Even after Wendy awoke to a warm, cloudless dawn, she still felt as though she were wandering through a dream. Her boots seemed barely to touch the ground as she and Nana collected their crew and made their way toward the carriage that would take them to the docks.
She was met by silent glances throughout the hallways of the Nineteenth Light Dragoon headquarters. A few were glances of wide-eyed wonder; a few others, of surprised respect; but most were scathing glances of contempt and loathing, barely contained.
She thought at first that word of her fight with Smee must have spread already. That they were angry at her, a woman, for besting one of their own. But who would have done the telling? Not Hook, surely. And not the quartermaster. Not in a clandestine operation.
Certainly not Smee.
But then she realized the truth: No one knew about the fight. It was her clothing. She was dressed as a man. And not just any man, but a sailor, prepared for battle. In her excitement, she had not even considered how her transformation might be taken by those who did not know her.
“They will get used to it,” Michael murmured in her ear. “Keep your head up. They will come to see you as we do.”
Wendy nodded, once. And she forced herself to walk with a confident gait. Strong and proud. But she had first introduced herself to John and Michael as a demure woman, dressed in a woman’s clothing. With a woman’s poise and a woman’s manners.
She had hidden her intelligence and her vast repertoire of skills, allowing these to shine through only in small, subtle ways. She had allowed the Fourteenth Platoon to get to know her slowly, over their long months together, careful never to threaten. Never to intimidate.
Never to challenge.
This was different, and she knew it.
She navigated the hallways and finally descended the stairs, making her way toward the outside world, all the while staring straight ahead. Forcing steel into her eyes and into her step. Forcing herself to bear the sudden, devastating weight of it. Refusing to be crushed beneath their hatred.
But even the exit would provide no escape. She would set foot in the street for the very first time dressed as her true self, as the woman she had always dreamed of becoming, and the people of London would stare and point and laugh. Their faces would whirl around her, and every face would be the pale, merciless face of Mortimer Black, mocking and taunting her across the years.
She braced herself, and she stepped through the door.
It was early yet, but already there were people in the street. Not the ladies and gentlemen who would appear later to shop at the establishments of the boot maker or the tailor next door. Instead, they were beggars, cart merchants, flower girls. Those who had spent the night huddled in a doorway, or those who had risen early to claim a popular street corner for the business of the day.
No one laughed. She needn’t have worried about that. Not with an escort of armed men surrounding her. But they stopped and stared and pointed, whispering to each other. Smiling cruelly behind coal-smudged hands, as though they were better than she. Because at least they knew how to dress. At least they knew their place—and who they were supposed to be.
Wendy’s hands trembled slightly at her sides, but she gave no other sign that she saw them. That she heard them. She just walked toward the waiting carriage, carefully maintaining the appearance of stoic dignity and pride that now felt like an illusion, even to her.
And then—a horde of racing footsteps, scudding across the cobblestones.
She started and paused, turning her head, a deer sensing the presence of hunters, and a pack of yelling boys flew around the corner, chasing a long-legged terrier that raced merrily ahead with a cricket ball in its mouth.
They were too intent on their pursuit to notice the spectacle. The hunt split in two and passed around them. All but one small girl, who stopped dead in her tracks and stared. She was a street urchin, no older than ten, with skinny arms and skinny ankles and a tangled mess of dark brown hair.
But her eyes were crystal clear.
They darted to the sword upon Wendy’s hip. To the pistols strapped against her thighs. To the musket that peeked over the edge of her left shoulder. The girl stared at Wendy, and Wendy stared back at the girl, and for a moment, time stood still, which is what always happens when two souls truly see one another.
And then the girl drew herself up to her full height, sucked in her breath sharply, and saluted, her eyes wide and proud.
It was the first salute Wendy had ever received, and it would remain in her heart for the rest of her life. She stood straight and tall, nodded in recognition, and saluted back, her spirit reaching all the way to the sky.
There was an immediacy to the encounter with the young girl that stayed with her, restoring Wendy’s strength and bolstering her pride, so that even when the sailors along the pier did point and laugh, she paid them no mind. She stepped out of the carriage to see the elegant masts of The Dragon soaring above her, and from that moment on she had eyes for nothing else.
Her ship.
Her sailing ship.
It didn’t matter that she was not its captain. She was a member of its crew, so she thought of it as her own. It was thirty years old but it had been well kept, and Wendy’s eyes threatened to well with tears when she first set foot upon it.
The deck all but gleamed beneath her boot heels in the morning light, and the smell of the salt air filled her memory with stories of adventure.
John scowled at the men who paused to gawk at the spectacle of a fully armed woman standing on deck in a man’s clothing. He barked a command, echoed by Michael, and the well-disciplined crew scattered, returning to the tasks at hand. The ship wouldn’t leave until nightfall, but there were preparations to be made and fresh provisions to store away. The mystery of the girl could wait.
A cabin boy appeared to escort them to their quarters, introducing himself as Nicholas. He was about twelve years old, lean and agile, with a hawklike beak for a nose and a quick air about him, as though he were always taking in at least five different things at once. His eyes darted over Wendy’s gear, over her dog, over her companions, and that was that.
“Well, come along then,” he said. “Captain told me to watch for you. Make sure there wasn’t any trouble. Get your things stowed right and proper. Follow me.” With that, he turned smartly on his heel, clearly expecting them to follow.
He led them down a ladder into a narrow hallway below deck. They passed a sailor here and there, but far fewer than Wendy had expected.
“Nicholas,” she asked, “doesn’t The Dragon have a crew of five hundred? Where is everyone?”
“She does, ma’am,” he affirmed. “Captain Hook plus five hundred and twenty, as of this morning.” He glanced over his shoulder at Wendy, John, Michael, and Thomas.
“Make that five hundred and twenty-four,” he said, correcting himself.
Nana narrowed her eyes at him and cocked her head meaningfully to the right, barking just once.
“Yes, ma’am. Five hundred and twenty-five,” he added with a laugh. “My apologies.”
Wendy liked him already.
“Some are still on leave,” he continued. “Under orders to return by sunset. But most are either down in the hold storing cargo, or on the gun decks seeing to the cannons. Just wait ’til tonight when we set sail. Everyone who doesn’t have another job to do will be on deck for that.”
Wendy smiled. Tonight, when we set sail. His words echoed over and over in her mind. Tonight, when we set sail! She was so caught up in the thought that she almost missed what he said next.
“Your own cabin, ma’am, is down this hallway. Your lieutenant’s cabin is just beyond that, and his sergeant and the scientist will share a double. But first …”
He trailed off and rapped sharply on the door before him.
Wendy steeled herself, expecting to face Hook, but the man who opened the door wasn’t Hook at all.
It was poor Reginald, grinning from ear to ear, with the rest of the F
ourteenth Platoon leaping off their bunks and snapping to attention behind him.
ieutenant! Sergeant!” The joyful cries of the platoon met them as the men pressed forward, laughing and jostling each other, followed by a new round of shouts (and a few reverent whispers) when they saw who else had finally returned.
“Wendy!”
If John and Michael were their compass, Wendy was the wind itself, filling their sails with hopes and dreams and purpose. Without her, they had felt cast adrift. But now she flitted among them once again, clasping a shoulder here, touching a cheek there, her honey-brown smiles—and one mischievously arched eyebrow—promising extraordinary adventures that had only just begun.
And here, her new clothing served her well. She was every bit a guardian of England, just as they were, and they had always known it. But they were born of eighteenth-century England. They could only expand their minds so far—at least until Wendy herself extended that horizon.
Young women were supposed to be sweet and innocent, and Wendy was both of those things. But standing before them today, she no longer appeared the sweet memory of innocence you left behind when you marched off to war. Today she was the beacon of courage you followed into battle.
No. More than that. Through her long months with the men, and now her final outward transformation, she had made herself into the very benchmark of their valor—the fury and the Valkyrie wrapped up into one. She was Joan of Arc. She was Athena.
She was the Wendy.
Their response to her presence was almost overwhelming. (And in any event, she was far too excited to remain in one place for long.) So she excused herself as soon as she could—without hurting their feelings, of course—offering reassurances as she left. Yes, she was sailing with them. Yes, she would see them again this evening. Yes, she would be on deck when they left harbor.
When they left harbor.
She could still hardly believe it.
She followed Nicholas to her cabin, where he took his leave of her, rattling off directions back to the deck so she could return at sunset. She had intended to unpack, but she discovered that the boy had secured her sea chest to a line of heavy iron rings, set low against the wall for that very purpose. The ropes would prevent the chest from sliding back and forth, or even tumbling across the floor during rough seas, keeping it safe—and making the very idea of unpacking seem foolish.
Settling in, as it turned out, did not amount to much.
There was a small, sturdy writing desk bolted to the front wall of the cabin. It had a latching drawer, but her journals, ink, and quills would be safer in the chest, held firmly in place and protected by her clothing. There was an equally small and sturdy bunk secured to the rear wall. A humble lamp hung from an iron ring set into the low ceiling.
That was it. That was everything.
And it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.
She paused for a moment to admire it. The desk, the lamp, the bunk, the chest. The smell of salt and the subtle creak of oiled wood.
But she hadn’t come this far to sit in a cabin.
The sea was whispering her name.
So she opened the door for Nana and then shut it firmly behind them both, striding through the labyrinth toward the deck. Toward the sea. Toward the horizon that, by tomorrow, would be as endless as the sky.
When she reached the deck, at least a dozen members of the crew were scattered across its breadth and up into the rigging, checking ropes and masts and sails for anything that might need to be repaired or replaced. Having no assigned tasks herself, she strode to the railing to look out over the water, enjoying the way the heels of her heavy new boots hit the wooden planks beneath her feet.
But when she reached the railing itself, her footsteps fell still, and all was quiet. Much too quiet. She turned to find the men staring at her, and she was instantly reminded of the first time she had boarded Pan’s ship, when Peter had ordered the everlost to treat her as their own mother.
Somehow, she didn’t think that would help her here.
They converged upon her, looking more like a band of pirates than a naval crew. Tattoos and earrings and bare skin and sweat and the odor of working men. If she had expected the gentlemen of the Fourteenth Platoon, she realized her mistake in an instant. These were Hook’s men—the men of The Dragon, where his feral inner nature was unleashed.
“Thinks she’s as good as a man, she does,” snarled a barrel-chested man with tattoos plastered up and down his arms.
“Aye. Someone oughta show her the difference.” This came from a thin man with an oiled mustache and a crooked nose. He leered at her suggestively while the others laughed. It was a cruel sort of laughter, and it made Wendy nervous coming from all of them at once.
Nana felt the shift in their mood by instinct, and she growled low in her throat, her hackles rising all along her spine. The closest among them took a step back, but then a new man pushed his way to the front.
Smee. The man Wendy had bested at the armory.
“I’ll show her,” he said, and his voice was perfectly calm, which made him even more terrifying than the others. “But first … Jukes, kill that dog.”
The tattooed man drew his sword.
“No!” Wendy shouted, drawing her own.
The men laughed, but Smee knew better.
“Watch her,” he warned them. “She knows how to use it.”
The men shifted from foot to foot and glanced at each other, not sure whether they were supposed to laugh again or not. She was just a woman in a man’s clothing, wasn’t she? What could be dangerous about that? But still, a sword was a sword, and Smee sounded like he meant it.
“Cecco,” Smee barked. “Skylights. Keep her away from that dog. Back ’er up to the rail.”
“Gladly.” The man who answered was stunningly handsome—chiseled features beneath a mane of dark hair; his bare chest perfectly sculpted; his leg muscles rippling beneath blue leggings tucked into tall, black boots. But Wendy didn’t like the smile on his face at all.
“Skylights,” he said, and his voice was smooth as silk. “Get the left. I’ll get the right.”
“Nana! Heel!” Wendy ordered. But Nana was too angry to listen. These men were threatening her Wendy, and Nana wasn’t about to stand for that. She took a slow step toward the man with the tattoos, her teeth bared viciously.
“Nana! No!” Wendy lunged toward the dog, ignoring Cecco and Skylights in her desperation, but the two men seized the opportunity to grab her, Cecco twisting her wrist cruelly until she dropped her sword.
Wendy could only watch as Jukes grinned. He pulled back his arm, ready to plunge his sword into Nana’s chest.
“No!” Wendy screamed again, but this time another voice—a man’s voice—answered her own.
“Stand down!”
For a long moment, not one of them moved. And then, as though by magic, Jukes dropped his arm to his side. Cecco and Skylights released their grip, and Wendy flew to Nana’s side, reassuring herself that the dog had not come to any harm.
She looked up to find her rescuer, but she couldn’t see him through the pressing ranks of the crew. And then, reluctantly, the crowd parted for a young man wearing a blue long-tailed coat with bright gold buttons.
“Honestly, Wendy,” the officer said, smiling down at her fondly. “You’re finally on a ship, for less than an hour, and look at the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Charlie?” she breathed, hardly believing her eyes.
“Am I truly so hard to recognize?” he replied, grinning even more broadly. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“Charlie!” she shouted, and she threw herself into his arms.
They spent the rest of the day catching up, regaling each other with stories of their time apart. Mr. Equiano’s extensive training in science and mathematics had served Charlie well. He had already been appointed first mate of The Dragon, second only to Hook himself, and he acted as the ship’s navigator besides.
/> Wendy had a hard time reconciling this tall, confident young man with the boy she had said goodbye to more than a year ago, but he had the same smile, the same quick mind, and the same respect for her abilities that he had shown ever since they were children. It wasn’t long before they were speaking together as easily as they had in Mr. Equiano’s home, which felt like a lifetime ago.
And Wendy, of course, had some amazing stories to share.
In telling him about Pan and Tinker Bell and the everlost (well, telling him most of it anyway), she began to realize that these were the kinds of stories she had always longed to collect. She had waited so long and worked so hard to reach this place, to stand on the deck of this ship, that she hadn’t noticed how incredible her life had already become. Magic and the innisfay and fairy dust and flying. She could hardly believe it herself, when she thought about it all at once.
But Charlie believed it, and it meant more to her than she could say to have her childhood friend back in her life, to share all the adventures to come.
And then it was time.
The sun continued its journey to the other side of the world, and Wendy was ready to follow—Pan’s magic compass held tightly in her hand—as evening blossomed and the stars winked into view, one after another. The men assembled on deck and fell to a hush as Hook himself finally appeared, standing tall and proud against the backdrop of the night.
“Mr. Hawke!” he shouted, so that all on deck could hear.
“Aye, sir!” Charlie hollered back.
“Take the helm!”
“Aye, sir!” Charlie placed his hands on the ship’s wheel and then shouted again, taking Wendy by surprise.
“Navigator Darling!” he yelled.
“Aye, sir!” she shouted back, for she was a member of the crew now, and he outranked her. But by addressing her as the navigator, he had just transferred a significant portion of his own duties to her, and at the same time conferred upon her a rank second only to his own. And in front of the entire crew. Wendy maintained a serious countenance, but her heart soared with pride and gratitude.
The Wendy Page 22