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 it some sort of holiday? I don’t think I had it in my datebook. Is it a birthday? Are the banks closed? Or—no! Oh no, Father. You didn’t lose your job, did you? You and Mother look so radiant, that can’t be it. Is there other news?”
Mr. Darling looked more and more blown back by the torrent of Wendy’s words, as if a wind were physically assaulting him.
“All right, all right,” he said, unable to think of anything better to quiet her.
“Wendy, dear, we’ve brought you something,” Mrs. Darling said through soft laughter. “Show her.”
Mr. Darling moved his arms and revealed the reason he had been cradling them so carefully.
At first Wendy thought it was a rat, which would explain its size (small), its color (white), and Nana’s discomfort (extreme).
But then a fat little pink tongue lolled out of its mouth and large black eyes blinked in excitement. It panted and pawed at Mr. Darling’s arms, excited but obviously unsure what it wanted to do. Its little ears, no larger than the corners of a lady’s pocket handkerchief, were actually quite huge compared to the thing’s head and didn’t seem to be able to move very much, as they would have on a German shepherd or Nana.
“Oh,” Wendy said, blinking. Her carefully read and reread books of Manners for English Girls and Boys had nothing she could draw from for this sort of situation. “Oh. A small dog.”
“It’s a teacup terrier. Isn’t it the most darling thing?” Mrs. Darling said, rubbing her face against its and kissing.
Mr. Darling looked unsettled by this physical display of affection, the dry nose touching the wet one.
“Yes, well, all the girls seem to be into them right now. Carrying them in baskets…bows in their fur…taking them to the park…I don’t know. You don’t hunt with them, I’m fairly certain. We just thought you could use…ah…a little friend.”
“We were afraid you were getting lonely in this big old drafty house,” Mrs. Darling said, taking her daughter’s hands and squeezing them.
Wendy, so talkative before, now had nothing to say. Mr. Darling always complained about how tiny their house was, endlessly comparing it to those of his business associates and of the managers whose ranks he wanted to someday be among. Mrs. Darling never said anything obviously unkind about their home, but did often refer to it in painfully obvious terms: adorable, cozy, manageable, charming, doll-sized.
“Oh…yes…lonely…” Wendy said, seizing on that one point, the one that was most reasonable.
(Nana whuffed indignantly. What was she, a piece of furniture?)
Her parents waited expectantly.
The polite thing to do, Wendy realized, was to walk forward and put a hand out to the tiny dog and let it smell her. She made herself do so.
The teeny puppy snuffled its wet nose all over her hand and seemed to lick—or slurp—her, like a jungle creature from one of her adventure books. Something horrid that ate ants or honey or anything else that required sucking up. It barked several times in a manner that was both strangely too quiet and somehow extremely irritating.