She drifted down the walk carelessly for a moment, stunned by the night. The moon had come out, and though not dramatically full or a perfect crescent, its three quarters were bright enough to turn the fog and dew and all that had the power to shimmer a bright silver, and everything else—the metal of the streetlamps, the gates, the cracks in the cobbles—a velvety black.
After a moment Wendy recovered from the strange beauty and remembered why she was there. She padded into the street before she could rethink anything and pulled up her hood. “Why didn’t I do this earlier?” she marveled. Sneaking out when she wasn’t supposed to was its own kind of adventure, its own kind of magic. London was beautiful. It felt like she had the whole city to herself except for a stray cat or two.
Despite never venturing beyond the neighborhood much by herself, she had spent plenty of time with maps, studying them for someday adventures. And as all roads lead to Rome, so too do all the major thoroughfares wind up at the Thames. Names like Vauxhall and Victoria (and Horseferry) sprang from her brain as clearly as if there had been signs in the sky pointing the way.
Besides Lost Boys and pirates, Wendy had occasionally terrified her brothers with stories about Springheel Jack and the half-animal orphan children with catlike eyes who roamed the streets at night. As the minutes wore on she felt her initial bravery dissipate and terror slowly creep down her neck—along with the fog, which was also somehow finding its way under her coat, chilling her to her core.
“If I’m not careful I’m liable to catch a terrible head cold! Perhaps that’s really why people don’t adventure out in London at night,” she told herself sternly, chasing away thoughts of crazed, dagger-wielding murderers with a vision of ugly red runny noses and cod-liver oil.
But was it safer to walk down the middle of the street, far from shadowed corners where villains might lurk? Being exposed out in the open meant she would be more easily seen by police or other do-gooders who would try to escort her home.
“My mother is sick and requires this one particular tonic that can only be obtained from the chemist across town,” she practiced. “A nasty decoction of elderberries and slippery elm, but it does such wonders for your throat. No one else has it. And do you know how hard it is to call for a cab this time of night? In this part of town? That’s the crime, really.”
In less time than she imagined it would take, Wendy arrived at a promenade that overlooked the mighty Thames. She had never seen it from that particular angle before or at that time of night. On either bank, windows of all the more important buildings glowed with candles or gas lamps or even electric lights behind their icy panes, little tiny yellow auras that lifted her heart.
“I do wish I had done this before,” she breathed.
Maybe if she had, then things wouldn’t have come to this.…
She bit her lip. A decision had been made; it was time to follow through on it. There was no room for weakness or second thoughts in a hero, and if nothing else, Wendy had to be the hero of her own soul. She found the closest set of stairs down to the river and descended lightly, keeping an eye out for thugs and cutthroats. There was no one around at all—no one visible, anyway—except for a suspicious old man in a broken top hat sucking on a pipe on the opposite bank.
She stood at the edge of the turgid black waters and waited.
A breeze rose, curling the little hairs that strayed from Wendy’s chignon. She realized with a start that the air now had the sharp tang of salt. Of the sea. The wispy fog that had seemed to follow her from home was now joined by its big brother, which swept down the river like a swift, dark carriage. Thick tendrils preceded it, scraping this way and that just above the water, as if feeling a clear path for the billows that followed. In a very short time Wendy was once again surrounded by gray. She couldn’t even see the stairs up to the road.
Everything was still.
And then, emerging out of the darkness like a wraith, a single yellow light bobbed in the inky distance.
Slowly and steadily it grew closer.
Wendy sucked in her breath.
The light resolved into a lantern hung on a yoke.…
No, not a yoke—a prow!
Incredibly, unbelievably, a silent galleon glided down the Thames toward her. Its sails were furled and its masts as thin and bare as the bones of a broken ribcage rotting on some ancient, forgotten battlefield.
The ship paused improbably in the currents.
Nothing moved in the foggy night but a single black flag rippling in the salty breeze, its skull and crossbones faded and yellow.
Wendy forced herself to stand still, waiting, as motionlessly as she could, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She had made her decision. She had taken an action. These were the results, and she would deal with them.
“Well, well, well,” came a voice from the deck.
Then came the measured clops of surprisingly hard and high-heeled boots on the planks, approaching the railing. Wendy gritted her teeth.
Captain Hook leaned over and grinned at her.
He was exactly and precisely the way she had imagined—remembered—him. Long, black, ridiculous curling locks. Probably a wig. Long face, clear of the dissolution of rum but ruined by the joint devils of villainy and insanity. He obviously thought himself a duke in a red-and-gold coat, prim breeches, and mostly spotless stockings. A feather stuck out of his oversized hat; a Jacobean collar throttled his neck. Above his smile was a mustache waxed and styled to within an inch of its—probably dyed—life.
Yet Wendy gulped.
Seeing him was different from imagining—remembering—him. He looked utterly absurd, and that was exactly what made him terrifying.
“Ah, Miss Darling. How are you on this fine night?” he called, saluting her with his hook, sharp and golden, the only thing that glittered in the dim light of the solitary lantern.
“Very well, thank you!” Wendy shouted back. Manners stepped in, bless them, when the mind scrambled away to hide. “And you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t be better, thank you for asking,” he answered with an oily smile. “That is, assuming you have brought what you said you would.”
“I have it. I have Peter Pan’s shadow here.” She took out the satchel and showed it to him.
“Oh, excellent, excellent girl.”
Any pretense at politeness, any mockery he exhibited, disappeared entirely as visceral excitement took over. The greed on his face was both reassuring and nauseating. He rubbed his hand and hook together with tangible glee.
“Do we have a deal?” Wendy asked, clearly and loudly.
“Yes, yes, of course. Passage to Never Land. In return for one shadow.”
“And home again,” Wendy pressed. “When I wish to return.”
“And passage home again,” Hook said impatiently. “Yes, yes. As for when you wish to return, that can be a tricky business. Getting here…without pixie magic or flight…is an uncertain thing. My crew wasn’t too keen on the idea to begin with.”
“That was the deal. Never Land and home again,” Wendy said, pulling the satchel away from his view and making as if to put it back in her coat.
“Of course, of course,” Hook said desperately, eyes never leaving the satchel. “Never Land and home again. Without question. Just be aware that we are not some sort of ferry service, Miss Darling. We are pirates. With limited magical means. You cannot on a whim decide you’ve missed Mummy and Daddy long enough and expect to be transported instantly. These things take time.”