perhaps to embellish a little.
But despite her whole-body unwillingness to begin this process, routine took over. Habits, especially healthy ones, become easily ingrained in people like Wendy. Without even meaning to she rose and turned and neatened her bed, smoothing the pillow out so it would look pretty and inviting when she went to lie down again that night. She drifted over to the basin of water and splashed her face (without looking in the mirror), ran the brush through her hair (only fifty-seven times), and examined her nails (dispassionately; she decided they didn’t need to be buffed).
Moving made her feel better; accomplishing little things gave her dim sparks of satisfaction. Before long she had the boys up and out of bed, a whirlwind of toast and tea and brushing down jackets. Some of the brothers’ energy managed to rub off on their sister. And Nana, bless her, tried to help like she used to, holding a spare white cuff in her mouth, waiting patiently and dolorously until one of the passing boys—Michael—grabbed it and patted her in thanks. It all ended when John blew an airy kiss and pulled his reluctant brother after him out the door.
“Goodness,” Mrs. Darling said, appearing for a moment in the foyer like a tentative daytime ghost. She was resplendent in her white froth of a nightgown, and prettily covered her mouth for a delicate yawn. “Whatever would I do without you, dear.”
She kissed her daughter on the head and Wendy fell to warm pieces under her praise. But then the figment retreated back upstairs to perform her own ablutions and the lower house was released to the normal workaday world. Wendy had toast and tea and settled down for her French lessons with Mademoiselle Gabineau. Not satisfied with her main subject of expertise, Mademoiselle also had strong opinions on history and maths, lecturing angrily—and often incomprehensibly—in her native tongue about the first topic while not letting Wendy give up on the second. “You must keep a house someday, wiz all of ze accounts,” she admonished. “And make ze right decreases when knitting a jumper.”
Wendy didn’t deign to reply, uninterested in either application of maths. She surreptitiously stroked the pages of the tiny notebook in her apron pocket and dreamed of a well-spoken, logical, and utterly evil witch.
The day seemed like it was going to progress along the same lines as the one before it, and the one before that, and the one before that—but sometime before tea there were strange noises downstairs, outer doors opening and closing and a deep-throated male voice sounding out.
It was far too early for Mr. Darling to be done with business already. Concerned, Wendy tripped down the stairs as fast as she thought it decorous to do so. Nana waited at the bottom, doing something she rarely engaged in. She was growling. Very softly.
“Dear Nana, what is it?” Wendy asked, growing even more nervous. The dog was large but not much of a wolf, and probably too old to do any real damage to an intruder.
“Oh, what a funny thought. ‘Not much of a wolf.’ Wherever did that come from, I wonder? Wolves indeed.”
It was just prattle, but talking aloud to herself always made Wendy feel brave. And anyway, if the house was being invaded, it was up to her to defend its inhabitants and silverware.
She stuck out her chin and pushed open the front hall door with a carefully composed look of indignation on her face.
“Now see here, villain—!”
She stopped immediately, presented with a very odd scene.
Mr. Darling was home early. It was rare to see him by day in a full suit, coat, and hat; usually when he came home it was dark and he went straight upstairs to change into his slippers and smoking jacket. He held his arms strangely, as if one were broken and he were cradling it with the other. Also unusual was that Mrs. Darling was with him, a gloved hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Mr. Darling looked utterly confused by his daughter’s words, his large, bushy black eyebrows rising nearly to the top of his head.
“Wendy? What in blazes is the reason for that tone? I? A villain?”
“Dear, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Darling asked with an indulgent smile.
“I heard noises—I just thought…I’m so glad you’re home early today, though, Father! Wait, did you hurt yourself? Did you break your arm? Is that why you’re—no, if you had, Dr. Sorello would be here with his treatments and nasty draughts. Is