by Andrea Jones
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Tonight’s dance at the Fairy Glade was no formal occasion. The Queen had not decreed a ball and no invitations had gone out, but when Jewel flitted in with Hook’s proposal, of course her kindred jumped at the idea. Over the years, generations of the creatures had advanced sybaritism to a fine art. Like all who are obsessed with the practice of their virtuosity, the fairies seized any excuse to perform it.
Nor did the fairies care who participated. Anyone might enter the ring of toadstools that marked out their territory, as long as ‘anyone’ was merry. The question of whether Hook and Jill joined the party was academic— a condition in which woodland creatures held no interest at all. The point was the party.
With no objection from the inhabitants, therefore, Jewel oversaw the installation of Hook’s bequest. Scented with a dab of lily of the valley and flaunting her finest fairy gauze gown, she joined Wittles, the Roger’s carpenter, at the edge of the forest.
For Wittles, shore leave took some time to get underway. In the week and odd days since dropping anchor in Neverbay, he’d followed new orders, peculiar as they’d seemed. With his broken-nailed hands Wittles had done his best. He didn’t appreciate people telling him his business, but as the commodore had sweetened his outlook with silver, it all evened out in the end.
Yesterday he’d put the finishing touches on the piece and disassembled it for transport. Now he supervised Smee, Mason, and Noodler as they helped him deliver it. “Easy lads,” Wittles scolded, looking askance at Noodler’s backward hands. “On your heads be it, if the commodore complains that the glass broke.”
Burdened with their baggage, the four sailors traipsed behind Jewel with their loads. A few hours away from David’s training had revived Jewel’s flow of fairy dust and, in the excitement of the occasion, she felt like her old self, and better. As she darted about the woods, the fairy’s effervescence glowed bright and blue, even in late afternoon light.
Wittles was envious. “You’re welcome in my shop, Miss Jewel. I could use a light like that, below decks.”
Jewel looked back, rolling her eyes and emitting an exasperated little pinging noise. Between her master and her boy, she had enough duties. And tonight, her spirit held only space enough to anticipate the dance.
“All right then,” Wittles huffed. “But if you’ve a cousin with a yen to go roaming…”
The other men chortled, and Noodler teased the sprite, “Our Miss Jewel’s a rare fairy. Only she be daft enough to go to sea!” Jewel circled his head and tugged at his tricorn. Chummy as she and Noodler had become in the months since he’d trapped her for Hook, it was clear that she’d forgiven him.
As the group drew nearer to their destination, Wittles felt the air become charged. They all hushed their banter. Noodler alone among the Roger’s sailors had ever spent time in the Fairy Glade. He had only acted on the commodore’s orders, of course, as Wittles was doing now. Still, the place made the nails in Wittles’ boots vibrate. The others followed his example as he shucked off his footwear before entering the magical ring.
In their own uncanny way, Hook and Jill arrived at the Fairy Glade ahead of them. A practical man like Wittles, who worked with wood and with iron, could never get used to their skylarking. As for the other creatures, the pixies did not dare to show themselves with sailors lumbering about, and Wittles was just as glad not to deal with their interference as he labored. Like the mermaids, whether in friendly mood or foul, fairies could be a nuisance. The sooner he assembled the love seat, the sooner he could get back to his workbench, and ship’s routine.
But Jewel was not to be rushed. Wittles joined the pieces; then, in their stocking feet, the men shunted cautiously this way and that, their hands full of furniture, following the fairy’s direction while Hook and Jill looked on. Once, then twice, they set the seat down, wiped their brows and flexed their shoulders, only to roll up their sleeves again after Jewel stared at the chair for a time with her chin in her hand and her head at an angle.
By the third move she was beaming, and chimed her delight like the silveriest of bells. Wittles wiped the fingerprints off the surface, and whisked away a speck or two of glittery dust before stuffing his polishing rag in his pocket. He stood back to accept the commodore’s compliments.
No longer favoring a sprained ankle, Hook stood erect, and approving. His fairy perched on his shoulder while her luxuriant wings fanned his hair. “Well done, Mr. Wittles. I trust you’ll enjoy your reward.”
As Wittles knuckled his forehead, Jewel fluttered down to prance before the glass, and the lady herself looked enchanted. “Aye, Mr. Wittles. ’Tis a true work of art.”
“My thanks to you, Ma’am.” The carpenter nodded in satisfaction. Following his instructions, Wittles threw a tarpaulin over the bench. Glad to be done with it, he and the men hurried to pick up their boots and hustle back to the Roger, where he would clean his tools and hang them in their places, to rest through happy weeks until the commodore ordered preparations for sailing. With his cracked, carpenter’s fingernails he scratched at his chin. Feeling the weight of the coins in his purse, he mumbled, “Now to start shore leave in earnest.”
Once the sailors departed, Jewel’s kinfolk appeared, popping from flowers and hollows, curious. They buzzed about, peeking under the dust cover, but Jewel chased them off, refusing to allow the wrap to be stirred until Hook gave the signal. In truth, Jewel became a bit intense about it all, causing her relatives to recollect why they avoided her. Even the Queen, Jewel insisted, must tap her pointed toeshoes, waiting to behold the gift Hook had bestowed upon the Fairy Glade.
When she felt Hook’s eye upon her, Jewel skipped to a halt, subsiding to sit on his claw. He could guess what she was thinking, and he smiled his approval of the reticence he’d taught her to observe. She refrained from expressing her opinion, but held firm in the conviction that her master and his lady, in their velvets and silks, rivaled the royalty present.
“Oh, the lovelies.” Jill’s eyes danced as her gaze followed the creatures, who dashed about flouncing their costumes and plucking at their coiffures. She had often visited the Fairy Glade as a girl, and even frolicked here in the company of Pan, but the sight of the creatures tous ensemble never failed to enchant her.
At last, the Queen and her entourage gathered and approached, floating in a glowing group, all ribbons, color, and current. Their gauzy garments flowed about them, and they looked like bouquets of the flowers that grew in abundance in their garden just by.
Poised upon Hook’s claw, Jewel spread her green gown and bobbed to the Queen. She then plucked at Hook’s cuff, a dark shade of jade that he had chosen to harmonize with the woodland. He hoisted Jewel like a lantern, and she lit up to cast her glow over the tarpaulin.
“If I may, a gift for Her Majesty.” Hook took up a position beside the wrap, set Jewel to hover, and said, “Pray accept this offering, with our compliments.” Hook bowed and Jill curtsied. With his hook and his hand, the commodore snatched the dust cloth from the bench, and flourished it. The waxy woodwork gleamed in the light of the fairy horde, and the fresh, spicy scent of cedar wafted up. “A token of our esteem for our hosts and our hostesses.”
Like a choir of hand bells, the air pealed with the fairies’ delight. The Queen and her consort were the first to alight on the seat. As a bench, it would be useless to them, but quite handy for humans. Yet, when the creatures stood upon it, their reflections looked back in beauty. Where a person’s back would rest, a series of mirrors were framed in the decorative woodwork. Gazing at themselves, the royals turned this way and that, unfurling their sleeves and tilting their heads. The mirrors redoubled their loveliness and filled up their senses with pleasure.
The dance was delayed then, so that every one of the Fae could admire his or her or its reflection. Some sillies did somersaults, others pulled faces, but even the littlest clapped their hands in happiness. Jewel herself floated, aloof, buffing her nails on her shoulder. As usual, she felt somewhat s
uperior to her kin. After all, mirrors were nothing new to her. She kept one in her niche in Pan’s hideout, crafted for her by the twins, and while these pieces were fine, Jewel’s was the handsomest looking-glass on the Island.
Hook bent in obeisance. “Now, Your Majesty, not only the mermaids reflect the beauty of this land.”
The Queen, justifiably flattered, condescended to dangle her fingers to him. As he kissed them, a little flutter juddered through her wings. Quickly, she joined hands with her handsome consort, and, at last, the musicians finished tuning and turned out a melody. The fairy revels began.
Gratified by the royals’ response to their offering, Hook and Jill settled in to enjoy the concert. For tonight, they squeezed together on one end of the love seat, in order to allow the dancers to glimpse themselves whirling. It was no hardship for these lovers to crowd so close together. Like all who are obsessed with the practice of their virtuosity, Hook and Jill seized this reason to perform it.
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Mrs. Hanover slammed the book shut. The force of it made the bed bounce. With her lips in a pout, she glared at Yulunga’s back. He sat on the edge of the bunk, paying no heed. His big hands continued to mend his sword belt. As always, Yulunga’s presence crowded the cabin.
“You tell me to talk,” she said, her low voice rusty from the silence of the past three days. “But you won’t talk to me.”
He said, without turning, “So you’ve had enough of silence? Good.”
Mrs. Hanover liked silence. She was used to it; she was used to using it. “I’ve had enough of being ignored.”
Yulunga smiled his wide, malevolent smile. “And now I know your limit. Three days without a tumble.” He looked at her. She lay on the stiff paisley coverlet, in her shift and nothing else. Every curve of her womanhood lay visible. “And you’ll wait another three days before I touch you.”
“I did nothing.”
“You wanted to be caught. You wanted to be punished, and you wanted Pierre-Jean punished alongside you. But much as you crave them, there will be no bruises on either of you. Pierre-Jean doesn’t deserve them, nor does your baby.”
Once again, Yulunga’s insight frightened her. She dropped her stare, revising her strategy. If Yulunga wouldn’t satisfy her, she knew who would.
But Yulunga knew, too. “Pierre-Jean won’t be joining the party tomorrow. You should already know that you won’t be allowed there, either. Hook’s orders stand. You’re to go nowhere near the commodore. Or Captain Cecco. He doesn’t want you— yet.”
She lay still. She was counting on missing the party.
“Nor will you roam free aboard Red Lady, while your young Frenchy is in the brig and only two men on watch.” His eyes narrowed. “Say what you’re thinking.”
“You’ll lock me in? Tie me down?”
“No such luck. You’ll get some practice with babies. Lily asked that you help watch the children in the Clearing while the ladies are away.”
“With those twins who are master there?” The hint of hope in her voice betrayed her.
“No. With Rowan and Lightly. They have no interest in you, and they can swiftly fetch me from Neverbay if you give them any reason.”
She nodded, averting her eyes from his body. It was all she could do to restrain her hands from stroking his chocolate-colored skin. No doubt he sat so close to torture her. The coverlet felt coarse under her bottom. She felt it rubbing when she moved, through the flimsiness of her shift. Her gaze wandered over her lover’s physique once more, and a current of pleasure pushed through her vulva. She’d been studying her father’s medical books, and now she knew the proper terms for her woman’s parts. This word felt just right when she mouthed it: vulva. It was a voluptuous word, for a voluptuous vicinity.
Three more days of denial? No. She’d think of a way to slip down to the brig. If she succeeded, Pierre-Jean would soothe her longing. If she failed, Yulunga would have to punish her. Either way, she’d feel a man’s touch again, and soon.
She smiled, absently, as though her thoughts were with someone not in the room with her. Such imaginings weren’t unwelcome to Yulunga. He watched her running her fingers along her breasts. With his cock pricking, Yulunga almost forgot his promise. He controlled his impulse, opened her book, and put his hands to work on the belt again. “Get back to your studies.”
He looked forward to her next maneuver. Mrs. Hanover was an endless source of stimulation. He’d miss her at the party.
CHAPTER 16
The Forest Fleet
The old oak braced itself, but Peter had no interest in target practice today. The bloody circles painted on its trunk remained arrowless. Instead, Peter leaned on the low, bench-like branch, favoring his ‘peg leg’ and commanding his crew. He wore a scowl, and squeezed one eye to a slit. Jewel sat on his shoulder, pretending to be a parrot. She didn’t feel colorful enough, but Peter imagined the colors for her.
In David’s case, no one had to make-believe color. Red-Handed Jill’s handprint remained blatant on his face. On the other cheek, the bruise from Smee had altered from purple, to green, to yellow. Trying to fit in, he’d daubed mud on his face, like the others. It felt cool on the bruise, but it didn’t ease his embarrassment. Ever since that first night, Peter and the boys called him Paleface, for fun.
For the Paleface, newest member of the band of Lost Boys, the last four days had been wearing. He’d endured Peter’s efforts to break his manacles, then was ushered to the Clearing, where, by a mix of magic and manhandling by the identical men there, the chains had fallen off. Instructed by Peter, David had tried his skill at hunting. He’d dueled Peter and the others, capered in the starlight of the Fairy Glade and, steered by Jewel toward the riper ones that wouldn’t put him to sleep, snatched apples from its moon-silvered trees. They’d all doused each other at the waterfall and tracked Indians through the woods. But as for flying, the new lad had taken so long to grasp the basics that the Lost Boys were sick of it. This morning, Jewel’s peacock glow had faded again, to a feeble baby blue, and Peter felt it time to initiate an entirely new pastime. This game involved the use of arms and legs to reach the treetops, no fairy dust required. Not surprisingly, the idea first belonged to David, but, by now and a little worse for wear, the plan had become Peter’s.
“Avast, you swabs! We set sail for the high seas today.”
Bertie, Bingo, and Chip fell into pirate personae. They grinned with broken teeth, they smoked pipes, and if you looked closely, you could tell that, in their souls, they were swearing. Jewel yawned. David rolled his eyes sideways to observe the other boys, seeking guidance.
The fact that he’d met up with pirates, real pirates, and more than once, didn’t help. He’d already learned that— although Peter couldn’t tell them apart— reality and fantasy were two different animals. Among the Lost Boys, fantasy was the game for gaining acceptance, even if it meant going hungry while devouring your dinner. Now that the fabled Wendy had forsaken the hideout, as often as not meals might be imaginary. Pirates could fit into either category, and Peter would fight an illusory enemy with the same zeal he applied to battling the real thing.
Since Red-Handed Jill had thrown David to this pack, he was desperate to fit in. He trusted her judgment, and she’d been confident of the outcome. The lady meant for him to learn something; of that notion he was sure. But the other boys were younger than David, in age and in seasoning. For days, David listened intently to Peter, and he now understood that what he himself called ‘experience,’ Peter named ‘adventure.’ At last, David was shedding his dread of Jill’s scheme. He’d gained an inkling of what she intended, and David intended to benefit.
He’d been taught that the prime factor in flying was happiness. The other boys seemed carefree, but events in David’s previous life made it difficult for him to toss caution to the winds. He couldn’t revel in boyhood the way the others could. They were orphans or runaways who never missed their families, while David had a mother at home who worried abo
ut him. He’d witnessed death, and the destruction of his ship. He’d barely made it to the Island alive, and he’d become a thief and a sneak to survive here. Above all, love and lust had claimed David, and pretending they hadn’t took all the energy he owned. His best guide in flight was Peter, of course, who brought a certain heartlessness to the sport. David found that he could accomplish the feat of flying only by emptying his heart. He had to approach it like swimming; survival was the only goal. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and paddled to stay afloat. Thus, he discovered, Jill’s judgment was sound. He was old enough to see the symbolism, and young enough to make it work. And, once it worked, his happiness increased.
Now Peter petted his parrot and bawled at his men, “Chip, you’re my bo’sun. Bertie, Bingo, and Paleface, you’re for the crew. Look lively, you scum! Run up the shrouds and trim the sails!”
The younger boys looked confused at first, but David understood. Out of habit, he saluted his captain, and in a flash of inspiration, he thrust a stick between his teeth. He seized the low bough and hiked himself onto the ship’s rail. Leaping to the next branch, he rapidly gained the yardarms, leaving the other boys in his wake. Even after they grasped the idea that the old oak was the ship’s mainmast, Bertie, Bingo, and Chip lagged behind. Habituated to flying, they’d lost the knack of climbing trees. David’s experience at sea served him, and he reached the high, thin branches of the maintop before they met the middle. He grinned as he peered from the heights. Rejoicing, he felt that, at last, Peter demanded a skill that David possessed. And the knee-jerk salute had been brilliant. David could see by Peter’s posture that the gesture gratified his captain.
Peter remained below, pacing the quarterdeck with his hands locked behind him. The boys caught glimpses of his golden hair between the boughs. Every now and then he raised his spyglass to scan the horizon, then hoisted his chin to bellow orders.
“Hands to the braces! Now haul away, lads— with a will!”
