Jocelyn and Roger zigzagged through a maze of narrow streets, brushing past women in heavy makeup and men in heavy weaponry. Presently, and without much difficulty, they found the mapmaker’s shop. A bell above the door announced their arrival. “I’ll be out in a minute,” someone growled from a back room.

While they waited, the pair took in their surroundings. The shop was small, crowded with dark corners and the scent of paper and ink. A maze of lidless casks and barrels crammed with scrolls littered the shop’s floor space. In one corner, under a hanging lantern, a large writing desk held an impossibly high stack of parchments, teetering so that the slightest breath might send them careening over.

Opposite the door they had entered, and also buried in piles of papers, a short wooden counter ran the length of the room. Behind it a myriad of jars and bottles, containing inks of all colors, were arrayed haphazardly on floor-to-ceiling shelving. Quill pens and boar-hair brushes clustered in clay pots, ceramic mugs, and bourbon glasses stood at attention. Jocelyn instantly felt at home in the cozy chaos. It reminded her a bit of the carriage house, her favorite place at the otherwise dreary finishing school she had attended before escaping to the Neverland.

Roger also seemed enamored with the cluttered shop. His eyes sparkled as he took it all in. He reached out to touch a detailed map lying unfurled on top of a barrel. The phrase Catacombs, Holy Order of the Newt was written out in what might have been blood across the bottom edge.

From another room came a shouted “No touching, ye young scalawags!” causing Roger to snatch his hand back.

Meriwether seemed unperturbed by the scolding. He flitted about, sticking his face into jars and wriggling under papers, trying to see everything at once.

“Meri, get back here!” Jocelyn called, motioning to her shoulder. “Sit down and try not to get into trouble!” He obeyed, but not happily. The fairy began pulling loose threads from her collar and throwing them to the floor, a petulant look etched on his tiny face.

“And I’ll thank you to stop making a mess of things!” The voice was large and gruff, not entirely matching the man who followed it through the door behind the counter. He would have been fierce, even terrifying, if he had been more than three and a half feet tall. Thin, white hair defied the laws of gravity, reason, and sense, sticking out every which way upon his bulbous head. His bloodshot eyes were wild, magnified behind thick lenses. “I know just where everything is catalogued, and I won’t have the likes of you coming in here and disrupting things. Or”—he scowled at the few threads on the floor—“adding your own, unauthorized leavings.” He pulled a paper from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it, and waved it around in the air. “Just take a look at this!” he demanded.

Jocelyn and Roger carefully made their way through the labyrinth of papers to stand before the man, but his frantic waving made it impossible to determine what he hoped to show them.

Jocelyn matched his scowl with one of her own. “If you want us to know what that is, you’ll have to stop flapping it around.”

The man gripped the paper in both hands and held it above his head. The parchment appeared to be a perfect map of the cluttered shop, right down to the last bottle and brush on the shelves. MAPMAKER’S SHOP was clearly labeled in the upper left-hand corner. He slapped it down on the counter and, using a toothpick-size pen and miniscule bottle of ink, added a few tiny lines, so fine Jocelyn could scarcely see them.

“Now that the chart has been amended to reflect the changes you wrought”—he scowled again at the threads Meri had dropped—“we can get down to business. Move closer to the counter here, you miscreants, and let’s have a look at ye.” He blinked at the pair for several long moments before speaking. “What can I do for you?”

The girl pulled her own map from her pocket, but before she unfolded it, she drew herself up to her full height. “I’m here because my bo’sun, Mr. Smee, says you are talented”—she pulled a gold coin from her pouch and slid it across the counter—“and discreet.”

I’ve found that if gold isn’t enough to ensure discretion, cold, hard steel often will. Pity that in this case, it appeared the coin would do.

The man licked his wrinkled lips, scooped up the coin, and bit down on it. Apparently satisfied it was genuine, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and nodded. “Discreet I am. Let’s have a look at what you’ve got there.”

Jocelyn unfolded the map and held it out. “Did you make this?”

He barely glanced at it. “Certainly not! The paper thickness is all off. I’d never use something so flimsy.”

Jocelyn tried to swallow her disappointment. “No matter. You still may be of use. Take a closer look. Can you tell me where it leads?”

“I’m a very busy man.” He didn’t seem busy. He stood there, looking as if he had all the time in the world. Jocelyn pulled another gold piece from her dwindling supply and slapped it on the counter. It disappeared into his pocket.

“Let me see that map.”

Jocelyn gave it to the mapmaker and held her breath. Next to her, Roger fiddled nervously with a button on his shirt. It came off in his fingers, and he jiggled it in his palm.

The man leaned close to the paper, assuming much the same pose that Jocelyn had that morning. “Interesting,” he mumbled, sweeping his unblinking eyes from side to side.

“What’s interesting? Do you know that shoreline?” Roger asked.

“I know many places in and out of the Neverland, but no, I don’t know this. Might be an old section of the island that changed before I got here. Might be someplace else entirely. Now if you’ll keep your porthole closed, I’ll examine it more fully.”

Jocelyn smirked at her friend. He grinned back and shook his head.

After several more minutes, the mapmaker lifted his head and spoke. “It appears that you have a map to Captain Hook’s treasure.”

“We know that part,” Jocelyn snapped. “It’s written right across the top. We want to know what else it may say.”

“It doesn’t say anything else at all—”

Jocelyn huffed in frustration. Meriwether mimicked the action from his perch on her shoulder.

“—not that I can make sense of, that is, on account of it being in code.”

“Yes sir,” Roger said, “but we hoped you might know how to break the code.”

The old man bent his head to the map again. “Break the code? Break the code! Break the code…no. I cannot do that. Not without its key.”

Jocelyn’s heart sank. “So there is no hope, then?” she asked.

The mapmaker peered at the girl over the top of his glasses. “I didn’t say there was no hope, now, did I? I said there was no key. Leastwise not one that we can see. Likely there are instructions here, and lots of them. We just need to wheedle them out. Many a pirate likes to use trickery and invisible ink in order to keep his secrets hidden. I use it some myself. All you have to do to make it reappear is apply the right substance and coax those words to the surface, real easylike.” He looked up again, his eyes wildly roving the room. They settled on Meriwether. “That ought to do it,” he whispered.

Jocelyn didn’t like the crazed look on the old man’s face. She took a half step back. “Do what?”

In a flash he shot out his hand and plucked the fairy from her shoulder.

“Don’t hurt him!” Jocelyn cried.

The mapmaker turned Meriwether upside down and shook him like a saltshaker over the map. “Aw, it won’t hurt him none. I just need a bit of his dust. If there are any words there, it should lift them right up.” He finished his vigorous shaking and placed the fairy on the counter.

Meriwether stood and flew tipsily to Jocelyn’s outstretched hand. He jangled a few choice insults, climbed up her sleeve, and remained hidden from sight.

The girl hardly noticed, so intent was she on the map. Glowing words began to appear, floating to the surface of the page from some unseen depths. Before they were clear enough to read, Jocelyn snatched up the map, holding it away from the eyes of the mapmaker. Ignorance would help to ensure his discretion even better than more coins.

She and Roger silently read together:

You will not find the treasure lying safe within its place

Until you find the key that lies behind my face.

After a short time, the words faded and disappeared. Jocelyn folded the map and placed it back in her pocket.

“Did you find what you needed, then?” the mapmaker asked.

“Not entirely, but we have a clue. That’s a start, I suppose.” She tried, but Jocelyn couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

Roger nudged her. “I know it feels impossible, but so did defeating the Neverland’s crocodile, and look how that turned out. Your entire crew is now wearing crocodile-skin boots!”

The mapmaker gave the girl a shrewd look. “So you’re the one that did in the beast, eh? Wait here a minute, if you don’t mind.” He came out from behind the counter and made his way to a barrel filled with scrolls.

As he riffled through it, Roger tapped Jocelyn’s locket and whispered, “Isn’t there a painting of your father’s face in there? He did send it to you. Maybe it holds the key.”

Jocelyn looked over at the mapmaker. He had his head so far down inside the barrel that his feet barely touched the floor. She flipped open the locket and looked at her father’s portrait.

“Is there anything behind it?” Roger asked.

Jocelyn tried to pry the painting up, but it didn’t budge. “I suppose that would have been too easy.” She turned the locket over. “And the back has nothing but the engraving: ‘To E. H. on our wedding day.’ I don’t see how that could help break the code.”

They were interrupted by the mapmaker’s shouted plea for help. He had found what he needed but was having trouble extricating himself from the barrel. Roger rushed to assist him and pulled the little man out. He smoothed his jacket—and his dignity—before handing Jocelyn a tightly rolled paper. “This might aid you in your search.”

She unrolled it and saw a map of the Neverland itself. Under her gaze, a section of coastline bulged outward, blooming into a peninsula.

She gasped. “The drawing changed!”

“It certainly did.” The mapmaker seemed to grow with pride. “I crafted that there map from the paper-thin bark of a Neverland dragonmaple, harvested under a blue moon. It holds a bit of the magic of the island, changing as she does. Hard as the dickens to get it right. I’ve only ever succeeded with a few. Take it and get off with ye.”

“But…” Happy as she was with the map, Jocelyn couldn’t understand why he would just give it to her. Discretion and information had cost her two gold coins. What would he want in exchange for this?

The mapmaker cleared his throat. “My cat was eaten by the Neverland crocodile. Consider this a token of my gratitude to ye for ridding the island of the monster.” He sniffed loudly and pointed to the door. “Now go.” Jocelyn turned to leave, her face still buried in the map.

“Thank you, sir,” Roger said, “and my condolences for the loss of your cat.”

If you were to ask me, I’d say congratulations would be more fitting. The crocodile did the mapmaker—and us all—a favor.

Cats are only slightly better creatures than children.