Stars (Wendy Darling #1)(3)

“Say, where is John?”

“He’s giving Michael a bath. It was his turn.”

“Hmm . . .” Her father stepped back, tucking his flannel shirt into his pajama pants. “Well, I should find your mother. She’s probably lying in bed right this moment having nightmares about children falling out nursery windows.”

Wendy stepped back into the nursery, pulling the windows closed. “Thanks for showing me, Papa.”

He gave Wendy an absentminded smile. “Of course, my dear!

When John comes in, will you send him to my study? I’m going to have him help me with some star charting.”

By “study,” her father meant the cluttered extra bedroom stuffed with navigation charts and star illustrations, with socks drying and mobiles of the planets circling overhead, with science textbooks overturned, their ripped-out pages dripping with scribbled notes.

“Yes, Papa.”

George Darling turned and patted Wendy’s head, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Night then, Wendy bird.”

He left the nursery door cracked open a few inches, so the light from the hallway could filter through the bedroom, illuminating her brothers’ double beds, stripped down to the blue sheets and thick wool blankets. Their beds were always messy, despite the fact that Liza made them each morning. Wendy’s bed, moved across the room last year by her annoyed father, sat closest to the window. Now she could watch the stars from her bed, see them whirling in the bright night sky. She could watch the snow fall down in endless whorls, or see the occasional blowing autumn leaf dance across the frame. In the winter it had proved to be bitterly cold, and she found herself often climbing into bed with Michael, snuggling against his warm, round body, pushing aside his teddy bear, Giles, and tucking her freezing feet under his warm blankets. His bed always smelled like little boy—like dirt and cookies and worms—but Wendy never slept as soundly as she did when he was tucked securely under her chin, his breath on her neck, her baby brother. Before John woke every morning, she would try to sneak back into her own bed, not wanting to see his judgmental face as she headed across the room.

“Scared, Wendy?”

“No. Just cold.”

“Of course.”

Not that his snide comments would ever make her pull her bed away from the window. That would be taking the stars from her, and that she could not abide. Also, it wasn’t just the stars that she could see from her window. It was a tiny shop, down the street, and the bedroom that she knew sat in the attic of that building . . . Looking over her shoulder, seeing no one, she started to reach under her bed for the letter that she had read four times already today; but figured once more couldn’t hurt. Her hands curled around the paper, folded so gently, the thin papyrus crumpling under her fingers. She hoped that it would still smell like him as she brought it up to her nose . . .

“OWW!” Now there were little boy knees in her stomach, on her chest, feet in her face, a tumble of blond hair.

“Michael! Get off me!”

Michael giggled and jumped on her again, his head buried in her armpit, his chubby legs kicking everywhere, destroying her neatly made bed.

“Michael, I mean it!” With a big laugh, he rolled off Wendy, but not before sticking a foot into her face.

“Smell! All clean!”

“Michael,” she said calmly, pushing his foot away. “No, thank you. I would not like to smell your feet right now or anytime, even if you have just had a bath.”

Michael gazed up at her before sticking his foot out again, wiggling his pudgy toes around. His tousled, wet blond hair hung over his eyebrows, and his mischievous blue eyes gazed up at her with adoration that bordered on worship. “Kiss them!”

“No.”

“Please, Wendy?” She looked at his chubby cheeks, always reddened and raw, and his full pouty lips, and she gave a sigh of surrender before planting one kiss on the sole of his foot.

“There. No more.” That seemed to be enough for the five-year-old.

“Whatcha looking at? What is that letter?”

Wendy felt her face burning and tucked the envelope back underneath her bed. “It’s nothing, Michael. It’s for grown-ups.”

Michael turned his head. “But you’re not a grown-up.”

The nursery door bounced open, and John stalked into the room, wearing, as he always did, his long cotton nightshirt and sensible brown slippers, looking much older than his fourteen years. His messy straight brown hair was tousled on his head, his heavy eyebrows hiding hazel eyes. From behind his perfectly round spectacles, he peered at Wendy with that infuriating, studious look before grabbing a book down from the bookshelf and curling himself into the rocking chair.

“It’s from Booth. It’s probably a misguided declaration of love.”

“John!” Wendy felt the blush rise to her cheeks. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

Michael was standing beside her bed now. “Booth? Booth sent you a letter?” He narrowed his eyes. “Booth?”

John pulled his father’s top hat from the rocking chair arm and placed it cockeyed on his head. “Yes. Booth is in love with Wendy, the fool.” He continued reading as if nothing had happened. Wendy felt her heart go cold, and her skin suddenly seemed too tight.

“You don’t . . . you shouldn’t talk about that.”