Devourer of Men: A Captain Hook, Crocodile, and Wendy Darling Reimagining

After dozing the afternoon, I’m roused from bed by a mustached servant knocking on my door. He’s dressed in court livery and informs me I’m to report to the court tailor. When I come out into the hallway, Roc is nowhere to be found and when I ask the servant when he will join us, he says the Crocodile’s appointment isn’t until much later.

I try not to let this disappoint me, but somehow it does.

The servant takes me down a series of hallways, then down the main staircase where it spills out to the mezzanine. From there, we cross into the opposite wing of the castle and finally he deposits me at the arched door of the tailor.

With a bow, and a farewell, the servant is gone.

The door is slightly ajar so I give it a push and peer inside. “Hello?”

There are several wooden dress forms in the receiving room, all holding up dresses in silk and chiffon.

“Hello?” I call again and a man appears in a second doorway at the back of the room. He’s wearing a gold brocade vest over a white shirt with lace trimmed around the sleeve cuffs. There is a pinched appearance to his face, as if his god made him, then pressed his cheeks together.

“I heard you the first time!” he says.

“Apologies.” I give him a bow. “I wasn’t sure if anyone was here.”

The man comes over, his gaze immediately assessing my body.

“Hmm.” His eyes narrow and he brings one hand to his chin as if in deep thought. His fingernails are cut short, his fingertips callused, likely from hours and hours of sewing by hand.

“Narrow shoulders. Broad chest.” He clucks his tongue. “You’re not well-proportioned.”

“And who decides?”

He tilts his head, gazing up at me. “Well then.” A tape measure appears in his hand and he unravels it with a snap. “Arms up.”

I do as he instructs and he measures my chest.

“I’m not a magician, you’ll know. I can’t pull a suit out of thin air, so I have to source something from the royal closet. Proportions mean everything in a fitting, do they not?”

“Well, I’m not sure⁠—”

“They do!” He measures my waist next, then my hips. “What’s your inseam?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Hmm,” he says again and then steps back. “I’d consider you a deep winter.”

“A what?”

He murmurs to himself and then disappears through the door where he first appeared.

I follow him, stopping just over the threshold.

It’s hard to fathom the size of this inner closet from the receiving room. It’s like opening a clam shell and finding the vastness of the ocean inside.

The closet is twice the size of my ballroom back in Neverland. There are rows and rows of clothing racks, then dressers, then shelves, then more racks. Suits and dresses and coats and tunics as far as the eye can see.

The man flips through several hangers.

“Deep winter,” he says, pulling out a navy blue suit and then deciding against it. “That’s your color palette. You stick to deep winter colors and you’ll always look stunning.”

“What does that entail?”

“Well, first, stop with the gold.” He waves his hand in my general direction.

I glance down. My jacket has gold buttons and gold trim around the cuffs. My belt buckle is also gold.

“I like gold.”

“You can like it. Just don’t wear it.” He pulls out another outfit. “Silver will suit you better. Trust me.” He shows me his selection. It’s a dark charcoal frock tailcoat with military-inspired silver embroidery along the lapel and silver epaulets. He pairs it with charcoal trousers and leather boots that would rest just below my knees.

“Changing room through there.” He nods at another door tucked between two clothing racks. “Try it on and then come out.”

Once inside, I shut the door behind me and then hang the clothes on several hooks screwed into the wall.

There is a full-length mirror in the corner, set on its own gilded stand. My reflection stares back at me.

Is gold really not my color?

I turn, assessing for myself. I don’t see it.

But when I slip out of my normal clothes and into the military frock coat, it’s immediately apparent. The tailor is right.

The silver looks much better and the shade of charcoal, with just a hint of dark blue in it, contrasts nicely with my complexion.

The first stupid thought to pop into my head is, That damnable beast will surely admire the cut of this suit against my body.

And then I snatch the thought back and shove it down as far as it will go.

We are mortal enemies. Even if he did give me one of the best blow jobs I’ve ever had. Maybe more so. It still feels like a trick. Like a drug dealer who has given me a taste of a drug he and I both know I can never taste again.

Roc did warn me, didn’t he?

You’ll never be the same after.

I slip on the boots, then step out. “I’m ready,” I call and the tailor pops his head out from between two racks of suits.

“Ahhh, yes! Much better.” He uses a sturdy brush to pull off any lint or stray threads, then straightens the silver tassels that hang from the epaulets.

“Brilliant,” he decides.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Now off to the coiffurist with you.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Is there a better time?” He pushes me into the receiving room, then back out into the hallway, proving that there isn’t, and also that he never expected an answer anyway. My original escort, the servant with the mustache, is already waiting for me.

He leads me down another hall, then another, and I’m quickly whisked into a room lined on one side with tall windows that let in the bright light of late afternoon.

I’m deposited in a plush leather chair and a man and woman, speaking in a language I don’t understand, descend on me. My hair is brushed, then combed, then mussed with thick paste that smells of mint and lemongrass. The man shaves me clean, while the woman tames any flyaways with the soft touch of her fingers.

When they’re finished, they chatter with one another over me, nodding and smiling.

“Handsome,” the man says.

“Hot,” the woman says.

“Thank you,” I say again because I suppose if I’m to have supper with Wendy Darling, the queen, I really should look my best.

Once I leave the coiffurist, the mustached servant leads me back to the mezzanine where people are already starting to arrive for supper.

At the grand staircase, the servant bows, gestures for me to go down, then leaves me.

There is a crowd in the grand foyer and I attract their attention as soon as I descend the stairs.

I don’t see Wendy and I don’t see Roc. The servant may very well be escorting him to the tailor now. But without any familiar faces, I’m left to fend for myself.

But I’m not left alone for long.

The Crown Prince appears at my side when I hit the marble floor. There is a woman tucked behind him like an afterthought.

“Captain James Hook,” the prince says.

“Your Highness.” I give him the required bow.

“You clean up nicely.” He regards me from boot to jaw. “Our court tailor and coiffurist really are unmatched. I suppose there’s nothing like it on your wild island of Neverland.”

He’s right, of course, but I detect the dismissive in the words he’s chosen.

“Thank you kindly for the hospitality. I did not pack for supper with Everland royalty.”

“Of course. It’s our pleasure.”

The woman behind him is hidden partially in the shadow of the lion stone statue, and the rise of the prince’s shoulder.

Is he married? Courting? Fucking around?

When he catches me noticing his companion, he seems to remember suddenly that he has one. “Oh right. Allow me to introduce you to my betrothed. Lady Mareth Shade.”

He holds out his hand for her and her pale fingers slip into his palm. He pulls her around and into the light.

And I am immediately confused by the pretty face of the girl.

She seems so familiar.

Her nose is thin and pointed, her eyes big and bright. There is a mole just above the left corner of her mouth. A dark star in an otherwise pale expanse.

“Have we met?” I ask her.

She looks down, hiding her eyes. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

I wrack my brain, trying to place her.

“Did you spend any time on Neverland? Perhaps on the northern port?”

The prince laughs. “My beautiful bride-to-be would never visit such an untamed land.”

The girl laughs with him and then loops her arm through his, positioning herself half behind him again.

She is demure, innocent and beautiful. All the things that are expected of a woman about to marry a prince.

“Apologies.” I give the girl and the prince a bow. “I must be mistaken.”

The prince covers the girl’s hand with his. “Now if you’ll excuse us. We’ll look forward to seeing you at the supper table, Captain Hook. I can’t wait to hear more of your history with my stepmother.”

The way he says it—stepmother—leads me to believe what he’d like to say is step-monster. Clearly no love is lost between them.

And I know just how to play this. “I assure you, Your Highness, there isn’t much history to speak of. We knew each other for a brief moment a long time ago. I just happened to be passing through and thought to ask after her.”

He smiles, gives the girl a pat. “Just as well.”

With a nod, they turn from me and join another crowd nearer the dining hall.

But I can’t help but watch the girl as they greet more of the court.

I’m quite sure I’m not mistaken, but my memory is drawing a blank at placing her.

Perhaps Roc will know her. At his indeterminable age, it seems like he knows everyone and if I know him, he’ll enjoy the game of trying to figure it out.