“Why aren’t you writing that last bit down?” Wendy demanded. In truth, John had stopped writing several minutes ago, but she had been so animated in relating her tale that she had only just now noticed the omission.
“Well—” John began, but Michael interrupted him before he could make the mistake of blurting out the truth too harshly: that the events as she had described them were entirely too outlandish to report up the chain of command. The platoon would look like a gaggle of superstitious fools.
“What we mean to say is that the Home Office,” Michael tried, “not having seen what we all saw together, by which I mean a whole host of flying men falling out of the sky, might not be prepared to accept the full gravity of the situation.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Wendy scoffed. “The Home Office knows perfectly well that the everlost practice all manner of magic. It’s the very reason Nana and I were assigned to the Fourteenth, for heaven’s sake. To alert the men to precisely this sort of … well, to this kind of sorcery, for lack of a better word.”
“That’s true …” John reluctantly admitted, but his pen remained right where it was.
“Yes, but there is a difference in …” Michael tried again, “in the ability of the average mind to accept a flying man—after all, there are many other creatures that fly—and in its ability to accept the idea of casual resurrection, which seems far less … er … likely …”
“Are you trying to say you don’t believe me?” Wendy asked, her eyes narrowing at Michael suspiciously.
“No!” he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “No, of course not. I’m saying no such thing. I’m saying only that the Home Office … that is …” Michael had no idea how to elaborate his position without ending up in a world of trouble, so he stopped speaking altogether and cast his eyes toward the floor.
John cleared his throat. “It’s always better to offer several accounts rather than relying upon a single eyewitness,” he suggested. “I don’t suppose that Reginald would attest to these events as you’ve described them?”
“Well, he was dead for most of it,” Wendy pointed out.
“Of course,” John agreed, sighing a little. “There is that, yes.”
At this point the two men couldn’t help but share the look they had been trying so hard to avoid.
“He was dead,” Wendy insisted.
“Well, I suppose Reginald could corroborate at least that much for us,” John mused.
Michael shot him a look that said, “You can’t seriously be considering—” But Wendy interrupted his glance before it could finish the thought.
“I don’t think he can, actually,” she said quietly.
“How’s that?” John asked.
Wendy paused a long moment before answering.
“I don’t think he remembers it at all,” she finally admitted. “By the time he had fully come around, the everlost were gone. He asked me what happened …” At this she lifted her right shoulder in just the barest, most ladylike hint of a shrug.
“You didn’t tell him,” John surmised.
“Well how could I? I mean poor Reginald had died, John. I couldn’t tell him that! It would only upset him even if he did believe me, and for what purpose?”
“Perhaps so that he might avoid doing it again,” Michael muttered.
Wendy glanced at him sideways, pursing just one corner of her mouth—the one with the secret kiss, as it happens—and she raised one genteel eyebrow just a hair above the other.
“Leaving aside the matter of Reginald’s death, just for a moment,” John said, clearing his throat again, “there are other concerns when it comes to an official report. A report being quite different, you know, than casual conversation.”
“I’ve read enough reports, John,” Wendy retorted, “to know the difference very well, I dare say. There is nothing wrong whatsoever in what I’ve said.”
“I don’t disagree, of course,” John was quick to reassure her. “I don’t disagree at all. However …”
Wendy’s defiant eyebrow shot up at the word ‘however,’ and John gulped nervously. But he forged ahead nonetheless.
“However, there is a difference between stating the facts incorrectly—which, again, I agree you could not have done, knowing you as I do—and interpreting those facts to imply various conclusions, a practice which falls more properly within the realm of hypothesis than observation.”
“And what, pray tell, would you say that I have hypothesized?”
“Pray tell,” Michael echoed, smirking at John with the confidence of a man who has just been catapulted miraculously out of trouble by someone else who has had the great misfortune of stumbling into it.
“Well, for instance,” John said, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, “you’ve suggested that the everlost did not attempt to enter Saint Mary because this Peter Pan creature had decided to impress you. But isn’t it also possible, if not even more likely, that they were turned away by the sanctity of holy ground?”
John took a deep breath and continued before Wendy could object.
“The fact is that they departed without further aggression. The reason for that, however, is subject to interpretation, and is therefore not proper to include in a formal report.”
“You have also,” he said even more quickly, as Wendy began tapping out the dreaded March of the Executioner on the mantelpiece, “suggested that this everlost raised Reginald from the dead, when it is also at least possible—and I ask you to maintain an open mind here—that Reginald had merely lost consciousness due to the exertions of battle, only to awaken when the everlost began to treat him roughly.”
“He awoke and healed his own severed leg spontaneously, I suppose,” Wendy suggested, “or had you forgotten that particular fact already?”
To this, John made no reply.
“Perhaps if you had written it all down …” Michael added, tapping the paper helpfully.
“I know what I saw,” Wendy asserted, “and the severed leg is a fact. It is equally factual that Peter Pan raised poor Reginald from the dead. If your final report says anything different, John Abbot, it is solely because you lack faith in me and for no other reason.”
Wendy ceased her drumming abruptly, crossed her arms over her chest, glared defiantly into John’s eyes (an expression which had the unfortunate effect of hiding her secret kiss entirely), and raised her eyebrow in an outright challenge.
“But, Wendy,” John protested, “of course I believe you. I just … A report of this nature will surely be read by Captain Hook himself. Are you absolutely certain—”
“All the more reason to make sure that it is both accurate and complete,” Wendy declared. “I shall begin again at the beginning, and this time I expect you to write it all down, leaving nothing out. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” John said with a sigh, and at long last he touched his pen to the paper before him.
Miss Wendy Darling, he wrote, the diviner assigned to the Fourteenth Platoon of the Nineteenth Light Dragoons, having come into direct contact with the everlost within the immediate environs of Dover Castle, and having therein witnessed certain magical events, does hereby offer and affirm this missive, swearing to the testimony set forth herein under solemn oath before God and King.
endy couldn’t sleep. She lay on her simple cot and stared up at the bare ceiling, a thousand thoughts and memories swirling through her mind like a rainbow of glittering debutantes, each new idea more enticing than the last, all jostling for her attention.
The everlost! Sword fighting! Death! Magic!
And, of course, Captain Hook.
Thanks to her gender, Wendy had been assigned to her own quarters in Dover Castle. It was only a humble servant’s room, with rough-woven baskets for her clothing and no window, but still—it was a luxury compared to the overcrowded nursery at the almshouse.
And it gave her a quiet place to think.
About the everlost. About poor Reginald lying on the battlefield. About a creature with perfe
ctly sculpted features who could bring men back to life. But more than any of these, about Captain Hook.
And about everything that one name could finally mean for her.
Captain James Hook was the most illustrious captain in all the ranks of the Home Office—commander of The Dragon, a Bellona-class, two-deck, seventy-four-gun fighting ship, sold “out of service” in 1784 to enter the clandestine fight against the everlost. No captain had done more than Hook to defend England’s shores against the scourge of the blood drinkers.
To be assigned to his ship, to be assigned to The Dragon herself! Wendy had never even allowed herself to imagine it.
She tried very hard to keep her dreams realistic, you see, so as to have some hope of achieving them. Her early years had taught her that, as a defense against the cruelty of life—to dream in small, manageable increments. Learn sword fighting. Memorize the stars. Perform scientific experiments. Stop daydreaming about life at sea, and attend to the here and now.
It wasn’t that she had given up her plans. Far from it. She just forced herself to keep her eyes focused on what she had to do today, and no farther.
Over the past year at Dover Castle, her dreams had gone something like this: Rise through the ranks of the Home Office over several years, slowly but steadily. Earn (eventually) a humble position on a small scouting vessel—as a diviner if she were lucky, or as a galley maid if that were all she could manage. See what she could of the English coast, and form new plans from there.
Never in her wildest speculations had she imagined sending a report to Captain Hook himself, let alone a report so monumental that he couldn’t possibly ignore it. Yet even now, a young man on horseback was racing through the night, carrying that report, her report, across the English countryside, headed for London.
Carrying her destiny. She was sure of it.
And she would be prepared for it when the answer came.
She would need a second pair of fighting breeches. And a proper dress, of course. For her introduction. And a luggage chest. She would have to ask John for leave to shop in Dover tomorrow.
Not that she could afford anything fancy. The Home Office paid its female diviners poorly, to say the least. But her needs were simple, and she had saved what she could. If she spent it carefully, it would be enough.
There were plenty of sailing families in Dover. And she knew people. People who had been kind enough to loan her books. People who shared her interest in science. She would ask around to see who might have a secondhand chest they would be willing to sell. And a simple day dress from last season. Something no longer quite in fashion, but still more than suitable for her needs.
To wear when she met Captain Hook.
Wendy rolled onto her side and reached one arm down for Nana, who was sleeping peacefully on the floor next to the cot. “This is our chance, Nana,” she whispered, gently scratching the dog behind the ears. “I just know it.”
For one moment, she allowed herself to imagine it—standing on the deck of The Dragon, with the wind in her hair and the ocean all around her, as far as the eye could see. One precious moment of indulgence, but no more. Then she forced herself to focus on more immediate plans.
How could she get to Dover without letting John and Michael know what she had in mind? What excuse should she use when purchasing a second pair of men’s breeches? And whom should she approach about a dress? Should she wear the new garment when asking about the sea chest, or would she get a better price in humbler clothing?
Thoughts of tomorrow pushed her bigger dreams aside—allowing Wendy to forget also, as she finally drifted off to sleep, the intoxicating scent of magic. And a haunting pair of ice-blue eyes.
over! Defending London has proven difficult enough! Now they’re attacking Dover? These outlying platoons are supposed to be advance scouts at best, not true fighting battalions. We don’t have the manpower to defend all of England against this wretched scourge!”
The first thing one noticed about Captain James Hook, without exception, was his exceedingly fashionable mane of shoulder-length black hair—the foremost pride of an undeniably handsome countenance. He wore it pulled back at the moment in a loose, rugged sweep that framed his aristocratic nose and squared-off chin to the best possible advantage.
The second thing one noticed, to be sure, was the steel hook that had taken the place of his right hand. But make no mistake about it, even this unusual appurtenance could not upstage the hair.
“At least the scouts were in place, thank heaven. We learned of the attack immediately, and without any deaths or kidnappings to frighten the populace.”
This reassurance was uttered by Sir William Collingwood, the head of the Home Office’s covert mobilization against the everlost. He had been granted knighthood by King George III, in recognition of his exemplary career and service to his country. His coiffure, however, was entirely ordinary and did not hold a candle to Hook’s.
“No permanent deaths, anyway,” Hook growled. “Honestly, where are we finding these sorry diviners? Can we do no better than this?”
At only twenty-four years of age, Hook was a ferocious tactician. His brilliant military gambits had turned the tide of many a battle in England’s favor. There were whispers that he would make admiral before he turned thirty. He had no patience for fools.
Sir William, by contrast, was thirty-seven and an excellent strategist in his own right, but far more cautious in his methods. Where Hook was bold, Sir William was cunning. Where Hook was brave, Sir William was wise. Together, they had held back the evil tide of magic from His Majesty’s shores.
By any means necessary.
“It is regrettable, of course,” Sir William admitted, “but it cannot be helped. Many of them hail from the countryside, which even the long arm of science has still barely touched. Besides which, they are women, so of course they hold little aptitude for any advanced subjects, let alone empirical reasoning.”
“Our best warning system,” Hook lamented. “Women and dogs.”
“If only the dogs were more reliable,” Sir William commented.
“The same might be said of the women,” Hook quipped, holding up the offending report and brandishing it about with his good hand.
Sir William chuckled. “Be that as it may, I think we must take the bones of the report seriously. The everlost attacked Dover Castle, to be repelled only by the holy grace of Saint Mary. We were lucky. This time.”
“Agreed. But we’re on the defensive far too often. We can’t depend on luck forever. We must find a way to strike at their very heart. We must learn where they’re hiding! Did you see this bit about the island?”
“Yes!” Sir William exclaimed. “I noticed that! At least this Lieutenant Abbot had the wherewithal to include the reference. Assuming it’s accurate, of course.”
“We need to learn more, to question them directly about the encounter.” Hook paced restlessly back and forth, which was how he did his best thinking. “Especially the woman. Where is this island? Did the everlost give it a name? A direction? A distance? Guided by a man’s superior intellect, her memory will no doubt be far more fruitful. We must glean the truth within the feminine hysterics.”
William nodded, having come to the same conclusion. “I couldn’t agree more. I’ll order them to London at once.”
“Women and dogs,” Hook repeated, finally coming to rest and shaking his head sadly. “Women and bloody dogs.”
he reply to John’s report arrived in the evening, two days after the everlost had stormed the shores of Dover. The platoon was enjoying a late supper in the barracks mess when a government courier burst in, brandishing a sealed missive. Its pristine white gleam proclaimed the wealth and importance of its source even before the boy, who appeared to be twelve or thirteen years old, could announce it.
“Message for Lieutenant Abbot!” he called out, but his voice cracked at the end, followed by a subdued eruption of coughing throughout the mess.
The Home Office did no
t entrust important dispatches to just anyone. The boy was obviously the son of someone important, and no one wanted to offend that someone, whoever they might be. This is why the men hid their amusement by coughing behind their napkins rather than laughing out loud—which, after all, is the real reason napkins were invented.
“Here,” John replied, rising from his seat.
The boy raced to him, held the letter out in the air, and buckled over to rest his other hand on his thigh, his chest heaving.
“They told me … to see that … it got to you directly … sir,” the boy reported, his head still bent toward the floor as he tried to catch his breath. “In person, that is. To be opened immediately. It’s from Sir William Collingwood.”
At this, John’s eyes opened wide, and he looked to both Michael and Wendy across the table. When John didn’t take the letter right away, the boy looked up and followed his gaze, which was how he finally noticed the presence of a woman in the midst of the platoon.
“My apologies, miss!” he exclaimed. He snatched his hat from his head, stood upright, and bowed. “I should have taken better notice of the room.”
“That’s quite all right,” Wendy assured him. She rose to offer the boy a polite curtsey. “Matters of military importance cannot always accommodate civilian propriety. I am here on official assignment, so I understand the urgency.”
“You’re the diviner, then!” he blurted out. “You’re Wendy Darling!”
“I am,” she agreed, her expression clearly registering her surprise.
“Well, then …” the boy trailed off, looking around the room at the rest of the platoon, aware that he now held their rapt attention. “Perhaps you’d best just read the note,” he finished, lowering his voice and turning to address this last comment to John.
“Of course. I’ll take it to my study,” the lieutenant replied, plucking the note from the boy’s hand and hiding an uncharacteristic grin beneath his habitual veneer of decorum. (He had, unfortunately, left his napkin on the table.) “In the meantime, I’m sure you’re hungry. You’ve had a long ride from London. Please, take full advantage of our hospitality. I’ll look over this message and then send for you if I need you.”
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