Wendy glances at the items thrown around the room—empty bottles, some broken, some whole; a glass bauble, cracked and smoky; a few coins. They’re worn, but she can still see the images, stamped on one side with a leering skull, the other with some sort of bird. There’s no mark identifying them as belonging to any country, but then there wouldn’t be, would there? They’re only Peter’s idea of a pirate’s treasure.

Wendy gets down on her hands and knees and peers under the bed. Something glints in the dark space, and Wendy’s breath catches. It might be more mirror glass, and she’s afraid of what she might find looking back at her, but she makes herself lie flat, stretching to pull it free. Captain Hook’s sword.

Wendy rocks back onto her heels, staring at the blade for a moment. It’s just as she remembers it—curved, the hilt wrapped in red leather. She stands, slipping her hand beneath the guard of tarnished, filigreed gold, and tests the grip. When she swings it experimentally, the blade sings a high, whistling note in the air. Wendy rests the pad of her thumb gently against the edge without pressing down. It’s still sharp.

When she extends her arm, the sword balances naturally. It’s like the treasure—not a sword a real pirate would use. It doesn’t matter that she has no experience with weaponry. Any sword in Neverland would be able to be wielded by an untrained child as easily as by a seasoned warrior. Like the ship itself, like the pirates, the sword she holds is a plaything, a boy’s fantasy of what a sword should be. A toy, but one sharp enough for killing, because that’s the kind of boy Peter is.

There’s no scabbard or belt that she can find, so Wendy tightens her shawl around her waist and tucks the sword into it. A moment of vanity seizes her and she glances regretfully at the broken mirror. It’s a silly thing, but she wishes she could see herself. Does she look as fierce and formidable as the captain himself?

She pictures Hook’s sneer, his red velvet coat—like blood, like poppies—flaring as he paced and turned, all wide lapels and gleaming buttons. Even in her terror, she’d wanted to rub that velvet between her thumb and her forefinger to see what it felt like. The air around her shivers, the timbers beneath her feet shaking with absent footsteps. The longer she stands in his cabin, the more it seems she can conjure Hook’s ghost. She sees his regal figure striding the deck, shaking his fist and daring Peter to come claim his prize—Wendy and her brothers. She can even smell the oil worked into the long, heavy curls hanging down Hook’s back, blacker than a raven’s wing.