Peter and the Sword of Mercy by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

the filth covering the men, it was difficult for Molly to make out their features. But two of them, aside from James, seemed familiar to her. One of them looked like the missing Underground passenger whose picture had appeared in the newspaper the day James had come to her house. The other was the man who was always fourth in line. He always looked at Molly intently, as if he wanted to say something. Each time he passed, Molly became more certain that she knew him from somewhere. But from where? Another picture in the paper? A neighbor? A businessman or friend of her husband’s? Who was he?
    For long, bleak hours in her cold, cramped cell, Molly pondered this question, along with others: Why had she been kidnapped? Why brought here along with the others? Why was she still being held? Certainly it had something to do with the Starcatchers, with everything James had told her; but why the Underground? Why were men being captured to dig?
    The questions multiplied in Molly’s mind, but no answers came. One thing she knew and clung to: her absence would be noticed. George would be frantic by now. She felt awful for him, and the children—how worried they must be. There would certainly be people looking for her. Half of Scotland Yard, if she knew George! They were looking, and they would find her.
    Wouldn’t they?
    Molly pulled her coat tight around her, shivering against the unrelenting chill of the cell. She heard the scratching of a rat in the corridor.
    Please let them find me.

CHAPTER 18
     
    U NCLE T ED
     
    W ENDY HAD A PLAN . Actually, it was more of a desperate hope than a plan. But at the moment it was all she had.
    It had come to her on the train ride back to Cambridgeshire. Searching her memory, trying to remember everything her mother and her grandfather had told her about the Starcatchers, she’d convinced herself that there was indeed someone she could turn to: the flying boy, Peter. He was more than just his mother’s friend. He was an ally of the Starcatchers. He had joined forces with her mother and grandfather more than once. Wendy prayed that he would help her now.
    If only she could find him.
    Her mother had told her about the island. But what island, and where? And how would she get there? Again, Wendy scoured her memory. Her mother and James had spoken of the other orphan boys who’d been on the island, then returned to London. James had said that one of them was now a fellow at Cambridge. What was his name? Wendy had almost given up in despair when it finally the name came to her: Pratt.
    The next morning, Wendy hurried downstairs in search of her uncle, only to be told by Mrs. Blotney, Uncle Neville’s long-suffering housekeeper, that Uncle Neville and her brothers had already eaten breakfast.
    “They’ve gone out to the barn,” sighed Mrs. Blotney. “He’s going to try to fly that ornithopter contraption again. I’ve already sent for the doctor.”
    “Oh dear,” said Wendy. Ignoring the plate of food Mrs. Blotney had set out for her, she ran out the door and down the gravel road to the barn. In the big meadow behind it, she found John and Michael watching excitedly as Uncle Neville, screwdriver in hand, tinkered with the gasoline motor on his flying contraption, which looked like a large, ungainly headless bird.
    “Uncle Neville,” she began.
    “Just a moment,” said Uncle Neville, frowning as he turned a screw.
    “It’s going to fly!” said Michael. “It’s a…a…ornihopper!”
    “Ornithopter, you ninny,” said John.
    “That’s what I said,” said Michael.
    “Uncle Neville,” Wendy repeated, “I just wanted to …”
    “There!” said Uncle Neville, setting down his screwdriver.
    He grabbed the motor’s starter crank and shouted, “Stand back!”
    “But …” said Wendy, but Uncle Neville was already turning the crank.
    With a loud BANG the motor emitted a cloud of smoke and sputtered to life, clacking and rattling. The ornithopter’s giant silk-and-feather wings