infection set in. For this they used some pure rum and one of Wendy’s precious handkerchiefs. The pirate tried not to swear during her judicious application of the stinging cleanser.
Only then did she take the loop of string and demonstrate the proper sequence of cat’s cradle. She even included some of the more difficult variations like the clock tower and the bishop’s cap.
Delighted, the pirates clapped her on the back rather harder than she would have liked and strode off, guffawing and chatting like there had never been a row to begin with.
Wendy sighed and shook her head. If all of Never Land’s adventures were as easily won as that, she was in for a nice time indeed.
She leaned on the gunwale and looked out. Was it getting lighter? Really this time?
Yes! The rosy fingers of dawn had finally slipped through the fog and gently pulled it apart, separating the tendrils, weakening it.
Wendy watched in fascination. She almost never saw the sunrise except in winter and that was through her window, under the gray sprawl of London Town. Nothing like this. As the sea lightened and the sky began to clear, the two elements resolved themselves into colors unlike anything she was used to: brilliant emerald and deep aquamarine, pellucid azure and shining lapis. It was so storybook perfect she wouldn’t have been surprised at all if the sun came out with a great smiley face drawn on it.
“Miss Darling,” came a whisper behind her.
Wendy spun around. A cadaverously skinny pirate stood there, the one who had leered at her so loathsomely before. His one eye was narrow and lecherous, his smile thin and frightening.
“I don’t believe we’ve properly met yet. How do you do?” Wendy said, putting out her hand.
“Oh, I do just fine,” the pirate growled—and pushed her back up against the railing.
Wendy was caught before she could even figure out what was happening. It took her a moment to find her voice and one more to realize that, despite struggling, she had no ability to fend off this attacker.
“Unhand me!” she cried.
The pirate laughed, his foul-smelling breath nearly asphyxiating her. Wendy screamed.
The pirate leaned over her—
A shot rang out.
So loudly, so close, she felt its hot wind singe her face.
Her attacker looked surprised and then slumped to the deck.
A pool of blood formed under his head. As his body crumpled into a more permanent position, she saw the perfect hole behind his ear where the bullet had gone in.
Wendy knew from stories that this was the time when women screamed and screamed and screamed—and sometimes men, too. But she was just happy to be able to breathe freely again and to have the monster off of her. She felt little of anything except relief.
Hook stood on the deck posed either heroically or demonically, depending on how you read the scene. He had his pistol out and aimed in case the foul miscreant rose again and a curious golden two-cigar holder balanced in his hook. Smoke rose from both cigars as well as the muzzle of his gun.
The rest of the crew appeared as silently as rats (and just as curious) from all parts of the ship, including the crow’s nest.
“Miss Darling, are you hurt?” Captain Hook asked, his tone soft and flat.
“No, I don’t…I’m a little…” She touched her mouth and throat, wiping away the grease from the dead man’s fingers. Then she began to shake. “I’m…physically, I’m all fine.”
“Mr. Smee, have the crew remove this…filth at once,” Hook said with a curl of his lip, the gun and cigars still held steady. “And someone bring Miss Darling a draught of something to restore her spirits.”
“Oh, I don’t…” Wendy began. But then again, maybe a drop of something might not be such a bad idea. The shaking had spread to her feet and parts of her body untouched by the villain, and she was having a hard time reining in all the ants she felt crawling on her skin.
Three pirates came forward—none of them named Mr. Smee, Wendy was fairly certain—and unceremoniously dumped the body overboard. A fourth brought a mop and duly began scrubbing the blood and brains away. Two more rushed to her side, one holding a silver-and-crystal decanter and the other a matching cup, both of which looked like they were from Captain Hook’s personal stash. Someone held her upright and someone else poured a few drops of a liquid, thick and amber, into the glass. She downed it in one gulp, feeling all