Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(5)
“Now, John, don’t be rude. Into bed with you,” George Darling chided, pulling off his son’s top hat and placing it on the bedpost.
“Thank you, Liza,” John muttered in the deadest voice possible as he crawled into bed with his tea.
“You’re welcome, Mr. John.” Liza bustled out of the room, leaving the parents alone to say goodnight to the Darling children. Wendy sat on the edge of her bed, kicking off her slippers and tucking her feet into the cold sheets. She held her warm cup of tea against her chest, trying to calm the flush on her face that crept up when she thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow with Booth.
“Goodnight, my darling girl.” Her father kissed her forehead and took a sip of her tea. “Oh, still hot. I would wait a bit on that, Wendy.”
“I will, Father.”
Her father leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Thanks for stargazing with me. We’ll see it together next year. Is it a date?”
“Yes, Papa.”
George Darling headed over to Michael’s bed to tuck some blankets around his slumbering form. Her mother sat down beside her, tracing Wendy’s cheek with her hand.
“How was your day, lovie?”
“Fine, Mother.”
“I’m glad.”
“Mother? Tomorrow after Mass, may I go to the bookseller’s for more books?”
“Of course. Tell Mr. Whitfield that the Darlings send their love.”
“I will.”
“But be home early. Your father and I have the Midsummer Night’s Ball tomorrow night.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother kissed her forehead and tucked the sheets around Wendy’s legs. “That’s my good girl. I love you so.” Mrs. Darling glanced around and then gave a low whistle. Nana, their massive Newfoundland, trotted into the room, her plumy tail knocking against the dressers. Nana went to each bed, checking that each child was there. She licked Michael’s elbow before her huge paws clumped across the floor to Wendy’s bed. Nana rested her enormous head on the side of the bed, and Wendy buried her face in her soft black fur. Nana gave her a single lick on her cheek, and Wendy kissed her nose.
“Goodnight, Nana.” Nana gave a huff and made her way over to her bed—which was John’s bed. Of all the things that John did that drove Wendy mad, this fact made her feel the most small: Nana loved John best. She watched as the gigantic dog leapt onto John’s bed and snuggled against his side. How nice, to have that warmth, that comfort. As she shifted her head against her feathery pillow, her mind made its way back to Booth, and she fell asleep replaying his words in her head, her eyes ever watchful through the windowpanes for her father’s star.
If the stars above saw what I felt for you, they would pour out their wonders . . .
She slept.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER A LONG MASS THAT MORNING, Wendy tucked her hands deeper into her dress pockets. It was summer, but when the bitter London winds snaked through her thin dress, Wendy was glad that she had listened to her mother and brought a shawl. Today was unseasonably cool for the summer months, with the gray skies and chilly rains that would mark autumn plunging all of London into dreary waiting. Her boots clicked on the cobblestones as she passed the butcher’s that Liza bought meat from every other day and the bakery that always smelled heavenly, their windows full of lovely treats in pinks and creams. Hordes of businessmen, their hats pulled hard over their ears, swarmed around her, all vying for a spot at the restaurant her parents frequented. Most of them worked at her father’s firm and treated Sunday like any other workday once church was over. She passed the tailor, who regularly shook his head at Wendy’s quickly lengthening torso and Michael’s wiggly body, and the medicinal dispensary, which provided her mother with her many tonics, which John insisted didn’t actually cure anything.
Two horse-drawn carriages rumbled past Wendy, and she stepped aside to make sure that water didn’t splash over her pretty cream dress and maroon stockings. She tried to make sure that her gait was calm and normal and that any number of her parents’ friends milling around wouldn’t be able to tell that it was taking everything inside of her not to sprint toward the bookseller’s, the wind flush on her face, her hair ribbons blowing about behind her. Instead, she kept her walk steady and controlled, her hands clutching inside her white gloves.
Whitfield’s Bookshop appeared ahead, and Wendy quickened her pace. The gray brick building wrapped around the corner, its curled sides the cause of much speculation amongst the neighbors who wondered how the Whitfield family, so many years ago, had afforded such impressive architecture. The gold lettering above the bookseller’s was rusty and weatherworn, and the f in Whitfield was hanging cockeyed from its last nail. A worn rack of discounted books sat outside, each for sale for a shilling. The neighborhood boys regularly stole the books from the rack, but Mr. Whitfield would just smile whenever he was told about it.
“At least they are reading,” he would mutter, before getting back to work. It made Wendy adore the old man even more. As she approached the shop, her mouth became very dry, her palms now sweaty when they had been cold before. This familiar place, as comfortable and comforting as her own house, now seemed to loom large overhead, much larger than she remembered. Her heart pressed against the inside of her chest, and she had to stop for a moment to take a deep breath and remind herself that Booth was her best friend. He knew her. Today would be no different. So she had gotten a letter, so what? It didn’t change anything. She pulled open the door to Whitfield’s, the brass bells on the door giving a familiar clink. She stepped inside, hanging her shawl on a coatrack by the door. The bookstore was almost as chilly as it was outside. Wendy decided to keep her gloves on.