“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.
“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.”