Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(4)
John raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mother. You know how women can be. Hysterical.”
“John, you don’t know anything.”
A wide grin stretched across his thin face, a lock of dark brown hair falling out of the hat and onto his forehead. “I know that you like to meet at the bookshop. I know that you are gone for several hours in that attic before anyone comes looking for you. And I know you have lots of books that you pretend to read, so that you have an excuse to go there, when you really only read about two novels a week, though usually they’re quite sizeable.”
Wendy stood up to face John. “You don’t know anything about Booth and me. We are just friends. He is my dearest friend.”
John rubbed his glasses absentmindedly, something their father always did, and Wendy realized with a shock how much he was beginning to look like George Darling. “Your friend who wants to kiss you.”
Wendy quickly closed the three steps between them and hit him hard on the shoulder.
“OW! Wendy!” Her troubled eyes met his narrow, cynical face.
“At least I have friends, John.”
His face collapsed. Wendy knew very well that John had no friends at St. Mary’s School, that he spent their recess reading adventure books in the library. She saw his mouth curl with betrayal before he spun the rocking chair around to face the wall.
“You should be very careful about those letters, Wendy. You wouldn’t want Mother to find them. You know what she would do. Booth is hardly the suitor she imagines for you.” He gave a loud sigh, as though giving her advice was exhausting him. “Liza’s likely to find them sooner or later, and she will surely give them to Mother. I would try a better hiding spot, perhaps tucked in a book.”
“John . . .”
He raised his hand to shush her and went back to reading The Time Machine. Michael watched them both with wide blue eyes as he sucked on the arm of his teddy bear.
“Michael, that is disgusting. Please stop.” He dropped the teddy bear out of his mouth and reached for Wendy’s hand. She sighed.
“Hold on.”
Taking the letter from under her bed, she walked carefully over to the bookshelf, an elaborate piece of wood carved to look like an enchanted forest. Wendy ran her fingers along the spines of the books, making sure to put the letter in between the right books so that it would be pressed between two things she loved. She glanced back at John, who was still sitting in the rocking chair, facing away from her, the creaks of the chair matching the bounces of his top hat as he rocked hard, no doubt lost in another world. She looked toward the door and then quickly tucked the letter between Alice in Wonderland and Jane Eyre. Michael raised his eyes to hers, and Wendy brought her finger to her lips, making the gesture that meant the same thing to all three of the Darling children: secrets of the Darling children were not to be shared. Michael made the motion as well. Wendy crawled into bed with him, and Michael buried his sleepy head in her neck, mumbling, “Sleep now.”
She tucked Giles in beside him. Michael’s eyes were already drooping; he had always fallen asleep quickly.
“Wendy?”
“Yes?”
“You have letters from Booth?”
“Yes.”
“You kiss Booth?” His tone was concerned.
She kissed Michael’s cheeks. “Only you, Michael,” she whispered. He gave her a sleepy grin and then closed his eyes, happily surrendering to his dreams, which she imagined consisted of puppies, play swords, and a towering pile of cakes. She pulled the wool blanket over the sheet and tucked it around his feet.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
She made her way over to her bed near the window. John continued to rock, and Wendy looked back at the bookshelf. Unfortunately, John had been correct; the bookshelf was a much safer place to store her letter.
The letter.
She settled into her sheets and closed her eyes, seeing Booth’s elegant scrawl climbing across the thin pages:
Wendy,
It is plain to me that because of our families’ respective social statuses — I am, as you may have noticed, somewhat poor — that we can never dream of being together, but if I am allowed to dream, then I see myself carrying you in a field of wildflowers . . . . Our great God above seems to have carved out my feelings for you, feelings that I can no more hold inside of me . . . Should I even dare to hope that one day it will only be us on all the earth, and that we will be able to love each other freely and with an abandon that will make the heavens shake? . . . If the stars above saw what I felt for you, they would pour out their wonders . . .
She heard the sound of the nursery door opening, and her parents appeared in the sliver of gaslight, followed by Liza, their waifish brunette servant, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, their nightly ritual. Michael, to his dismay, was still too young for tea.
“Miss Wendy?”
Wendy gently took her cup off the tray, taking in the delicate lines of pink that etched the outer rim. The tea was too warm to drink, but Wendy let the calming vapors of vanilla and chamomile waft over her face and warm her soul.
“Thank you, Liza.”
Liza gave a nod and bustled over to John, who simply reached out his hand from the rocking chair. Liza put the cup in his outstretched palm, and he went back to rocking and reading without a word. Wendy hated how John treated Liza.