Erin Michelle Sky - The Wendy (Tales of the Wendy Book 1)

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This book is a work of fiction. All events and dialog contained herein are purely fictitious. All characters, with the exception of certain well-known historical and public figures, are products of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical and public figures appear, the situations, events, and dialogs concerning those persons are fictitious. The inclusion of certain historical facts is not intended to change the fictitious nature of the book.

Copyright 2016-2017 by Erin Michelle Sky & Steven Brown

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. Address all such requests to .

Library of Congress PCN: 2017917721

ISBN: 978-1946137074 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1946137050 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-1946137067 (trade paperback)

Cover art by Benjamin P. Roque

Cover layout and interior design by Jordan D. Gum

Ebook design by Dawson Cosh

Edited by Lourdes Venard

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For everyone

who has ever suffered judgment

just for being who they are

y 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 dont 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 womans 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 doesnt mean they all do, Wendy would argue. She was also seven, but she was very logical.

Yes, they do all, he would counter. Youre just jealous cause you dont 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.

Youre nobody , he would tell her, laughing and poking her with a cruel finger. Youre 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 Wendys 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 wont 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. Healeyarranged 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 Mortimers 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 horsesa 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.

Whats this, then? the driver grumbled. You dont have to ask them, for heavens sake. Theyre 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 Wendys 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.