The Wendy

Chapter One

By the year 1780, London was bursting at the seams. Almost a million people had been stuffed into every nook and cranny, and a good number of these had no idea where they had come from. Nestled in baskets and swaddled in rags, they had appeared overnight on the doorsteps of almshouses all over the city. Babies. Staring wide-eyed at mystified caretakers, demanding explanations.

But there were none to be had.

This was why Wendy Darling believed in magic. It was the only thing that made sense.

Opinions, however, were divided on the subject.

“Babies don’t come from magic. They come from mothers.”

Mortimer Black was seven and thought he knew everything. He was different from the other children because he had arrived with a note. The note gave his name, penned in a woman’s delicate hand, and he lorded it over the rest of them every chance he got. Mortimer knew he had a mother.

“Just because some babies come from mothers doesn’t mean they all do,” Wendy would argue. She was also seven, but she was very logical.

“Yes, they do all,” he would counter. “You’re just jealous ’cause you don’t have a real name.”

“You take that back! Wendy Darling is my real name!”

But she had her doubts.

Mrs. Healey, the caretaker, was fond of the name Wendy and thought her a darling child. Wendy, darling, fetch me the pitcher, please, she would say. Or, Wendy, darling, where has little Charlie run off to?

Wendy secretly thought Mortimer might have a point.

“You’re nobody,” he would tell her, laughing and poking her with a cruel finger. “You’re just a foundling!”

Fortunately, Wendy had an excellent right jab. That usually ended the matter, at least until she was ten. Ten was the year Wendy’s whole life ended before it had even begun.

◆

The disaster struck at Bartholomew Fair, in September of 1783.

The almshouse barely took in enough money to feed everyone, let alone send the children off to fairs. But there was a particular lord in London who loved fairs more than anything, and Bartholomew Fair most of all, with its acrobatics and its puppet shows and its exotic beasts smelling of faraway places. Of desert spices and fever dreams.

Unfortunately, a lot of drinking went on there too, and he was a public figure. He had to keep up appearances.

So this lord, whose name we won’t mention so as not to rat him out, came up with the scheme of funding a trip for the almshouse every year. “For the poor foundling children,” he explained, addressing the querulous, upturned noses of high society, “who have no mothers to take them on outings or to buy them sausages or gingerbreads or hot pies or puddings.”

He was especially fond of puddings.

He would arrive at dawn on the appointed day in September with a handful of carriages, each drawn by two fine horses, and the children would all line up behind Mrs. Healey—arranged alphabetically so she could keep proper track of them.

“Adam, Agnes, Arthur, Bartholomew,” Mrs. Healey would bark, ticking the children off on her fingers. “No, Bartholomew, the fair was not named after you. Bridget, Cecilia, Charles,” and so on.

As each name was pronounced, she would tap the corresponding child lightly on the head, and he or she would be off like a shot, tumbling into a carriage. They laughed and screamed and piled on top of each other to fit in. All but Wendy, who was always last in line, terrified that this time they would run out of room after Valentine and she would be left behind.

“Wendy,” Mrs. Healey finally pronounced.

Wendy raced to the first carriage, but Mortimer Black stuck his head out the window before she even got to the door.

“No room!” he yelled. “Go to the back of the line!” Wendy could see for herself there was plenty of room, but she heard Mortimer’s friends laughing and carrying on. “Back of the line!” they echoed. “Back of the line, Wendy!”

Wendy looked despairingly down the line at the rest of the carriages, all stuffed to the gills, with little heads and arms poking out the windows. But then Charlie, to whom one of those heads belonged, called out to her from the fourth carriage. “We have room, Wendy. If we squeeze a little more.”

Wendy trotted toward him, but only as far as the horses—a lovely pair of matching brown mares, with black manes and tails and wide, strong hooves.

“Excuse me,” she said to them both. “Do you think you could pull one more? I hate to ask it. I can see you have a full load already. But I would very much like to go to the fair too, if you think you could manage it.”

“What’s this, then?” the driver grumbled. “You don’t have to ask them, for heaven’s sake. They’re just animals.”

“All right,” she said, to appease him. But then she whispered to the horses anyway, “Could you?”

The mares looked at each other, and they looked back at Wendy. They puffed out their chests and held their heads high, each nodding just once against the bit.

“Thank you,” Wendy whispered. Only then did she run to the door and clamber on top of the pile.

◆

It was a beautiful day for a fair, and London had come out in droves. The children wanted to see everything at once. “The high wire! No, the fire-eater! No, the rhinoceroses!” Rules were set, compromises were made, motions were passed, and a schedule was confirmed.

First, puddings. Acrobatics from 9:00 until 10:00. Then meat pies. The strong man and other amazing feats from 10:30 to 11:30. Then gingerbreads. Exotic beasts at noon (they were always Wendy’s favorite). And so on. Unfortunately, the world ended before exotic beasts, at 10:48 on the dot.

The foundling congress was mobilizing from the strong man to the fire-eater when it encountered a small contingent of officers in the Royal Navy. The men were tall and fit, handsome and proud, resplendent in their blue long-tailed coats and fine gold buttons. The sea of children parted around them, but not Wendy. Wendy stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

Ever since she had read The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, on loan from Mrs. Healey, she had longed to sail the seas, embarking upon fantastical escapades and witnessing all the strange and magical wonders of the world. When one of the sailors noticed her attention, he tipped his hat and smiled, and all the yearnings of her heart welled up in her small chest, bursting out of her at once.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be an officer, just like you!” she declared.

“Are you?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Yes, I am,” she insisted, but his laughter confused her, and she looked less certain than before.

“What’s this?” asked one of his companions.

“She says she’s going to be an officer,” he repeated. “I’d watch your back if I were you, William. She’ll be after your job soon.” And now they both laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Wendy wanted to know, but the cold grip of dread had already wrapped its icy fist around her heart.

Before they could reply, Mortimer Black, who had heard everything, hollered out, “Girls can’t be in the navy! Girls take care of babies! You’re so stupid, you don’t know anything!” He looked around with a cruel gleam in his eye, shouting even more loudly. “Did you hear that? Wendy thinks she’s going to be in the navy!”

Everywhere she turned, children laughed and pointed.

She whirled to face him, but the crowd kept on spinning. Spinning and spinning. Like the carousel. Faster and faster. The sky closed in around her. Gray fog and then smoke and then starless night. And Mortimer’s pale face swam up through its depths, his eyes pitch black. Black as his name, black as his heart, piercing her soul. Over and over, around and around. And she thought she heard him singing.

If women ever sail the sea,
They’ll scrub the decks for men like me!
They’ll marry none but Davy Jones,
And for their children, only bones!

She closed her eyes and fell to her knees.

It isn’t true. It isn’t real.

The thought steadied her, and the ground snapped back into place. Solid beneath her knees. Beneath her fingers splayed out for balance across the cobblestones.

She launched herself to her feet and ran.

❮✦❯

Chapter Two

She ran away. That was all she knew. Away from the laughter. Away from Mortimer Black. Away from the darkness that clung like cobwebs and from the song that trailed behind.

But as she darted madly through the crowd, ducking savage elbows and hurdling violent parasols, the sun worked its quiet magic, burning it all away like a dream. Ladies and gentlemen strolled under the bright blue sky, smiling at each other and marveling over the fair’s attractions, and there were no pitch-black eyes or dead pirate demons or mysterious fogs to be scared of.

So Wendy stopped running.

And then instead of being frightened, she was furious. How dare that awful Mortimer Black make fun of her in front of everyone!

But beneath the anger, she was also sad. Because she thought what he had said might be true—that when she grew up she would have no hope of becoming a sea captain. She would have to become a mother and take care of babies and never see the world.

And then she thought she might prefer to marry Davy Jones after all. Because at least that would be interesting. Which was the exact moment in which she met Olaudah Equiano. (Although he was known as Gustavus Vassa at the time.)

Wendy was tired of running. She needed a place to rest and think. And to brood a little, because she was feeling sullen. But the fair was crowded. The only place to sit was upon a small two-seater bench, which was already one-half occupied by a dark-skinned man in a dated, but well-pressed, white linen shirt, green frock coat, and black breeches.

She sat down next to him, crossed her arms over her chest, tucked in her chin, and harrumphed. (At the age of ten, Wendy was already a highly accomplished harrumpher.)

“Goodness!” exclaimed Olaudah Equiano (or Gustavus Vassa). He was the man sitting next to her, as you had probably guessed. “What could have produced such a grand harrumph on such a fine day?”

“I was just thinking,” Wendy admitted, “that I would rather marry Davy Jones than grow up and take care of babies.”

“Oh, you must never think such a thing!” he cried. “Never, never, never!”

“Why not?” Wendy uncrossed her arms and looked up. The man was so adamant that she became immediately curious, and she forgot all about being sullen.

“I know too many men who have ended up at the bottom of the sea. Many, many men, God rest their souls. To invoke that name is very bad luck. Terrible luck. Do not attract his attention. In the middle of a starless night, he will send a wave crashing over the deck of your ship, pulling you into his arms forever.”

“Oh,” Wendy said, slumping her shoulders and dropping her head to stare at the ground. “It doesn’t matter, then. I’ll never be a sailor. I’m just a girl.”

“Just a girl? What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t ever be a sea captain,” Wendy said. A tear started to form in her left eye, but she swiped it away furiously.

Mr. Equiano (or Mr. Vassa) regarded her for a long moment before speaking again.

“Believe me, Miss …?”

“Darling,” Wendy said, sniffling. “Wendy Darling.”

“Miss Darling. My name is Gustavus Vassa. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed in her direction without standing up. “Forgive me, Miss Darling, when I say you are far too young to know what you will or will not become.”

Wendy glanced back up at him, clearly hoping he would go on.

“Take me, for instance,” he continued, happy to oblige her. “I was born in Africa with the name Olaudah Equiano. When I was only a boy, even younger than you, I was captured and sold into slavery. I thought surely I would die. And I almost did. Many times. But I ended up sailing all over the world.

“I have seen the Mediterranean and the Americas and the islands of the Caribbean. I have seen fish that fly and men whose lives were saved by their dreams. I have seen poisoners found out by magic, by the men who carried their victims’ coffins, and I have seen women who could tell you both your past and your future without ever having met you before.

“I have been a free boy named Olaudah Equiano and a slave named Gustavus Vassa, and now I am free once again. I have been a plantation manager and a barber and a scientist and even a sea captain for a time.”

“You were a captain?” Wendy exclaimed, interrupting.

“Yes. As I said, for a time. I have learned how to make fresh water from the sea, and I have used that knowledge to save my life in a land where the sun never sets and where entire ships are trapped in ice forever. I have done all this, but when I was a boy I thought I would spend my whole life in my mother’s village. So you cannot say today what you might or might not do tomorrow. That much is certain.”

“Yes, but you’re a man though,” Wendy pointed out. “Women are different.”

“People would say the same about a slave, I think,” Mr. Vassa (or Mr. Equiano) suggested gently. “But women are not as different everywhere as they are here in England. In the village where I was born, we did not have sailing ships. But we did have weapons—swords and bows and even firearms. Both men and women were trained to fight, to protect the village. When I was a boy, I once climbed a tree and watched my mother charge into battle carrying a broadsword. I was terrified for her life, but she was glorious.”

“Did she live?” Wendy blurted out. A woman! Wielding a sword! Her limbs trembled at the thought of it.

“She did,” he affirmed. “She fought fiercely that day, and she survived. She protected our village. I was very proud of her. My sister and I were only captured while she was away. If she had been home, no one could have taken us. My mother was too strong, and too brave.”

“Cowards,” Wendy snarled under her breath.

Mr. Equiano—Wendy’s mind had just now settled on this name for him, in honor of his mother—raised an eyebrow and shot her an appraising glance. He grunted his agreement in the back of his throat but said nothing more, and they fell into a companionable silence. A harbor, smooth as glass, amidst the fair that stormed around them, all raucous laughter and affected screams.

“What happened to your sister?” Wendy finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Equiano replied sadly. “It is my greatest regret. If I knew where she was, I would buy her freedom. If I knew where my mother was, I would try to see her again. But I was taken too young.”

“I don’t know how to find my mother, either,” Wendy admitted softly. “I don’t even know who she is. Or if I have one at all.”

“Then where do you live?” he asked in surprise.

“At the almshouse.”

Wendy shrugged. There wasn’t much else to say about that.

“I see.” He watched her for a long moment, clearly mulling something over, and then he slapped his hands decisively upon his knees and burst to his feet. “Right! I shall help you find your way back, of course. But I have just returned from Wales, and I shall be in London all winter. If you would like to learn how to make fresh water from the sea, I would be happy to teach you.”

“You would? Oh, yes, please!”

“Good,” he said, nodding. “It is something every sea captain should know. That, and how to navigate by the stars. And how to fashion a mast from a tree trunk, in case of emergency. And how to repair a sail. And how to fire a musket, as well as the cannons, of course …”

The world, which had ended at precisely 10:48, started back up again. And Wendy’s heart, like winter’s ripe cocoon upon the first kiss of the sun, burst into a thousand rainbow wings, heralding its joy to the sky.

Mr. Equiano cleared his throat.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “I should make a list.”

❮✦❯

Chapter Three

That was how Wendy came to study with Olaudah Equiano. Whenever he was in London, he would teach her navigation and shipbuilding and marksmanship and how to handle a sword. And when he went to sea, he would leave her with a list of books to read while he was away. (Fortunately, the lord benefactor of the almshouse had an excellent library.)

Wendy begged him to take her along, of course, but he always refused.

“If it were my own ship, Miss Darling,” he would tell her, “I would hire you without hesitation. You have a keen intellect and a persevering nature. But I am not the captain. I could not protect you if the men decided upon some nefarious purpose.”

“But if you won’t take me with you, why teach me anything at all?” Wendy would complain.

“Because I saw a spirit in you the day we met,” he would reply. “I believe you will eventually find your way onto a ship, one way or another, and I want you to be prepared.”

And then he would finish with, “Just not today,” which Wendy would say right along with him, bobbing her chin in time with his and rolling her eyes.

Despite this frustration, life at the almshouse was much better after Wendy began her studies. The other children still snickered when she talked about the navy. Or when she stood out in the cold, studying the stars. But Wendy didn’t mind. Her life had a purpose, and no one could take that away from her.

When she went to visit her mentor, only Charlie bothered to ask where she was going. And when she read in the parlor, Charlie would plop himself down at her feet and ask about the book. Eventually, he even stood next to her through the cold, winter nights, staring up at the stars.

“Do you see that one?” Wendy asked him one night, as they were doing just that.

“Which?” Charlie asked.

“Look. There’s a first star, there. And then a second, to the right a bit. And if you draw a line between them and keep right on going, there’s another one they almost point to, off by itself and not quite as bright. Do you see it now?”

“I see it!” Charlie shouted.

“That’s the North Star,” she told him. “All the other stars spin around that one all night long, but that one doesn’t move. That’s how you can tell where north is, even without a compass. So you can never truly be lost.”

“Never?” Charlie asked.

“Well, not in the northern hemisphere, at least. They have different stars on the other side of the world.”

“The northern what?”

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, shivering.

“Come with me,” Wendy finally said. “I need to show you on a globe. It’s easier.”

“All right,” Charlie agreed.

“Now, you know,” Wendy warned him, “if I start showing you things, the other children will laugh at you, too. So you’d best be prepared.”

“I don’t mind,” Charlie promised. “They laugh at me anyway. But you never laugh at me. I’d rather be friends with you.”

Wendy smiled. “All right,” she said. “That’s what we’ll do, then.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

◆

So, Wendy had a tutor and a friend and as many books as she could read. That would have been all she ever needed if she could have remained a child forever, but all children grow up. And grown-ups need to earn a living.

The way they managed this in London in 1787 was to place children in apprenticeships. The children would learn blacksmithing from a blacksmith, for example, or tailoring from a tailor. And then, after seven years, they would become blacksmiths or tailors themselves. These apprenticeships could begin any time after the age of fourteen. In an almshouse, as you might imagine, fourteen-year-old children were practically shoved out the door.

Children didn’t feed themselves.

Wendy wanted Mr. Equiano to take her on as an apprentice, but he refused on the grounds that he could not take her with him to sea and also that he did not practice a proper trade in which he could certify her.

“And what will I tell a ship’s captain in seven years’ time?” he asked her. “That I have taught you to be a sailor? When you have never once set foot upon a ship?”

“Then take me with you!” she argued.

But, of course, he would not.

And Wendy was running out of time.

◆

“You must accept an apprenticeship,” Mrs. Healey declared on Wendy’s fifteenth birthday. “There is a dressmaker who inquired just yesterday.”

Another dressmaker. Wendy shuddered. No one wanted to apprentice the girls. Dressmakers, weavers, housemaids. Perhaps the occasional milliner. Only boys became blacksmiths. Or shipbuilders. Let alone sea captains.

Dresses? Undergarments? The very thought filled Wendy with dread. She would rather face an entire fleet of pirates than spend one day sewing whalebone into ladies’ corsets.

“Send Bridget,” Wendy begged. “Please, Mrs. Healey? Bridget loves dresses.”

Mrs. Healey pursed her lips and rubbed the fingers of her right hand together for several long moments.

“Very well,” she agreed finally. “But you must choose something, Wendy. You cannot delay forever, or I shall decide for you.”

After that, Wendy made herself as scarce as possible. She begged Mr. Equiano for chores that she and Charlie could perform for a farthing, or perhaps even two, and when he was away at sea, they ran odd errands for their lord benefactor. They scraped together just enough to pay for meager suppers of stale bread and hard cheese, so they wouldn’t have to eat at the orphanage.

While the other children were slowly divvied out among London’s poorest tradesmen, Wendy and Charlie stayed out of sight. They climbed into the dormitory windows late at night, just to sleep, and they snuck back out before daylight. It was during this time that Mortimer Black was apprenticed to a shipwright, of all things. A shipwright! Wendy thought she might vomit, it was so unfair.

“I can’t believe it!” she lamented. “Mortimer gets to be a shipwright, while Charlie and I have to sneak around after dark like a couple of thieves!”

“There are worse ways to live, Miss Darling,” her tutor admonished her. “This life is of your own choosing. You could make dresses or hats if you desired. There is a price to changing one’s destiny.”

But not one of them at the time—not Mr. Equiano or Wendy or Charlie—knew just how true those words would prove to be.

❮✦❯

Chapter Four

In the autumn of 1789, when Wendy was sixteen years old, a note arrived one afternoon at the home of Olaudah Equiano, addressed to “Miss Wendy Darling.”

“For me?” Wendy asked.

“So it would appear.” Mr. Equiano handed it over with a frown of concern.

Wendy opened it with no small trepidation herself, and in but a moment, all their fears were confirmed.

“What does it say?” Charlie asked, so Wendy read it aloud.

Miss Darling,

Do not believe for one moment that I have forgotten about you and Charlie. I know how many of the beds in my charge are occupied. I have chosen to overlook your behavior until now, but the nursery is full. Your beds are needed. Select an apprenticeship by January, or I shall send you both off with the first house servants who come asking.

Euphemia Healey,

Almshouse Caretaker

“I’m so sorry, children,” Mr. Equiano said. “This is sad news, indeed.”

“But, Mr. Equiano, sir!” Wendy protested. “You could take us both on! Please!”

“There is no such thing as a sailor’s apprenticeship, Miss Darling, as I have explained many times. One merely signs up for naval service, and I have no ship of my own. You would have to find a captain who would accept you into his crew.”

He looked so pained that Wendy couldn’t bring herself to beg him again. She knew there was nothing he could do.

“But no captain wants a woman for a sailor,” she whispered, as though saying it too loudly might make it even more true. Her face fell, and Charlie rushed to place a comforting arm around her shoulder. He was only fifteen, but he was already taller than she.

“You should sign up, Charlie,” she said sadly. “They’ll take you at least. You shouldn’t have to be stuck here just because I am.”

“Not without you. Never without you.” He said it firmly, without any hesitation, and his loyalty made Wendy smile. At least a little.

“It will be all right,” Charlie promised. “Perhaps we can both serve in the same household. At least we’ll still have each other.” If he looked almost hopeful about the prospect, Wendy clearly didn’t feel the same way.

“But … house servants!” she wailed. “It isn’t right! We’ve worked so hard! And for so long!”

“What the heart desires most in all the world,” Mr. Equiano reminded her gently, “does not always come to us when we wish it. Such yearnings cannot be rushed. We must work for them. And we must continue to work for them. Even when all seems lost. So that we will be ready, should the heavens find a way to deliver us.”

“Yes, sir,” Wendy replied, but she didn’t sound happy about it.

She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on her studies, but her eyes kept glancing toward the window. Toward the wide world beyond. Toward a freedom she felt slipping away.

◆

By December, there was still no hope in sight, and Wendy was feeling more desperate by the day. She imagined wild schemes, sharing them with Charlie in whispers as they walked back to the orphanage through winter-darkened streets.

“We could run away together,” she murmured.

“And go where?” Charlie wanted to know. Not that he was against it. He just liked to have a plan.

“Anywhere!” Wendy said, her eyes twinkling in the light of a streetlamp as they passed through the edge of its lonely halo. “The Mediterranean! The Caribbean! I don’t care. Just … somewhere!”

“It’s always the sea with you,” Charlie commented, but he said it with a fond grin.

He blew on his hands, trying to warm them, his breath curling visibly into the night. Suddenly, Wendy grabbed his elbow, and Charlie stopped in his tracks. He stared at her hand, his arm perfectly still, as though a wild sparrow had landed upon it and he was scared that even the tiniest movement might frighten it away.

“Charlie,” she breathed. “Look!”

He followed the line of her other arm, which was pointing at a stray newspaper page, lying on the ground at their feet. Just then, a wind picked up, and the paper lifted off into the air.

“No!” Wendy tore away from him and leaped forward, snatching it before it could get away.

“Wendy?” Charlie asked, clearly bewildered. “What is it?”

Wendy held the page in trembling hands, tears welling in her eyes. She didn’t say a word, handing the paper to Charlie and swiping one rough, woolen coat sleeve across her face.

Charlie scanned the notices until he found the box that had drawn her attention. He hadn’t known what he was looking for, but when he found it, he recognized it immediately. It was an unassuming rectangle in the bottom right corner of the page.

The Home Office seeks men and women of apprenticeship age to serve the Kingdom of Britain, it said. Applicants must be of strong mind and body, able to read and write. The ad was followed by a London address, where British citizens might apply in person.

“This is it, Charlie!” Wendy exclaimed, gripping his arm again, this time with both hands. “It’s our way in!”

“But … how did you even see that?” Charlie demanded, his voice filled with wonder. “In the dark … that tiny notice …”

“I was meant to see it!” Her eyes flashed with a power that almost made him want to take a step back. (Almost, but not quite.) “Men and women, Charlie! To work for the Home Office!”

“That won’t get you overseas,” Charlie pointed out, his voice hesitant. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but it was the truth. “It’s the Foreign Office that travels the world. The Home Office, well … it’s called the Home Office for a reason.”

“But it opens the door! Who knows where we can go from there! It’s our chance!” And then she added, more quietly, “It has to be.”

Charlie looked into her eyes. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. But then he nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “If this is what you want, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Wendy threw her arms around his neck and hugged him with all her might. “Everything’s going to be all right, Charlie. I just know it is.”

If Charlie didn’t feel quite as certain as she did, he kept it to himself.

◆

“Miss … Darling, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Wendy smiled her most friendly smile at the elderly gentleman who sat behind the desk. He was thin, almost frail, but he had a sharp edge to his glance that made Wendy nervous.

“And why do you want to join the Home Office, Miss Darling?”

“To serve His Royal Majesty, of course,” she said immediately. “And the Kingdom of Britain.”

He pierced her with a terrible stare and raised one eyebrow, catching his right cheek between his teeth and working his jaw back and forth. He was clearly judging her. Sizing her up. But what he was looking for, Wendy had no idea. She held his gaze all the while, still smiling, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You’d have no control over your post,” he warned her, tilting his head slightly to prompt a reply.

“I understand,” she agreed.

“And you’d have to be able to keep a secret.” His lips pressed themselves together and shot toward the left corner of his mouth, broadcasting his skepticism. He obviously didn’t believe for a second that any woman could withstand the temptation to gossip.

“I can keep a secret,” Wendy assured him.

The man snorted. “Can you prove it?”

“Can you?” she replied evenly. “If you were to divulge a secret to me, right now, just to prove that you can keep one, well then, you would only be proving that you cannot. I, of course, suffer the same logic. The fact that I will not attempt to prove it is at least some evidence of my trustworthiness. But, I admit, it is not proof. I don’t see how I could prove it. I don’t see how anyone could.”

“Hmm …” he replied, still noncommittal.

They held each other’s gaze. Wendy remained silent, using the time to study him. Never had she seen a man more accustomed to holding authority. His raised eyebrow. His tight-pressed lips. The fingers of his right hand, drumming steadily upon the desk. Pinky, ring finger, middle, index. All in rapid succession. One–two–three–four. One–two–three–four. One–two–three–four.

Everything about him commanded respect. She could use that where she was going.

Where she hoped she was going.

She waited him out.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

“All right,” he said finally. “We’ll see how you do. Come back tomorrow for your induction. Then I’m sending you to Dover. But remember, Miss Darling, the Home Office requires your discretion. You’ll tell no one that you’re joining us, or what we’re hiring you to do.”

He paused a moment and then added one final comment, muttering more to himself than to her.

“Not that anyone would believe you anyway.”

❮✦❯

Chapter Five

Admittedly, things could have been better.

Charlie had been assigned to a ship, and Wendy had not.

Charlie’s knowledge of mathematics and science and a thousand shipboard skills had catapulted him to the rank of officer, despite his low beginnings. A feat all but unheard of in the British Navy.

Wendy’s exact same (if not slightly superior) skills had been ignored altogether, and she had been assigned to Dover Castle. Destined every day to stare out at the sea, without ever once embarking upon it.

She missed her friend, to be sure, and she thought her treatment unfair. But still, she was lucky to have a post at all. Or so she told herself. She had known from the beginning what she was up against. And even the post in Dover was so much more than she could have hoped.

Well, more than she might have ended up with, at any rate.

At least she wasn’t a milliner.

“A dire threat to the Kingdom of Britain,” they had said. “You will know it when it comes. Watch, and wait. Be ready. Protect the realm.”

So she had watched. And she had waited. She had continued her training with the men of Dover in firearms and in swordsmanship. She had gently and humbly shared her own knowledge of mathematics and science and a thousand shipboard skills. She had earned their respect. Over the course of a year.

An entire year … and nothing.

She was not one step closer to sailing the world.

She tried to keep her mind occupied. To prepare herself. To learn what she could about the enemy. But all she had uncovered so far were lies. And foolishness. And the bitter sting of disappointment.

Like this ridiculous thing: Dissertazione sopra i vampiri.

A Dissertation on Vampires.

Wendy stared at the book reproachfully, but it merely lay on the table in silent rebuttal, entirely nonplussed. The text had been penned for the Vatican by Archbishop Giuseppe Davanzati in 1744. But the title was a lie.

It should have been called A Refutation of Vampires. Or better yet, A Regurgitation of Popular Opinion on the Subject of Vampires, which Wendy Darling Will Read in the Year of Our Lord 1790, Only to Be Profoundly Disappointed.

She shoved this most recent offense onto a tall stack of equally useless volumes and began drumming her fingers on the table. Both John Abbot and Michael Bennet knew what that meant. So did Nana, for that matter. But it wasn’t so much the action that gave her away. It was the cadence.

Wendy had spent a significant portion of the past year refining a finger-drumming repertoire to match her every mood. Happy drumming, for example, demanded a frenetic staccato between her thumb and ring finger—a snare drum of enthusiasm that heralded shouts of joy and gleeful dancing about the room. That one was Michael’s favorite.

Mournful drumming, on the other hand, required an agonizingly slow succession of unadorned thumps, meted out by her third and fourth fingers together. Thump … thump … thump …. It was heartbreakingly soulful despite its simplicity, like the funeral tolling of a church bell, and it always brought a tear to John’s eye. Not that he would ever let you see it.

This particular drumming, however, was a quiet, tense cadence that went like this: one, one–two–three, one … one, one–two–three, one. This was the rhythm of extreme frustration. The one that John and Michael both called the March of the Executioner, although never where Wendy might overhear them.

The two men looked at each other now, sharing a meaningful glance from one desk to another across the thick carpet of John’s private office in Dover Castle, and the glance said this: “Do you think we can sneak away before she notices?”

But this particular glance was so eloquent as to come dangerously close to conversation, and everyone knows it is impolite to enter into conversation without first performing the proper introductions all around. So let us pause for a moment to do just that.

Wendy Darling is now seventeen years old, having matured into an uncommonly beautiful young woman. She has honey-brown eyes and long ringlets of thick brown hair. In direct sunlight her locks appear reddish, or at times almost blond, while at night they appear quite dark indeed, so that you might imagine her with any color of hair you wish, and you would not be entirely wrong. She has a fetching smile (with a secret kiss in the far corner) and a charitable disposition, especially when it comes to orphans and foundlings.

She is attached to the Fourteenth Platoon of the Nineteenth Light Dragoons, a British regiment that no longer exists, having been disbanded seven years prior in June of 1783. (Or rather, it clearly does exist, its Fourteenth Platoon still prowling about Dover Castle on matters of domestic security, but the Home Office isn’t admitting it.) She is paid as a nurse, which suits her quite well—even though her true purpose in the regiment has nothing to do with nursing—because it provides her with a convenient excuse to borrow numerous scientific texts from the local gentry.

John Abbot is a second lieutenant and the Fourteenth Platoon’s ranking officer. He is Wendy’s brother-in-arms, but he is in no way related to her, despite what you might have heard. He is tall and lean, with unmistakably dark hair. He is profoundly responsible. So much so, that you could follow him about for an entire fortnight and never once catch him indulging in a lighthearted moment. At twenty-two years of age, he has yet to grow out of the proud and stoic silence of his youth, and Wendy has begun to suspect that he never will.

Michael Bennet, on the other hand, is fair-haired and broad-shouldered, with a devilish gleam of fiery red that permeates both his locks and his character. He is John’s platoon sergeant, another brother-in-arms. He is dashing and charismatic, known to woo and abandon the fairer sex as quickly as Wendy can devour a book, which is saying something. Wendy is often the subject of his affections, but she cannot take them at all seriously, given that he casts them so broadly about and in such an offhand manner.

Each of these men would have thrown himself at Wendy Darling with complete and eternal devotion had she ever given him so much as a hint that she wished for him to do so.

Much to their respective disappointment, she had not.

As for Nana, she is a shaggy, dark Newfoundland monster of a dog who follows Wendy’s every move without exception. According to her official papers, her name is “Sheba,” but Wendy calls her “Nana,” so that is how the dog has come to think of herself. She has chosen Wendy above the others because it is abundantly clear to her who is really in charge and who is really looking after whom, despite what John seems sometimes to believe.

Dogs always know.

So there you are, the most basic of introductions complete, the rest to be discovered as time goes on (which is how we get to know everyone when it comes right down to it), and we are back at the part where John and Michael were sharing a glance that said, “Do you think we can sneak away before she notices?”

This also happens to be the part where Nana comes in.

Wendy’s drumming had roused Nana from her nap just in time to catch John and Michael sharing their conspiratorial glance. Understanding them perfectly, Nana stood up from her self-appointed spot at Wendy’s feet, stretched languorously, walked to the doorway, and plopped herself down across it, blocking any hope of exit for either one. She looked pointedly at Michael with a satisfied tilt of her left ear and fell promptly back asleep.

As quickly as that, the conspiracy was broken. Now the two men glared back and forth at one another, silently demanding, “Say something; no, you say something,” until John finally gave Michael a new look altogether that said, “I outrank you; that’s an order.”

Michael grimaced and cleared his throat.

“Any luck?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“No,” she said, her voice sharp with annoyance. “There is no such thing as science anywhere to be had when it comes to the everlost. First, popular opinion followed the church; now, the church follows popular opinion. Either way, there’s no truth to any of it. This last volume attributes every eyewitness account to mass hysteria. Every single one. Can you imagine?”

“Fools,” John grumbled, quick to match her mood. Truth be told, John had been in something of a foul mood since autumn, when the Home Office had begun paying him as a pastry chef. It was just a cover of course, but still, it rankled. His tenure in clandestine service was not living up to his expectations. (This was just one of many issues upon which he and Wendy thoroughly agreed.)

“Seems to me that’s good news,” Michael protested. “At least we won’t be facing widespread panic. Let the Vatican denounce the everlost as figments of the collective imagination. All the better. And pray the Royal Society continues to believe its own ‘enlightened’ skepticism.”

“You’re right, of course,” Wendy demurred, pursing her lips into a reluctant frown. “Belief would be worse than ridicule. But it leaves so little in the way of scientific inquiry. How are we supposed to learn anything about the threat—or how to counter it—if science doesn’t believe in it in the first place?”

“I don’t see why it matters,” John countered. “We’ve been stationed so far from London we don’t have a chance of running across them anyway. The everlost aren’t going to attack Dover. We’re in a lot more danger from the French out here.”

“Not from them either,” Michael commented. “The French have their own problems.”

“At least the trouble in France has been keeping them on their own side of the straits,” John agreed. “Not that I’d mind a bit of a skirmish now and then. It’s a depressingly boring post, isn’t it?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Michael retorted.

But of course, Wendy agreed with John. Not that she was about to admit it out loud. If the French were to attack, she couldn’t help thinking, at least that would be interesting.

She shoved her chair backward and rose to her feet, prompting both men to stand as well. “I could use some fresh air to clear my head,” she announced. “It’s just about time for Nana’s walk, if either of you would care to join us.”

And because Michael did not want Wendy to go walking alone with John, and because John did not want Wendy to go walking alone with Michael, they both agreed to join her.

If we’re lucky, Wendy thought, perhaps someone will try to rob us. There’s no harm in wishing, after all.

Which should tell you, despite all her years of believing in magic, searching every library she could find for even the tiniest scrap of reliable information, just how little she had managed to discover.

— End of the sample —

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