“Who am I?” He blinks, throwing a look at the men who’ve appeared behind him. “A’m no’ the one who came hurtling down from abain,§ lass. Who are ye?”
He nods his chin at me as he takes my hand, pulling me up off the ground, and when we touch, it feels as though something gets knocked off of a shelf that I’ve kept very neat and very tidy for my whole entire life. It’s a very organised shelf—colour coordinated and alphabetised—but somewhere inside of me, I hear something shatter, and it frightens me, so I snatch my hand away and fold it uncomfortably across myself.
I raise my eyebrows impatiently as I wait for his answer. “I asked you first.”
He cocks a smile, and the trigger in my heart cocks also.
“I’m Hook.”
I freeze, a little horrified, a lot confused.
“No, you aren’t.” I shake my head.
He looks over his shoulder again at his friends, face all amused. “Aye, sure I am.”
“No.” I shake my head. For one, the person in front of me isn’t that old. Does no one age here? The way my grandmothers described him, Hook was older—a man of at least thirty-five, if not more—and sure, old Perfect Face here has facial hair that other boys his age might be jealous of, but I know without doubt, he couldn’t be close to thirty anything at all.
As well, they told me Hook’s eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, an eerie sort of light blue, but this person’s eyes are made of the sort of colours you’d see out in the most unexplored parts of the Maldives—
And then, most damning of all, my eyes fall to his hand, the one I’d just been holding, and then I flick my eyes over to his other one…both very much there and very unfed to a crocodile.
I look up at him, suspicious. “Where’s your hook then?”
“Ah.” He nods once, amused. “Yer thinking of my da,*”
I raise my eyebrows as though I’m impatient with him, as though his very presence isn’t a complete and total thrill.
“And you are…?”
His eyes fall down my body, and I remember I’m in my little pyjamas, and I feel self-conscious.?
“Jamison,” he tells me when he eventually drags his eyes back up to mine. “Hook.”
I stare up at him, and on my shoulders, I feel the weight of those stories my grandmothers told me all my life bearing down on me, even though I know I definitely took that off up in the room in the clouds.
“Jam.” A tall, fair Scotsman rounds the corner, walking quickly. He looks early twenties. “There’s a—” He stops talking when he spots me, glances back at Jamison.
Jamison flicks him a look that men may give one another in precarious scenarios. “Give me a minute, mate.” He cocks his head for him to go away. “And go get me a blanket, forbye.? She’s soaked ri’ through.”
The man nods once and walks away.
I shift uncomfortably on my feet. “Aren’t you supposed to be bad?”
“Aye,” he sniffs a laugh. “So yer friends with the wee man then?”
“With Peter?” I clarify.
He nods and smirks.
“Yes?” I shrug. “I suppose you could call us friends.”
“Sure, so where is he?” he asks, and he does this thing with his mouth, this cocky jaw grind that vexes me, and I don’t like his tone, so I frown at him, indignant.
“We were separated in the nosedive down.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Were ye?”
“Yes.” My nose in the air. “In fact, I bet he’s looking for me right now.”
“Probably.” He nods, understanding. “If only ye were in that gaggle of mermaids thonner on that rock.” He points his chin across the water.
I turn and feel my face falter.
Peter Pan is standing in the middle of some boulders, hands on his hips, crowing and beating his chest, and there are easily six or seven of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen, ever, in my life batting their eyes at him, clapping and cheering, and Peter’s tilting his head at them and crouching down and touching their faces, and my stomach falls five feet back into the ocean.
“Here ye go.” The Scotsman’s returned, and it snaps me back.
I look over at him, and Jamison Hook is watching me with a closeness that feels invasive. He looks at the blanket that’s been placed in his arms.
“Is this off my bed, ye eejit?”
The Scotsman scoffs. “Well, I sure wusnae giving her mine, ye ken.”
Hook stares at him for a few seconds, eyes dark and furrowed, and I wonder whether there’s trouble ahead for the Scotsman, and then Jamison Hook’s face cracks into a smile and he smacks his arm.
“This is Orson Calhoun.” He gestures at him.
“Pleasure.” Orson extends his hand. “And y’are?”
“Daphne.” I shake his. “Belle Beaumont-Darling,” I tell him for no particular reason.
“Fuck.” Jamison Hook’s head pulls back. “That’s a bit o’a mouthful.”
I turn and give him a dark look. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothin’.” He shrugs, but out of my peripheral vision, I can see that Hook’s staring at me, and behind his eyes, I think there’s something more than nothing.
“What?” I frown at him, all indignant, crossing my arms over myself in some sort of defence.
He stares at me for a split second more, then shakes his head. “Just like that name is all,” he tells me, and I do find myself strangely aware of the way the wind blows gently over my face, kissing my cheek as though it’s whispering something to me.
He points at the right-hand corner of my lip. “You’ve got yer kin’s kiss.”
I blink at him, confused. “My what?”
“Yer family’s kiss,” he says again.
My hand flies to my face, and my cheeks go pink. “Do I?”
“Aye.” He nods, staring at me as he gestures to it. “Perfectly conspicuous.”
I am completely delighted.
To be entirely frank with you, I’ve always quite wanted it; of all the things I could inherit from my family, that was one I hoped for most. I asked my mother once if I had it, and she gave me the most unimpressed look. She asked me why on earth I’d ever want a kiss in the corner of my mouth that no one could reach.
Grandma Mary shushed her at that and told me that the kiss isn’t for reaching anyway. It’s for giving to whom it truly belongs.
It is a rather intimidating experience, having a beautiful man stare at your mouth, and please be sure of these two things: he is staring, and he is, undeniably, beautiful.
Jamison blinks, and the look between us dissipates. He nods down at Calhoun. “What were ye going to say before?”
Calhoun nods his head behind him. “MacDuff and Brown are at it again.”
Jamison rolls his eyes and looks over at me again, but I don’t notice because I can’t look away from Peter on the rocks with the fawning mermaids.
He’s forgotten me completely already.
“I hae t’ go break this up,” Jamison starts. “Would ye fancy a dander? See the town?”
I give Peter one last look, but I know in the centre of me that in this moment, I am less than nothing to him, so I give Jamison a singular nod.
“Did yer fall hurt then?” he asks, staring straight ahead, shoving a hand through his hair.
“Yes.” I throw him a look. “Rather.”