Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to 2018! I’m super excited that this is my first post of the new year!
I have been following along with Erin and Steven from very early on with this project and I am so excited that I can share with you the cover art for this awesome new novel!
The Wendy is a fantastic retelling of J.M Barrie’s classic story, Peter Pan, and follows Wendy Darling’s pursuit in sailing the high sea’s. More than than, right now, I wont say. (I will be posting my ARC review a little later today, so stay tuned)
So check out this absolutely gorgeous book cover (isn’t it beautiful!) and the synopsis below.
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.