“It’s her name,” Hook growled, but Sir William was still grinning when a knock sounded at the door. He stopped pacing and opened it for a tall, lean young man, who bowed at once.
“Thomas Pettigrew, at your service,” he announced. He was dressed in a poor man’s wools rather than a rich man’s silks, and his cutaway coat hung somewhat loosely. A hand-me-down from a brother, or perhaps even from his father, Hook supposed. The cuffs of his white linen shirt were so plain that Hook wouldn’t have been caught dead in them. But by God, his hair. Hook almost grimaced. His medium-brown hair flew every which way, as though he had only just now rolled out of bed at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Where’s our Royal Society fellow?” Sir William demanded. “You were supposed to bring him with you.”
Sir William assumed from looking at him that Thomas Pettigrew was an errand boy. In fact, at only eighteen years of age, he was one of the youngest members ever to be admitted to the Royal Society. He was already well on his way to a brilliant career in mathematics and the natural sciences, and you surely would have read of him in one of your history books were it not for the events which were about to transpire over these next few minutes.
“Right here,” Thomas replied. “He is I. Or I am he. As you prefer.”
Suddenly he fell silent, and his eyes opened wide. They darted to the left, and to the right, and to the left again, his chin following slightly with each change in direction. Then he began chattering in a distracted sort of way that was clearly intended only for himself.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “It’s commutative, isn’t it! He is I, or I am he! It doesn’t matter which! Grammatically or mathematically! I must write that down!” He patted at the pockets of his waistcoat, eventually producing a pencil and a scrap of paper and marching them straight to Hook’s desk, leaning over the wooden surface and scribbling furiously.
“But you’re not Banks,” Sir William protested. “I was told the president of the Society would see to it himself.”
“Not Banks! Quite correct!” he agreed, writing even as he spoke. “No, no. Sir Joseph intended to assist you. He did. At least, that is, until it was explained to him that he would not be permitted to leave the premises once he entered. So he left before he entered, and you got me instead.”
Thomas Pettigrew finished his note with a flourish and stood up straight, stuffing the paper and pencil into his pocket and grinning from ear to ear. He looked back and forth between Sir William and Hook, both of whom stared back at him in expectation, but he said nothing more.
“Well?” Sir William finally prompted.
“Well what?” Thomas asked.
“What is your report regarding the compass, man? Out with it!”
“Oh! Why, it’s extraordinary! Quite extraordinary! Even as a compass! I’ve never seen a liquid variety so small and portable! A man can carry it in his hand! Or a woman, of course. Especially a woman, as it turns out. Very unexpected!”
“What is unexpected?” Hook demanded.
“Well, the mechanism by which it changes direction for Miss Darling, for one thing. Clearly it’s responding to some invisible force, but it isn’t magnetic. That much is certain. As a compass, it’s magnetic, but as … well, as whatever else it is … it’s responding to something else entirely.”
“So what is it responding to?” Sir William asked.
“I have no idea!” Thomas declared. “Isn’t that wonderful? It’s a complete mystery! A whole new area of science on the brink of discovery! When the Royal Society reads my paper—”
“No!” both men exclaimed, and Thomas took half a step back, blinking in surprise.
“You can’t write a paper about this,” Sir William told him. “Not about any of it. Not about a handheld liquid compass, not about any unknown force, nothing.”
“But I must!” Thomas protested. “In the name of science! It will be the greatest discovery since the lightning conductor!”
“Now look—” Hook started, but Sir William cleared his throat loudly enough to catch his attention.
“We understand your position, Thomas,” Sir William said with a smile. “Give us some time to discuss it. Wait for us in the laboratory, won’t you?”
“Of course!” Thomas said, bouncing up and down a little on the balls of his feet. “Would you be willing to send Miss Darling back, too? I’d like to investigate that glow a bit further.”
Sir William nodded and waved his hand through the air in an annoyed sort of way, dismissing Thomas Pettigrew from the room.
Once the young man had left, Sir William turned to Hook, looking for all the world as though he’d just eaten a bad fish.
“You’re going to have to take them both with you,” he said.
“Take both of whom with me where?” Hook stared at Sir William with tight lips and a dark glare.
“You know precisely whom, and you know where as well. If he says there’s something to it, then there’s something to it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious. We have to be sure. You have to take the girl to make the thing work, and you have to take that Pettigrew fellow to keep him from talking.”
“A scientist. And a woman. On a fighting ship. It could very well be a trap, you know.”
“I know the risks.” Sir William’s tone was sharp, intended to remind Hook of both his rank and his experience. “That’s why I’m sending two extra ships with you, but no more. If this whole thing is just an elaborate trap, at least you’ll have enough firepower to stand a chance. If it’s some kind of decoy, designed to lure you away from our shores, the bulk of our forces will still be here to defend England.
“But if it is neither of those things,” Sir William continued, “if that compass really is a magical device that will lead you to the everlost, then your orders are to scout and survey. Chart the island’s position. Get Pettigrew to map what you can of their territory without being discovered, and then you must return that map to England. At any cost.”
Hook sat in his office, finally alone, staring at the deep scars on his desk and slowly working his jaw from side to side. Left, front, right, front, left, front, right.
Magic. The very word made his skin crawl. What had become of the Royal Society that any of its fellows, no matter how untested, would throw up his hands so easily? An unknown force, indeed. Even Hook’s magnificent hair would have stiffened in protest, had it been able.
And that woman. On his ship!
At least he had discovered her in Dover and forced her to return to London. That hadn’t been part of her plan. He allowed himself a small smile, but it was short-lived. What was her plan? He couldn’t help but feel that somehow this was part of it all along. To get him away from England. To get aboard his ship.
His jaw stopped moving and fell open. Had Sir William been right from the beginning? Was this entire convoluted enterprise just an elaborate ploy to get him alone at sea and beguile him into marriage?
His jaw snapped shut. No. His instincts couldn’t be that wrong. She was up to something far more devious than that. But why else would she want to get him alone?
Or to get him away from England, as Sir William had suggested. With her lieutenant and his sergeant left behind.
Hook sat up straighter.
Did she expect him to return them to Dover? That would certainly make sense. A cold pit of dread formed low in his belly. If they were in Dover, and they failed to sound the alarm, the everlost could reach London in force before anyone even suspected. Were they really everlost collaborators? It didn’t seem likely, but he couldn’t take that chance.
But then he thought about leaving them at his estate. What if that was what she wanted …?
By God, this was getting him nowhere.
He had to relocate them somewhere entirely different. Somewhere she would never expect. But where?
What he really wanted to do was lock them all in irons. If only they had broken the law. Any law.
/> A cold, hard smile finally danced across his lips.
There was one place, and only one, where his word was absolute law. And it was exactly where he had just been ordered to take Wendy Darling.
As Hook imagined the possibilities, a veritable flood tide of glee welled up within him. He couldn’t punish them for no reason, not even aboard his own ship. He would lose the trust and faith of his men. But a man without training would make a mistake soon enough. He would fail at his assigned task. Or he would fall asleep at his post. And then …
Yes, perhaps Wendy Darling should be reunited with her friends after all.
here is a particular feeling that results when a child hears his or her entire name spoken sharply by an adult. It ignites with a sudden intake of the lungs. A tightening of the chest. And then it plummets down the gullet, settling into a cold, hard lump of dread in the pit of one’s stomach. It is the feeling of being in trouble. It is a universal human experience, binding us all together indisputably as a single species, like love or familial fondness, only far less pleasant than those, and unfortunately the feeling does not belong exclusively to children.
In fact, this is the exact feeling Wendy experienced as she stood outside Hook’s office, nervously smoothing down her favorite blue dress even though there was nothing wrinkled about it to begin with, and preparing to face the captain’s wrath. Her wardrobe had been fetched from Hook’s estate, but she would have preferred to appear before the man in her fighting breeches. She wanted to make the best case she could for being allowed to join the everlost expedition, and a blue chemise dress, no matter how fetching, did not look very adventure-like.
Unfortunately, it would have to do. It was a matter of propriety. She took a deep breath, steeled herself as best she could, and opened the door.
She had last seen Hook at Dover Castle, fresh from his ship, wild and free. He had returned to London on the same vessel, and she had returned by carriage. She had not seen him since. So although she was prepared for the tiger—the disheveled hair, the predator’s stance, the piercing gaze—she was not prepared for the young, civilized lord who sat before her, looking almost exactly as he had the first time they had met. His glorious hair lay impeccably subdued. His forget-me-not eyes smoldered with a quiet confidence. He even smiled.
Only the sprawling fury of maps and the scars across the desk remained to whisper of a different Hook. An unpredictable and dangerous Hook.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Miss Darling.” His voice was warm and pleasant, and he stood politely, acknowledging her feminine presence.
Wendy’s eyebrow shot high into the air, trying to warn her, but she forged ahead nonetheless.
“Captain Hook,” she began. “Firstly, I have completed the mission you set before me. I have discovered, if not the location of the everlost island itself, at least a clear path toward it. Which is even better than finding a mere ship—which is all you asked me to do.
“Secondly, the compass I procured from Pan only works for me, as I’m sure Thomas has already informed you. His scientific examination has uncovered no other way to operate it, meaning you cannot reach the island without me.
“Thirdly, although yes, I am a woman, I am nonetheless a member of the Nineteenth Light Dragoons, sworn to protect the shores of England from the magical threat you intend to pursue. I have been fully trained in both marksmanship and swordsmanship, and you’ll find I am as competent in a fight as any man. Especially when armed with a musket—a weapon which depends on neither the strength nor the size of the one who holds it for its efficacy—”
“Miss Darling,” Hook repeated, finally interrupting her. She had delivered the entire spiel without seeming to draw breath, pacing back and forth at a steady clip, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she ticked each item off on her fingers. “I agree.”
Wendy stopped short and blinked twice, trying to catch up.
“What?”
She had prepared ahead for several possible responses. Winning right off the bat wasn’t one of them.
“I said, ‘I agree.’ Those are all excellent points. Welcome aboard.”
“Oh! Yes, well … thank you.” She drew herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders, watching him with suspicion.
“Gather your men and then report to the armory. You’ll find them in the officers’ quarters. I had them returned to London along with your things.”
“You … what? But then, you must have already planned—”
“Yes, Miss Darling, I was already going to bring you along. All of you. But still, it was an excellent presentation. Very convincing. I’m sure I would have been persuaded, had I needed to be.”
Wendy tilted her head just the tiniest bit to the right and narrowed her eyes, continuing to stare.
“Oh,” he continued, “and don’t forget Mr. Pettigrew. I’m assigning him to your little lost complement of the Fourteenth.”
“All right,” Wendy finally replied. “Thank you.”
Hook said nothing more, waving her away with his good left hand and returning his attention to a small stack of journals on his desk. If he muttered something as she left about keeping all the useless people in one place, she pretended not to hear it.
“Flogged, I tell you. Publicly flogged.”
John sat wedged behind the tiny desk in their assigned room—his chin propped forlornly against the heel of his left hand—doing nothing.
He hated doing nothing, but there it was. He had no accounts to keep, no reports to write, no scheduled duties to post. He had nothing but time to sit and reflect on the fact that they had lost Wendy. Again. Nothing Hook could do to him could possibly make him feel worse, so contemplating the form of his punishment made for a welcome distraction.
Michael, however, was not so dour. He stood against the doorframe, leaning against it with his right shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest, grinning easily.
“Daily bootlicking at dawn. Literally,” he countered. “Followed by mornings of barnacle scraping, lunches of rock soup, afternoons of button polishing, and sea ration suppers.”
“For how long?” John asked.
Michael thought for a moment, then freed his right hand just long enough to point in John’s general direction. “Three years,” he announced.
“I’d rather be flogged,” John muttered.
“Latrine duty for six months?” Michael suggested.
“I’d rather be drawn and quartered.”
It was an exaggeration, of course, being drawn and quartered, but both men paused to look at Nana, who was hiding under the far bed. All punishments aside, at least their lives—not to mention John’s commission—were probably not under threat. Nana, however, could easily be dismissed from the king’s service, if not worse. Working animals that didn’t earn their keep were not considered worth the meat to feed them, and both men knew it.
Just as they looked back at each other to share a worried glance, Nana burst out from under the bed, tossing the near edge of the frame violently into the air and toppling the straw mattress off the far side.
“What in the world—” John began, and then a light knock came at the door as Nana whined desperately, struggling all the while to shove her monstrous nose into the tiny gap beneath it.
“Wendy!” both men exclaimed.
Michael turned and threw open the door, grabbing her into his arms right there in the doorway while John struggled to extricate himself from the desk.
“Wendy!” John exclaimed again, this time addressing her directly. “Are you hurt? Where in the world have you been?”
“Dover!” she cried. “Dover and back again! And I have wonderful news!”
“No flogging?” Michael asked, smirking at John over Wendy’s head.
“What? No, of course not. Flogging. Honestly. What would make you say such a thing?”
“Let her go already.” John scowled at both of them until Michael finally took a step backward, allowing John
to rush in and hold her at arm’s length, inspecting her for signs of damage.
“So what’s the good news?” Michael asked.
“We’re sailing with Hook to seek the home of the everlost! All of us! Even you, Nana!” Wendy knelt by the dog as she said this, and Nana nuzzled gratefully under her chin, relieved that her mistress had not come to any harm.
“What?” John just stared down at her, trying to take in this sudden turn of events.
“Who’s this?” Michael demanded.
When Wendy had knelt beside Nana, Thomas Pettigrew had become far more conspicuous. He stood a few steps behind her down the hall, watching the entire scene with a look of detached interest, his dark brown eyes glancing innocently back and forth among the four of them.
“Oh! This is Thomas Pettigrew,” Wendy said. “He’s the youngest fellow of the Royal Society. He’s coming with us.”
“Mister Pettigrew,” John said, bowing slightly.
“Just Thomas, please,” he replied, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, which made his hair look even more disheveled than it already had. He did not, however, return the bow.
“I’m Lieutenant John Abbot.” John stressed the lieutenant bit, just for good measure. He knew Wendy had a predilection for science, and he found himself hoping that particular fondness did not extend equally to scientists.
“Oh, hey! I’m a lieutenant, too!” Thomas exclaimed. “Fancy that, what?”
“I … what?” John asked.
“They said I had to be,” Thomas said, shrugging. “King’s vessel and secrets of the realm and all that. They swore me in this morning. Didn’t matter to me, of course. Happy to do it.”
Now John and Michael exchanged a new glance—a very particular glance—and the glance said this: “A genius scientist and an officer, with a puppy dog demeanor. On a ship. With Wendy. I think I would have preferred the flogging.”
s they made their way toward the armory, Wendy had a definite bounce in her step, unconsciously matching Thomas in a way John did not like at all.
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