"And was it to your liking?"

She nodded, watching him carefully.

Hook's smile was colder than a knife's edge. "There's a rainstorm and a devil's gale blowing outside and your clothes are not soaked in the slightest. Care to try again?"

There was nothing she could say. Even in the dim light, she could see that beads of water still clung in a mist to his black curls, running in silver trails down the velvet of his collar, and like a fool she had been too preoccupied to notice before. She looked at him and did not reply. Her heart beating, beating.

"So," he said, his tones light and melodious which she knew already meant he was deadly, "You refuse to talk. What a pity."

She sought to remain calm and indifferent, concealing the fact that every nerve in her body was tense and thrumming, alive. "Only because there is nothing to tell."

Quicker than thought, he was standing over her, rigid-shouldered and steel-strong. Wrapping her in silver chains, both burning and freezing. His face was hard and intent, and Wendy realized with a flash of fear that he had not forgiven her for the previous night. And he would not forget.

"I do hope," he murmured, "That you are not going to become more trouble than you're worth."

I'll give you trouble, Wendy thought, stubbornly determined not to yield. I'll give you all the trouble that Peter did and more besides -

"We came to an agreement, remember," he breathed against the hollow of her throat. The lacing cold of an arctic wind, stripping away her defenses, leaving her soul exposed and shivering. And yet, her skin was burning. "Three days in which I do nothing to you, so long as you return the favour. But if you wish to test the limits of my patience, you will see just how merciless I can be." He raised his hook to her upturned face, pressing an icy indenture to the skin (as he had last night, right before…) "Or had you forgotten?"

"No," she echoed. "I hadn't forgotten."

He inclined his head in a sardonic imitation of a bow, stretched out his ringed hand with a sweeping gesture of exaggerated mockery. "Then don't let me keep you."

This time he would get no rise out of her. With a show of cold disregard, Wendy turned to the door of her cabin.

"And you are right," he said quietly, stilling her. "For what you attempted to do to me last night – you aren't absolved."

Her hand had closed around the handle when his soft voice spoke again, sending ice prickling along the back of her neck.

"And I'll never let it go."


The captain had been right about the weather. The drear atmosphere echoed her mood. Fog hung in low swathes about the ship and a cold drizzle had set in, casting a filmy grey veil over everything. A raw wind billowed through the sails, making Wendy shiver where she crouched at the base of the mast, chin cradled pensively in her hands as she tried to summon the self-will to chance the next move in this perilous game she was playing. The dense fog clung to her skin, the misty rain soaking through her shirt and chilling her to the bone. Her hair was plastered against her face in soaked, straggling waves, dulled to the color of curled ash bark. She remembered the candlelit warmth of the captain's cabin and shook away the recollection with contempt at herself. She would have sold her soul for a hot bath if it meant she wouldn't have to dwell on those unsettling, pervasive memories.

A grim sense of purpose hung heavy in the air. The men worked silently and with bent backs, full of a rigid tenacity, unwilling to meet her eyes when yesterday they had been all easy frivolity and stumbling gallantry. She wondered if Hook had reprimanded them for indulging her the previous night and felt almost guilty. For however much she convinced herself she disliked the captain, there was no reason for the crew to be punished for her small insurrection.

From her huddled position on the stern of the ship, she could see the outline of him emerge through the clinging mist: cloak and hair and sloping shoulders. The narrow mouth and angular eyes upturned to the rain as he cursed quietly. Wendy shrank back out of sight, dreading another encounter. She could not see him again, did not know herself around him. Her usual calm control fled and she became anxious, uncertain as a child, and inwardly raged over this weakness inside her that she did not understand. Yet against her will, she remained frozen in place, unable to pull herself away.

It was a moment before she caught his words carried on the knifing breeze. "… Become a nuisance ever since they allied themselves with Pan."

"But Captain, the weather… they say there's going to be a fierce storm when we plan to –"

"I don't care about the weather!" roared the captain. "I want them dealt with – without mercy. I've not endured these last seven years being tormented by an ocean of dead faces only to be challenged by a band of savage fools – by thunder! I'll see the world damned to bring down Pan, if that's what it takes." Even from a distance, she saw the furious glint in his eyes, alive with old ghosts. "I want no more of your blithering incompetence."

Wendy did not wait to hear any more. She had not forgotten his haunting tale of the night before. Illuminated by the unhallowed lights, he had looked pale as a corpse, his eyes as wide and wild as one who had just crawled from the depths of a watery grave. Was it truly a drowned wraith she had to contend with? Wendy shivered, unable to forget the hollow, hunted look in his pale eyes. Eyes that had seen sights no man should witness. What could be so awful, so terrible that it had filled Captain James Hook with horror? His words came back to her, an invocation of one long gone. Where dead men dwell with the things that move in deep. What was he? Was he a man? And if so, was he living or dead?

She had seen from his face, rigid with beautiful cruelty, that he would never stop, never give up.

But then, neither would she.

Smee was too close to the captain to attempt to cross-examine without discovery. Gentleman Starkey still had too much of the public school obedience clinging to him to ever contemplate any form of disobedience. But Cecco – large, attractive and sure of himself – could possibly be cajoled into revealing some of the crew's plans. She easily discerned his broad form through the silvery veils of low cloud. His was the most handsome face of the crew's and the only one not worn down with the cowed submission all the other pirates displayed. Wendy approached him with the decided mobile grace that came so naturally to her, the effortless conceit of true breeding. She pulled the threaded ribbon from her hair, conscious of how the damp waves fell over her shoulders and down her back. The cold had brought a flush of color to her cheeks and brightened her eyes. Were I dressed in my finest gown, she thought defiantly, with pearls around my throat, there is not one of these wretches who wouldn't defy the captain to help me –

"A dangerous day to be risking the high seas," she observed aloud.

The dark man laughed without casting so much as a glance on her. "What would you know of it?"

"You are quite right," she agreed evenly. "I talk as if I were a seasoned sea-farer instead of a young lady of family and position. Ridiculous! We know better than that, don't we?"

"The captain says we're not to speak to you. Tradition tells you'll bring misfortune on the ship and all its crew." But the sudden glow in his coal eyes and the wolfish flash of teeth gave her hope.

"Do you always do as the captain says?" she asked innocently.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "When it suits me."

"Does it suit you now?" She felt a momentary quiver of contempt at herself that she overrode.

Cecco leaned heavily against the drenched wood, watching her sharply beneath his thick black brows. "What is it you want?"

Wendy looked at him appraisingly. "Supposing you tell me our destination and I'll tell you a story."

He laughed aloud. "A story, is it? A long time since one of those has been heard aboard this ship. All right, bellissima – I'll hear your story, and then I might be inclined to start singing."

Wendy was not conceited enough to think his easy compliance was due to any of her own merits. He was bored, she realized, and perhaps idly amused by her. Well, so much the better for her. Without a moment of hesitation or self-consciousness, she threw herself headlong into the first narrative that came to her mind.

And suddenly, it all fell away. Her fears, her worries, her anxieties. She had delved into the world she loved, bringing it to life, losing herself in the imagination, the intrigue, the magnificent richness of it. This was wonderful, this was what she was meant for. The passion brought a flush to her cheeks, an imaginative fire flared in her calm eyes.

Gradually, she realized she was gathering an audience, as more and more of the crew seemed to be working nearby, some had abandoned all pretense and were seated or standing at intervals, listening intently. The thought that she was expressly defying the captain filled Wendy with a mad, reckless sense of purpose and she worked herself up to greater efforts, painting the canvas of her narrative in rich, vivid strokes. All her innate pride and command rose to the surface, that ability to hold and capture a rapt audience. There was not a trace of the former feminine charm in her recital that might have idly passed away the hours in a drawing room on a rainy afternoon. No longer soft and alluring, an angry resolution filled her. She spoke with a wild defiance, her voice raised and trembling, a fevered glow in her cheeks. Her movements were hard and bold, all sense of delicacy and refinement stripped away. She would have shocked and saddened her former acquaintances or an observer with any semblance of breeding. She absolutely electrified the crew. Gentleman Starkey was listening, slack-jawed. Bill Jukes was nodding with approval. Cecco's dark eyes were smoldering. Wendy barely saw it, aware only of the rapt silence, the beating of her pulse in her ears, and –

And –

The metallic fall of booted steps on the wooden boards. The sound rang out, hollow and endlessly magnified. Another shadowed figure, tall and slender and dark-cloaked, appeared on the edge of the deck.

"What the blazes is happening here?"


Wendy's heart splintered in terror, dragged back to reality with brutal force. Unconsciously, she withdrew back into the shadows. Cloaked and hooded in black, the captain looked like the Devil himself. The Devil with deep blue eyes. The crew began muttering among themselves.

"Explain the meaning of this or by thunder, I'll run my hook through you –"

"Leave them alone." The smooth, well-bred tones sounded jarringly out of place amidst the rough and unruly company.

Hook turned rapidly, the dark hood of his cloak falling back, the line of his profile startlingly pale against the deep black of his curling hair. Wendy saw for once that she had shocked him. He hid it well – but there was no concealing the momentary flash of surprise that crossed his features.

"What is she doing here?" he demanded in an undertone to Smee. He paused, staring at her. Then a malicious red smile curved his mouth.

Wendy cried out in startled surprise as he caught her arm, dragging her into the centre of the circle. His expression was impossible to discern, his face shadowed by the dark folds of his hood. Only the glint of his eyes; the colour of dark blue-tinted glass.

"Yes? Something you wish to say?"

She could not back down now, though she had turned pale and her nails dug tense crescents into her palms. The impulsive exclamation had burst from her lips in spite of herself, spurred by the subdued terror of the crew and the terrible memories of Hook's pistol silencing any man who spoke out of turn. The thought of watching another murder take place before her eyes made her faint with sickness, and so she lifted her chin, willing her voice to remain steady.

"Your crew is not to blame. It was my fault; I insisted on distracting them while they were busy working. If anyone is to be punished it is me, and that, Captain, is the truth - so run your hook through me, if you will."

"Well?" he demanded, "Have you all lost your tongues? Is the girl right?"

The men began clamouring in eager assent. It was a rather thankless display of gratitude, thought Wendy scornfully, considering her neck might very well be on the line.

"Very well." Hook exhaled with a show of weary contempt, his narrowed eyes surveying the cowed, submissive crew with barely-concealed impatience. "Get back to work. And if any man of you ever disobeys me again I'll fling your worthless hides over the deck and let the crocodiles make a meal of your flesh. And let me tell you –" His face darkened as he pulled back the lace cuff of his sleeve and – Wendy swallowed back a surge of terror and nausea – exposed the pale skin of his forearm, riddled silver-white with scars from the deep indentations of jagged teeth marks, "Those creatures bite deep, and once they have a taste of you, they won't let go. Now get out of my sight."

There was a bustle and clamour as the men could not be gone fast enough. Work resumed, and Wendy found herself alone on the deck, her presence completely forgotten. The fog slid cool blue fingers across the deck, the chill wind wrapping around her shoulders like a blanket of ice. She had started to shiver with cold and was just wondering drearily whether to return to her cabin when the captain appeared at her side.

"They won't thank you for it," he remarked, displaying that flash of uncanny intuition. His eyes were cool and bright, his mouth smiling. The hooped gold glimmered in his ear, its wink seeming like a mockery.

"Perhaps not," Wendy said uneasily, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. Unwilling to show any vulnerability before him. "But they don't deserve to die merely for listening to a story."

"If you knew what those men had done, you might not be so quick to pardon them. Each of them has more deaths to their hand than you have years to your unspoiled young life."

"Deaths at your order."

There was an edge to his voice, provoked perhaps by her evident disdain. "They hardly needed much convincing. And nor did you, if I recall, when you held a cutlass to my throat last night." She flinched and looked away. He leaned closer, his desultory tones smooth as steel sliding into her heart. "Killing a man – it's the easiest thing in the world, and never so sweet as the first time –" his voice dropped and his slowly unfurling smile chilled her blood – "I wonder if there was enough conviction in your heart to have truly done it, to have ended me. A curious sort of honour it would have been, my blood being the first to stain your innocent hands."

Wendy felt cold and very alone. The mist lay damp, cold fingers on the back of her neck, hauntingly reminiscent of his touch. "It would have been worth it," she managed hoarsely, "To rid Neverland of such a menace."

"Of course. Always so protective. Such a mother. Tell me; are you still as devoted as ever to those thankless brats?"

"If you are referring to my brothers, John and Michael are both grown men now."

"Ah," he said, smiling that silver-edged smile. "So motherhood doesn't fill you with the same delight as it once did? The years have turned you cold, dear girl."

Wendy felt suddenly sick at heart. She closed her eyes, willing herself to disregard his cutting words that were designed only to wound. Lies laced with barbs of truth, enough to make her doubt herself. Is this what she was now? So bitter, so disillusioned of life? Like him? She thought back to a lonely girl in a cold nursery, on the brink of renouncing her dreams. Resigning herself to a life empty and hollow. We both of us are trapped, she realized, disquieted at the revelation. She would almost have pitied him had she not determined to harden her heart against him. And she was still proud enough to scorn him.

"What would you know of it?" she returned wearily. "You have never loved, never cared for anyone."

"Always so quick to depict me the cold and heartless villain, aren't you, my beauty?"

The savagery with which he spoke cut through her like a knife, pulling her startled gaze up to his. In his face was a poignant flicker of emotion that made her heart shudder. The cool, sardonic veneer had been brutally stripped away, and what she saw beneath was desolate, awful. Shaken, Wendy stared at him, suddenly recalling those words spoken in bitterness that she had not dared allowed herself to think on too closely… I have no happy thoughts… I am bound by the regrets of maturity… a torment…

What she had glimpsed in those moments – weariness, resentment, and terrible unhappiness – told her more than she wanted, told her things she refused to let herself believe. She knew, had known even in the confused emotional depths of adolescence, that he had dropped willingly into the jaws of the crocodile. He had accepted – no, embraced – the bleak approach of death. She was looking into the face of a man who had given up. Given up on life, hope, happiness, and resigned himself to the dim future with despairing certainty.

She spoke slowly, her quiet words filling the vast space between them. "Then prove me wrong. For once in your life, show mercy. End this petty feud and release me."

Silence. Only the dull, steady rhythm of the rain falling on the deck and low, mournful billowing of the sails in the chill, icy wind. The air veiled them in a grey mist. He was looking down at her, his eyes very blue, curious and absorbed, and an expression of yearning so intense it seemed almost physical pain flickering across his marble-still features. Wendy remained still under his searching gaze that seemed to hold them together, her heart beating strangely. She hardly dared to breathe. The desire to reach out, to touch him, to discover something real beneath the cruelty and cynicism and deception was almost overwhelming, and she could no longer fight the impulse.

"Captain?" she said, wonderingly.

He sighed heavily, a tremor ran through the hand half-lifted to her face. Hesitant and uncertain, as though he did not know what to do next, a voyager on the brink of abandoning a long and half-desired isolation. Slender fingers lightly traced the line of her jaw, the ephemeral touch like the embrace of the tide, comforting and smooth. His mouth opened as though to speak –

And he laughed. Blood suffused his cheeks, the hateful mockery flashing in his eyes.

"Oh, very good," he whispered. "But unfortunately you will not find me so easily swayed." He smiled with vile derision at the expression on her face that she could not suppress before he read the emotion there. "Really, my dear girl, what did you expect?"

Wendy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, holding her head up even though her eyes were sore and stinging. The cold air tried to soothe her burning face. She felt a rush of humiliation and overwhelming disappointment. She was a fool to have believed him capable of any form of humanity. How could she have thought, even for a moment, that he might –

"You look pale," he observed casually. "You're not sickening, are you?"

"I have never been seasick in my life."

"Good. Because it'll be a wild night tonight and I cannot spare the men to be catering to feminine sensibilities. They will have a hard enough time of it merely keeping us on course."

"That's true," agreed Wendy, the sudden flash of humiliated anger at his careless words provoking her to recklessness, "Though I thought it was because you intended to attack the Piccaninny warriors tonight."

The instant the words passed her lips, she would have given worlds to recall them.

The captain's hand darted out, fingers biting into her wrist (bringing back memories like a whispered death sentence – kill you? Oh no, my Darling girl, I'm not going to kill you –) and she swallowed down the searing flash of bright pain. Her blood surged, quickening the pulse that throbbed beneath his hold.

"Who told you?" growled Hook. "Out with it – or I'll give you something to sing about when I drag my hook across your throat – "

He was too close. His eyes, too cold. Sapphire and steel. Wendy hid her terror, forcing it down beneath a fragile veneer of detached politeness. "Pirates talk," she said, "And walls are thin."

His grip on her eased a fraction, and suddenly, she found herself facing the cavalier, dissolute libertine once more. He was smiling and smiling, courteous and civilized, yet she could sense his anger beneath, swelling like a storm. "Well, my beauty," he said softly. His tones were caressing as silk but his eyes were ice. "You have been busy, haven't you?"

She shivered at the look he gave her. But there was no use in remaining silent. He knew the worst now, anyway. "So it is true. You mean to attack the Indians."

"You will keep your mouth shut." The polished silver gleamed at his wrist like a warning.

She would have to tread carefully. If the captain had one weakness, it was vanity; she might yet be able to play on it as she had done last night. "I just thought… it's only that it sounds so terribly exciting. May I come along?"

"No."

Her fists clenched at her sides. But she concealed her inner vexation, her expression steady and ingenuous. "I only wanted the chance to see a real pirate raid. I have no intention of interrupting you or your men."

"Don't bat your eyelashes at me. Let you on the shore? I wouldn't trust you out there for five minutes."

"But I –"

"Smee," the captain called over his shoulder carelessly. "See to it that she's kept out of my way. Lock her in her cabin."

Wendy immediately took a step back. But he was too fast for her, one arm locking hard around her waist, dragging her back with a force as irresistible as the tide. Holding her rigid against him, pressed tightly into the plush velvet confines of his cloak. Heart in her throat at the fear of him – his coldness, his anger, his hunger – she momentarily forgot to remain aloof. His clenched hand was so cold, his blood so hot, and she was enmeshed in rippling folds of dark water. Closer than she could stand. Her mind whirled, tried to summon reason, rationality –

Then her old pride reasserted itself. Even if she was his prisoner, she was not an object to be manhandled at his will. She did not know how he treated other women, but she was a respectable lady and would have him remember it.

"I thought you would have considered it the height of bad form to lock up defenseless women," she managed coldly. Her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

He lifted a winged dark brow. "I would hardly call you defenseless."

"No gentleman would ever –"

Hook sneered nastily, a thread of steel in his tone. "Your right to lecture me on courtesy ended when you tried to run me through with my own cutlass. Save the pretensions of virtue, girl. They will do you no good here."

She tried one last appeal. "What am I supposed to do shut away in my cabin?"

He shrugged, waving a slim white hand dismissively. "What do I care?"

"I refuse to be treated like some –" Wendy began to say, and then sternly checked herself. She would not lower herself by making a scene.

The captain's tone was cool when he spoke again. "Kindly do not bother me with any hysterics. I would rather not any trouble."

"You invited trouble the moment you took me aboard this ship. Surely you know such a move would provoke my –"

"Friends?" Hook sneered, his cruel eyes gleaming and narrow. "I'll wager you've not many; your type seldom does. One evening in your company sufficed to convince me of that. In short, my dear girl, you are nothing more than a stiff, spoilt, condescending –"

"Cap'n."

Smee's appearance did not abate the effect of those sharp words that stung like a lash – even more so, given there was enough truth in them to hurt – but Wendy rallied, her eyes meeting the captain's steadily and without flinching as she spoke with a certainty she did not feel. "If you really believed that," she said. "You would not be locking me away."

Hook cocked his pistol at her. She heard the metallic click. "You can go to your cabin," he continued smoothly. "Or… you can lose your kneecaps. I don't recall mentioning them in our little arrangement."

Ice gripped her heart. She felt her body slacken. Something in the captain's hard gaze warned her not to push him any further. His eyes had that glint of familiar steel. Anger as unpredictable as his smiles. She had already challenged him on the deck and instinct told her it would be wise not to provoke him. Not for the time being, anyway. Tightly, she nodded. She felt the bo'sun's hands close around her in a hold that was surprisingly gentle. She could have broken away at any moment, but did not even make the attempt. If the captain could play his own game, then so could she. Let him busy himself with the ship and its crew. When darkness came and they were too busy to remember her, she could break out easily enough. She resolved to run the risk headlong that night. Something of Peter's spirit still lingered within her, hardening her resolve, making her careless of all perils.

"Smee. A moment."

The captain's hand enclosed her wrist like a band of iron. A manacle of ice locking around her skin. A cold shiver raced down her spine, hot blood beating beneath. Eyes narrowed, Hook studied her closely, one of those deep, penetrating gazes that seemed to drag every deeply-buried thought and emotion from the depths of her mind. She could not look away.

"So you've learned sense, after all?" he murmured. A taut smile. Silver wires digging into her flesh. She was spiraling down through cool blue. Eyes into which she could fall and fall forever. That almost made her believe she wanted to. She swayed, on the brink of vertigo.

"No, I think not," he added as an afterthought. His grip on her tightened. "You've a furtive face and a prying mind and you don't scare easily. But understand this, Wendy Darling. You might sneer at me and think you can outwit me, but if you so much as make a move to defy me, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Then I will die happy, she thought, trying (and trying and trying) to summon that old, sustaining hatred of him. But to her absolute despair, she realized it was slipping away from her like water that couldn't be held –

The captain turned away with a movement of casual disregard, the echo of his retreating steps lingering in her mind long after he had disappeared from her sight. She yielded calmly to the bo'sun's appeals and allowed herself to be led away – not like someone conquered, with shoulders bowed and head bent – but with her shoulders straight, her footfalls confident and sure. There would be time enough to fall prey to hopelessness, but she must do so in solitude.

Smee's voice seemed to reach her through a mist. "How about I cook you something nice to eat?"

"No," she responded dully. "I am quite alright." She wanted to be left alone to think; the bo'sun's well-meaning kindness was touching, but could not help her now.

Smee did not insist, and said nothing more until she was back in her own cabin, the metallic grate of the key turning in the lock behind her. He does not like me, Wendy realized, never once thinking that she had given him little reason to do so.

Left alone, her first thought was to check the pistol had remained undiscovered in her absence. She found it where she had hidden it, deep in the confines of her dresser and wrapped in a thick blanket, clearly untouched. And yet… she frowned suddenly. A collection of books had been left on the dresser. On top lay a note in that familiar hand that made her throat tighten. Such fine literature should not go to waste. Drawing closer,Wendy glanced at the titles curiously. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The Tempest, The Count of Monte Cristo, a selection of Petrarch and Baudelaire. The texts were familiar to her; she had spent her adolescence falling into them as a solitary wanderer stumbling across old pathways and the sight of them struck a chord within her… Forcibly wrenching her mind from the past, Wendy sat on the edge of the hammock, turning her thoughts to her current predicament. She could not wait for Peter any longer. Escape was imperative now. Beyond that, she did not dare allow herself to think. She could not. But the heavy, despondent thoughts crept upon her in spite of herself.

Soon she would have to return to the dull regularity of shallow etiquette and the social demands of Edwardian womanhood, that senseless life that was like walking through a waking dream. A bitterness, greater than she could have imagined, filled her. She had tasted adventure again, held freedom within her grasp and she would have to renounce it again. The thought brought with it a dull ache. Adulthood no longer held the same abstract, mysterious, profound quality that had enticed her thirteen year-old self back to London. She knew all too well what was expected of her, the role she must play. Resigned to go through an entirely eventless life, where nothing ever happened.

Only twenty last birthday, she thought. And my whole life is already planned out for me. That night of the party I felt I had lived a hundred years.

"Suppose I do return?" she broke out abruptly to the empty cabin. "Who can impel me to marry if I don't wish to? Can't I say no to Charles? Am I not independent enough to know my own mind? My parents are not tyrants – they would not force me to do anything that I did not want to."

But they would be disappointed, though, another voice whispered. And how much worse that was. To disappoint the parents that had loved and indulged her and given her everything she wished for since childhood. Their sad resignation and quiet reticence entangled her far more tightly in this engagement than any show of force or anger could have.

It unnerved her to realize that she had felt more vividly alive these last twenty-four hours than she could remember feeling in the last seven years. When she was here, everything was unpredictable, uncontrollable, unrestrained. Like the chains of her old life had fallen away from her. She was not ready to renounce that elating sense of freedom and purpose – not yet. She would have one last adventure before returning to the steady, sedate life that awaited her, where she was known only as Miss Darling, firm, sensible and undemonstrative. No one – not even those closest to her – had any comprehension of that inner core of passionate, imaginative essence that lay hidden deep within the outer layers of respectability and reserve that the exposure to danger and exhilaration had awoken. The rebellious spirit for adventure was not yet quenched and Wendy silently vowed she would reach the Indians before Hook, let the consequences fall where they may.

She had not forgotten the warning the captain had given her earlier. If you wish to test the limits of my patience, you will see just how merciless I can be. The thought of him discovering her treachery inspired a silken thread of fear within her. That fear haunted her almost as keenly as he did, drowned her with evocative imaginings. She remembered again that icy stillness in his eyes like the surface of a dark lake, so unbreakable. Her own eyes were steady and grave, a misty cloud-blue that in some lights was almost grey. What was it about his that frightened and fascinated her so? What depths dwelt beneath that visceral mirror of deepest blue? What evocative curse had stolen over her senses that made her forgetful of every rational instinct of self-preservation that society and her own intelligence had instilled in her?

It had become lost under the melodious whisper of a damning voice, enveloping her. The treacherous depths of her mind were possessed by touches of silver and near-kisses that froze her senses. A terrible twist on a familiar fairy tale.

How will it end? she wondered.

She had to leave this ship, leave him, before –

Closing her eyes, Wendy fell back onto the hammock, her fingers clasping the acorn around her throat as though it were a sacred talisman that could protect her from all harm. Never had Peter seemed so far from her, Peter whom she had kissed with all the fatalism of doomed love...

Save me, Peter, she thought fervently. Save me from Hook and most of all, save me from myself –

Suddenly, her eyes flew open.

She listened intently, her formerly weary body tense and alert in every nerve. Footsteps. Approaching the cabin.

The metallic clatter of a key turning in the lock. For a brief instant, Wendy considered making a break for the door, but dismissed the idea immediately. Such a foolhardy venture in broad daylight would only result in her getting caught at once and there was no sense in ruining her chances of escaping tonight by acting too impulsively now. Better that they thought her cowed and beaten, resigned to her imprisonment. With that thought in mind, she closed her eyes again and awaited the intruder, feigning sleep.

She heard the protesting shriek of rusty hinges as the door swung open. Someone – Smee perhaps – was in the cabin with her. There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on, unbearably long, as she waited with the helpless disadvantage of being unable to see anything. Whoever it was seemed to hesitate, doubtless thrown by the sight of her apparently in a deep sleep. Perhaps it would be enough to make them leave.

Wendy lay still, legs tangled among the sheets in the pretense of slumber. Stasis in the darkness. Trembling hands and beating heart.

Then -

The sound of footsteps drawing closer. Not the slow, shuffling steps of the bo'sun, but firm and deliberate. The distinct, precise click of booted heels against the floorboards. Her pulse thudded. It was him.

No, she could not know that for certain. But who else on this ship moved with such lithe grace? So soft and suave –

Click.

Click.

She waited. Heavy silence through the black of her closed lids. Her nerves vibrated. Tense. The floorboards creaked beside her. Her hands knotted in the sheets slick between her fingers.

Deprived of sight, all of her other senses were painfully enhanced, and her imagination filled the void left by her closed eyes. A spill of ebony curls lost in the depths of the richly embroidered jacket of darkest midnight-blue, gold lining its brocade edges. Pale, gaunt cheeks, forget-me-not eyes that she could feel fixed upon her with unwavering intensity. Their gaze burned cold and yet she was warm, so terribly warm.

The faint musk of wine and cigars, the lingering tang of salt air. It took all her self-will not to tremble with a paroxysm of emotion. The hammock swayed dangerously.

What was he doing?

Wendy bit her tongue in an effort to remain silent. The iron-bitter tang of blood hit her mouth. The metallic taste forcefully bringing to mind the sensation of his touch, like shards of pleasure. Anticipation thudded in her blood.

Closer still. She could feel him standing over her. Adrenaline pulsed through her deliberately still form. She pressed her face harder into the pillow, fearing her expression would betray her. She could hear him breathing, and – she jumped – the brush of his mustache against her throat. Sudden fear lanced through her. If he thought to look more closely at the acorn that hung around her neck…

Her eyelashes fluttered a fraction. Barely. Was that the glint of silver she caught, half-upraised?

For a quivering moment, she was half-inclined to rise in offended feminine pride, but curiosity stilled her. She was too intrigued as to what he would do next. He must have a purpose in coming here; though for the life of her she could not understand what it might be. She alone knew about the fairy dust that lay concealed in the locket nestled between her collarbones; of other communication with Peter, there had been none. There was nothing here for him to find (except the pistol –)

His sudden touch froze her still, flaring in her skin. His fingers were daggers of ice. The ensnaring brand almost dragging a gasp from her tightly pressed lips. She felt those fingers deliberately trace the contours of her profile, exquisitely slow, lacing across her cheek. Jarring force. Lingering at the kiss that was searing at the corner of her mouth. She felt its burn. Was he about to –

If he did, she would have to act, whatever the consequences.

Then the touch slid away, smoothing the damp hair back from her brow, cool on her burning skin, and he sighed – shuddered?

"Damn it to hell," he muttered softly to the silent cabin. "I won't –"

Whatever else he had meant to say remained unuttered. The footsteps retreated. Wendy heard the door closing and the turn of the lock. Empty silence. She sat upright, unable to suppress the shaking of her body.

What was all that about?

The warning, low, sonorous roll of thunder startled her. The hammock swayed unsteadily, following the sudden lurching movement of the ship as it dipped to one side. The captain was right. It would be a wild night.

The lethargy of sleep stole upon her, but she fought it down. These next few hours were a waiting game in which she must discern as much as possible what was happening outside, and choose the right time to act. And sleep was no longer the guarantee of repose it once was. He followed her into the very depths of her dreams.

Wendy gazed out the porthole window, her expression solemn and introspective. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she stared unseeingly at the rain that blurred the glass in silver trails, resigning herself to sleeplessly await the approach of night. She did not dare close her eyes, dreading the captain's spirit walking through her dreams, the icy touch of his fingers, the whisper of his soft voice, sharp and cold as metal –

Dreams, she thought, could be very dangerous things.