Hook's Revenge Page 2

Alas. No fair wind blew in her favor that day. Instead, trouble hung on the horizon.

  “What is wrong with our beds?” someone whined from behind her.

  Jocelyn was so startled that she turned around still cross-eyed and squinty. Two girls stood in the center of the room staring at their beds. Jocelyn’s earlier, rather vigorous, investigations had left the mattresses sagging and the curtains hanging at odd angles.

  “Never mind that,” the taller of the two stage-whispered. “The real question is what is wrong with her face?”

  The girl who asked must not have known the one about the pot calling the kettle black. She had the pinch-faced look of one perpetually waiting for a sneeze that never would arrive.

  Jocelyn chose to ignore the second question. She rearranged her face into a normal expression and said, “Sorry about the beds. I was checking for spiders.”

  Pinch-Face squealed. “Oooh! I hate spiders! Did you catch any?”

  “Unfortunately, no. They all got away. I’m Jocelyn. You must be my roommates.”

  The idea of spiders loose in their beds did not appear to sit well with the girls, though the shorter one quickly regained her composure. “Yes. We heard you were coming. I am Miss Priscilla Katherine-Anne Edgeworth. You may call me Prissy. This,” she said motioning to Pinch-Face, “is Miss Nanette Arbuckle.”

  Pinch-Face smiled, adding to the frightfulness of her appearance. “You may call me Nanette. Or Nan. Or Nanette. Which do you think is better, Prissy? Perhaps Netty?”

  Prissy ignored her. “If there is anything you need, you may ask me. Anything at all. I am a particular favorite of Miss Eliza’s. My mother went here when she was a girl, and my father, well, he’s a very generous donor to the school.”

  “Good to know,” Jocelyn said. “There is something, actually. Our room…”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s very pink, isn’t it?

  Prissy’s eyes lit up. “Don’t you love it? My father paid to have it done because I wanted it. Pink is my very favorite color.”

  That statement told Jocelyn all she needed to know about Prissy.

  “Pink is my favorite color too,” Pinch-Face simpered. “I love it ever so much. I wish all the colors were pink.”

  In that room, they were.

  Prissy narrowed her eyes and looked at Jocelyn. “And you? Do you love pink too? It’s so much easier if everyone likes the same things, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, pink,” Jocelyn replied with the barest trace of a smirk. “I find it to be every bit as lovely as the pair of you.”

  Pinch-Face beamed alarmingly, but Prissy frowned a little, seemingly unsure of how to take the compliment. Jocelyn continued: “How thoughtful of your father to give you such a fitting space. I can only hope that someday my father will pay him a visit to properly thank him. Perhaps soon.”

  “Don’t you mean your grandfather?” Prissy asked. “I overheard Miss Eliza saying that you lived with your grandfather because your mother died when you were born and your father is some sort of criminal.” Her smile was excessively sweet. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry too, too much about it. Dead mothers are rather fashionable these days. They lend such an attractive air of tragedy.”

  Pinch-Face agreed. “I wish I had one.”

  Jocelyn clenched her teeth but said nothing.

  Prissy rolled her eyes at Pinch-Face and continued. “As for your father, Nanette’s father is from the Americas, but Miss Eliza assures her that if she works very hard on her embroidery, she’s nearly certain to find someone suitable to marry her. It shouldn’t be so difficult for you to do the same.”

  “It’s true.” Pinch-Face nodded her head with vigor. “And, remember, you do have that dead mother. You should do tolerably well.”

  Jocelyn chose not to respond to their reassurances, at least not aloud. She did, however, make herself a promise. There were likely no spiders in the other girls’ beds that evening, but Jocelyn resolved to remedy that as soon as possible.

  One of the worst feelings in the world is being too tired to sleep. It ranks right up there with being too bored to pillage, too angry to maim, or too rich to steal. Simply dreadful.

  Jocelyn’s first night at school was long and difficult. She rarely slept well when she was troubled or unhappy—or hungry. True sleep eluded her, though she wasn’t fully awake, either. She spent hours trapped in that twilight place between asleep and awake, where dreams are the most vivid and nonsensical, and where the Neverland draws near.

  Even as she clearly felt herself lying in bed, Jocelyn dreamed she was hovering over the Jolly Roger. It was moored just offshore the most impossible island, where it appeared to be all four seasons at once. Warm snow drifted down, dampening the girl’s hair. Below her a great squawking bird bobbed on the waves, nesting in an upturned hat.

  A pirate stood on the deck of the great ship. Jocelyn was unable to clearly see his face, but in the bizarre way of dreams, she knew him to be her father. Oddly, instead of a right hand, he had an iron hook. He was locked in battle with the strangest foe—a boy dressed in a suit of skeleton leaves. Even more bewildering than the boy’s youth or clothing was the fact that he was flying, and not with some kind of machine, or even with wings—he simply flew, as though it were as natural to him as breathing.

  This soaring about seemed to be, in Jocelyn’s opinion, an unfair advantage. The boy would dart in and slash with his knife, but before her father’s hook or blade could cause any return damage, the cocky young thing would be floating ten feet up in the air and laughing, as if the whole thing were the greatest joke ever told.

  Sounds from her bedroom intruded on Jocelyn’s dream. The ocean waves were whipped up by Prissy’s snoring while the mantel clock ticked loudly away, forcing the fight to keep its rhythm. It was not until dawn that Jocelyn finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  She woke late. Prissy and Nanette were already gone, likely on their way to the dining hall. Jocelyn was famished, and according to the clock, if she didn’t hurry, she would have to stay that way a good while longer. She pulled herself out of bed and looked around for something to wear. A clean white dress was laid out and waiting. Jocelyn did like the look of a white dress. It was like a blank canvas.

  Today, however, she stuck her tongue out at it and put on yesterday’s traveling dress. The combination of an empty stomach, a poor night’s sleep, and that hideous room had placed her in a bit of a temper. Besides, Jocelyn always felt clothes were more comfortable with a day or two’s wrinkles. Somewhat cheered by happy memories brought about by the jam spots on her sleeve and streaks of dried mud on her hem, she set out for breakfast.

  The dining hall was easy enough to find; Jocelyn just followed the scent of cinnamon and freshly baked pastries. Her hunger prodded her to hurry. By the time she reached a set of double doors at the end of the first-floor hallway, she was flat-out running. What a picture the girl must have made as she flung open those doors and dashed inside, skirts hiked nearly to her knees and hair flying out behind her.

  Needless to say, Miss Eliza was not impressed. I wish I had been there to see the look on her old face. I hear it puckered up tighter than a frog’s bottom.

  All eyes, except Jocelyn’s, were on the headmistress as she headed for the wild girl. Jocelyn’s eyes were on the tables laden with baked goods, porridge, fruit, and cream. She couldn’t wait to dig in.

  “While I do appreciate you making it to breakfast on time,” Miss Eliza began in an icy tone, “your entrance leaves much to be desired, as does”—she surveyed Jocelyn’s rumpled clothing—“your personal appearance. I am quite certain I instructed you to dress smartly. As you have failed to follow my instructions, you shall not be dining with us. You may stand in the corner until the appropriately attired young ladies and I have finished our meal.”

  Jocelyn thought to argue, but a steely look in Miss Eliza�
�s eyes (and that puckery face, I’m sure) convinced her otherwise.

  On her way to the corner, she heard Prissy tell several other girls, “Her mother is dead and her father is some kind of criminal, likely deranged. I think she might be a bit simpleminded herself. I truly do feel sorry for the poor dear—not that I’m thrilled about sharing my suite with her, but we must try to set a good example.”

  Pinch-Face nodded along agreeably.

  Jocelyn’s face burned at the injustice of it all. Still, she took her place in the corner. To keep herself from snatching pastries from a nearby plate, she imagined the punishments her father might visit upon both Prissy and Miss Eliza when he finally came for her: keelhauling, flogging with a cat-o’-nine-tails, dunking from the yardarm…

  Absorbed as she was in these happy imaginings, the time passed more quickly than she realized. Jocelyn didn’t notice when the servants began to remove empty dishes.

  After her place was cleared, Miss Eliza stood to speak. “Young ladies, I am certain none of you could help but notice our newest pupil as she flew into the dining hall. However, I am confident that this morning’s behavior was an anomaly and that Miss Hopewell will soon settle in, and become every bit as lovely and compliant as the rest of you. Isn’t that right, Miss Hopewell?”

  Jocelyn continued to stand in the corner. She was busy picturing Miss Eliza walking the plank. There were a lot of sharks swimming around in her imagination.

  “Miss Hopewell!” Miss Eliza loudly repeated.

  Jocelyn jumped and looked over. “Who, me?”

  “What impertinence! Of course I was speaking to you! Are you or are you not Miss Jocelyn Hopewell?”

  Jocelyn clenched her fists and glared at Miss Eliza. “I am not.”

  Now, Miss Eliza was no novice. The woman undoubtedly knew better how to handle disturbances—though it is certain that no student had ever behaved in as rash and unruly a manner on the first morning as Jocelyn. Perhaps that was what rattled the woman into making a terrible mistake: she dared to ask, “Well then, who are you?”

  Jocelyn lifted her chin and raised her eyes to Miss Eliza’s. Her voice rang out clearly in the silent room. “Jocelyn Hook, only daughter and heir of Captain James Hook, the dread pirate, that’s who!”

  Pandemonium broke out in the dining hall. Dishes clattered to the floor. All the young ladies began to cry in terror. (If the truth be known, most of the staff joined in.) Prissy was the first to faint, which was not surprising considering she insisted on being first at everything. Then, as was their custom, the other girls followed suit, swooning one right after another like a great wave crashing on the shore. Even the formidable Miss Eliza went a bit weak in the knees at the mention of the fearful Captain Hook.

  Jocelyn surveyed the carnage around her with a self-satisfied smile. Father’s name always brought about such a wonderful reaction.

  That smile was her undoing. The sight of it caused Miss Eliza to recover far more quickly than she might have otherwise. “Jocelyn Hook, is it? A dishonorable name is the only thing you will ever have from that man. Did you think he would share his hoard with you? Sail you off on an adventure? Ridiculous.”

  Jocelyn jerked her head back as though she had been slapped. “How dare you—”

  “No, child, how dare you! At this school you will be known as Jocelyn Hopewell, and you would be wise to begin thinking of yourself that way. No new mention of that man’s disgraceful deeds has reached English shores for at least five years. More to the point, if what your grandfather has told me is correct, as it undoubtedly is, even when the villain was terrorizing our seas, he never once tried to contact you. If we are fortunate, that man is dead. Yet if he does still live, one thing is certain: your father doesn’t care at all about you.”

  No one had ever spoken to Jocelyn like that. She stood in stunned silence, trying to remember how to breathe. Her gaze fell upon on Prissy Edgeworth, pale from her faint but obviously thrilled at Miss Eliza’s words.

  Without stopping to form a plan, Jocelyn began to move. She didn’t know where she would go, only that she had to get away from that ugly place with its pink walls and cruel words.

  Jocelyn reached the back door and started running.

  There are times when it feels as if retreat is the only option. For Jocelyn, this was one of those times. The girl was most definitely running away, though she had no idea where she was going, nor what she would do when she got there. All she knew was that she could not stay at that terrible school for another moment.

  The morning was cold and damp. It had rained through the night and was threatening to start up again at any moment. The trail was slick with mud, and as she tried to navigate a sudden curve, Jocelyn slipped and fell. There she lay, gasping and sweating, streaked with sludge. She had never felt more tired, more hungry, or more defeated. Her eyes stung with tears that she refused to let fall, while unhappy thoughts chased one another around her mind.

  Perhaps he isn’t coming.

  I can understand why he didn’t come for me when I was younger—a ship is no place for a little child—but I’m older now. I could be such a great help to him.…

  Perhaps he has forgotten all about me.

  There she lay, quite literally wallowing in heartbreak and mud, feeling as if she couldn’t possibly be any more miserable. That is, until the clouds let loose and it began to pour.

  What a stroke of good luck! Without that wretched, cold rain, who knows how long the girl might have languished in her own personal slough of despond? But with it Jocelyn’s physical discomfort quickly overpowered her anguish, pushing her to her feet in order to search for a place to wait out the storm.

  She continued up the trail, reasoning that it must lead somewhere. Lightning flashed in the distance. If Jocelyn didn’t find shelter soon, she might be forced to turn back.

  Fortunately for her, it didn’t come to that. Through the heavy rain, Jocelyn spied a small structure. Years before, the school had been located near where she now was. After being destroyed by a fire (one that I staunchly deny having had anything to do with), the main building was rebuilt in a location nearer the road. The old carriage house remained untouched by the flames, but it was no longer convenient for use and had been largely abandoned. It was to this building that Jocelyn came for shelter.

  The heavy wooden door was swollen from the moisture in the air, causing it to stick. A brisk wind tore at Jocelyn’s dress as she struggled to force her way in. Finally, she leaned her shoulder into it and shoved with all her might. With a horrible screech of its massive hinges, the door popped open and admitted the cold and dripping girl.

  Inside, the room was dim, but enough light filtered through a pair of grimy windows that Jocelyn could make out her surroundings. Since it was so clearly abandoned, she incorrectly assumed that the little building would be empty. Instead, it was piled high—to the rafters in places—with items that had long outlived their usefulness and thus had been banished here…rather like an old person’s house.

  Or a house filled with old people.

  Exploring proved to be the perfect distraction from Jocelyn’s more immediate troubles. The girl quickly began thinking of the carriage house, and all the things in it, as her own. She took careful notice of what was contained in her hoard, speaking aloud an inventory of the more interesting-looking objects.

  “One purple horsehair sofa with springs poking out in two—no, three—different places; a marble bust of an ugly old man, missing an ear; one grandfather clock, stopped, face cracked and missing the minute hand; several mildewed charts and maps, possibly leading to buried treasure; two matching candelabra, much of the silver leaf rubbed off; four broken dress forms; a stack of dusty blankets, don’t mind if I do…”

  She grabbed a couple, wrapping them around herself for warmth.

  “One rusty birdcage, bright red feathers still on the bottom; and a skeleton, p
resumably for teaching, but one can never be sure.”

  Jocelyn’s inventory was interrupted by a loud thump nearly directly overhead. She startled and looked up. Was there a second floor? In a shadowy corner, nearly obscured by forgotten objects, the girl spied an ancient-looking ladder disappearing into a dark, open hatch in the ceiling. Perhaps she was not alone.

  Forgetting her treasures, Jocelyn carefully made her way over. She placed a hand on the ladder and stood still, listening. All was quiet above her. Even so, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was up there. The girl began to climb to the dimly lit loft, her heart pounding, not with fear, but with the thrill of what she might discover. Sadly, upon reaching the loft and looking around, Jocelyn discovered only disappointment. Other than dust, cobwebs, and spiders, the room was empty.

  Weak daylight streamed through a large round window. It was slightly ajar, the floor beneath wet from the storm. Jocelyn crossed the room to close it and stood a moment, looking out. The rain was already beginning to let up. A few brave sunbeams shone through breaks in the clouds. Overhead, the girl caught a glimpse of some great black bird soaring through the sky. She wished she could be as free.

  Jocelyn was about to turn away when a sparkle caught her eye. A piece of jewelry lay on the windowsill. More treasure for her hoard?

  Her fingers tingled as she held the piece up for a closer look. A heavy silver medallion hung from a dusty velvet ribbon. It was shaped like an egg, with a jeweled sea serpent on the front. In the dim light from the window, she was just able to make out an inscription on the back:

  To E.H. on our wedding day.

  Interesting.

  Jocelyn ran her fingers over the jewels. One stuck out a bit more than the rest. She pressed it, and the pendant sprang open. It was a locket!

  Inside, it held a miniature painting of a familiar-looking man. He stood at the bow of a ship, wind whipping long dark curls about his face. The look in the man’s deep blue eyes was intense, fierce, and determined. Jocelyn studied it closely for several long minutes, then whispered, “Hello, Father.”