wendy moira angela darling

the music wasn’t quite right for a waltz, but wendy did not do well with modern dance styles, so she took one of sally’s hands in her own, pulling her close to place the other at her waist. “have you had any formal training? my mother taught me how to waltz, and to tango. i had the silly notion, when i was ten or so, of being a ballerina . . . but of course i was no good at it.” she had inadvertently put herself in the gentleman’s role, to lead, so no doubt this would go very badly.

“i did tell you that experimenting with the hob would be a bad idea. those gas contraptions can be dangerous at the best of times. -- anyway, we can give you new eyebrows. makeup is a wonderful invention.”

“how mysterious! an old woman --- just like in a fairytale!” she smiled at him, reaching out to take the crown. wendy turned it over, inspecting the flowers: baby’s breath & forget-me-nots & clovers. “and if this is a fairytale . . . are you the huntsman? or the prince? -- or the wolf?” she was barely listening to the words coming out of her mouth, and she didn’t expect him to be, either. she tried the crown on, adjusting it atop her head. “how does it look?”

“well, who says there is only one explanation? there are stories about everything. you don’t know which one is true & which one isn’t.”