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 canseethe 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.”
“I …” I lower my fountain pen. Why does he think I’m ill? What’s with the food? “I don’t know what to say.”
“Any good cook knows that silence at the dinner table is the mark of a good meal.” He winks at me with his one eye, then backs away. “You enjoy it.” Once he’s shuffled from the room, and Smee locks it behind him, I stare down at the food.
“This can’t be real.” I right my chair and sit down. “Poisoned?” I pick up the wooden tableware Cookson left me, and he even brought a napkin. No, I don’t think anyone who was that proud of his food would poison it, would he? And my god it smells amazing.Realfood. Not those damn berries!
I unfold my napkin, and almost moan with delight when I find a piece of buttered bread inside it. “Oh my god.” I bring it to my nose and inhale. “Come to Mama.” I take a big bite, not giving a rat’s ass if it’s poisoned. It’s fresh bread with butter—what a way to go. I greedily devour the whole thing, then slice my fork through a piece of the beef.
I don’t know what Cookson was talking about. It’s tender, the dark broth pooling around it. Bringing it to my mouth, I take a bite. It’s warm and absolutely delicious. Throwing caution to the wind, I eat my fill, enjoying every bite.
When I’m absolutely stuffed, which happens far too soon, to be honest, I sit back. I don’t do Cookson justice as I survey my half-full plate, but if I ate another bite I might explode. I put my fork down and rub my hand over the food baby in my stomach.
“At least you’re taking good care of me before you kill me.” I raise my cup to the crew of the Jolly Roger and finish off my water.
For the first time in a while, I feel truly full. My headache recedes to a dull thump, but my body still complains every time I move. My pirate broke our fall into the water, but it still jarred the hell out of me, and I was tense as we fell. Don’t they tell you not to get tense if you know you’re about to be in a car wreck? How does that even work? Ofcourseyou tense up.
I push my plate away and eye the wooden fork. Could it be a weapon? Probably not. The tines are rather dull on the end, as if it’s seen a good bit of use. Best if I stick to the fountain pen.
Rising, I return to the windows along the back of the captain’s quarters. They have latches, but when I open one, the hiss of the ship cutting through the water is loud in my ears. I swing it back shut. It’s not a reasonable option for escape, but if Hook tries anything—I glance at the bed—I won’t think twice about jumping out into the dark waters. A chill rushes across my skin, my eyes watering at the prospect.
“Keep it together.” I scurry to the bed, grab the blanket from the top of it, then hurry to the other side of the room.
It’s sort of thick, likely stuffed with down, and I wrap it all the way around me. Maybe it’ll keep the chill away.
The lock clicks, and I back up, my heart beating triple time as I stare.
A man walks in—no feather, no hook—and closes the door behind him. He’s in what I’d assume was normal pirate gear: tricorn hat, white boatneck shirt, black pants, and leather boots. Young like the rest of the crew, though Cookson seems to be an exception, he removes his hat and tucks it under his arm. That’s when I see the bag in his other hand.
“What’s that?” I back up until I’m pressed in the corner where the windows meet the wall.
“I’m Skylights.” He gives me a small bow. “I’m the quartermaster for the Jolly Roger, and the medic, when called for.”
“I didn’t call a medic.” I grip the blanket so tightly my fingers start to tingle.
