Every morning, for the next week, Peter would come down and torture the girls with his compositions. Now Madame's son, Peter no longer received looks from the girls, smitten or otherwise. As who can imagine anything so dreadful than marrying a teachers' son? They all thought Dean would inherit all the money anyways. No looks did he receive, but groans, and harsh criticisms. Thursday morning, he played the same seven notes over and over again, shaking his head frustratingly at them. The students were driven near to madness, and one even threw a crumbled paper to him moaning 'boo'. At that he slammed his hands on the keys, and screamed.
"I've forgotten the damn song I've made up, alright?!"
The whole hall grew quiet with reserved snickering. Madame made her way to him, as if mindlessly strolling by. She watched him huff and puff and whispered teasingly in his ear.
"That's what comes." She said. "Of not writing it down." He looked at her, vexed at first, then, inspired.
"Maybe if you learned how to read the music, then…" She made a gesture as if writing. Peter nodded, forgetting his anger. He had never understood the purpose of reading a piece of music if you could just hear it, and play it just as well. But now he understood. He shuffled to find the simplest song. Prelude by Bach. He of course, used a cheat sheet, which had all the notes written down, and played painfully slow. The dining hall was now less annoyed, but still not glad to hear his novice poking of the keys.
"She should have placed that thing in the cellar where no one could hear it." Whispered Margarette.
Madame Wisteria made sure to keep Wendy's room ready for her return, in hopes that she really would. In sweeping the floor, she found a curious piece of paper. It was a little note, no bigger than a finger which read in the crudest of handwriting, 'Hello, Wendy'. Her heart broke for Peter, for it was quite obviously his awful script. He really had loved her from the moment he had set eyes on her. How did he decide, she wondered, from all the other girls? Feeling quite naughty indeed, she sent the note to Wendy, under her address.
Distracted by his strange accumulations of hobbies, Peter did not seem to drag his feet as much, and began to find joy in creating music, drawing, and other such things. Another week flew by and one evening he heard Madame shuffling quickly up the stairs to his room. She opened the door, quite winded.
"Blast those stairs…" She moaned. "I really should have placed you in the cellar." In becoming his mother, Madame had quite dropped her manners with him as it was all too easy in his wild company. He greeted her with his usual smile. Wendy's kiss still proudly tucked in the corner. She gathered herself and breathed.
"You've got a letter." She said to Peter. Peter looked at her quizzically. She handed him the letter and he looked at it, fascinated. He turned it over and saw that it was addressed simply to 'Peter Pan'.
"I've never received a letter!" He exclaimed, and he tore it open quite recklessly. He was puzzled at first for the letter seemed empty, but there, taped in the right-hand corner… a note no larger than his finger which read in the most vibrant of script, 'Hello, Peter'. He knew that Wendy had kissed it, for he knew that it had always been in the right-hand corner right when he met her. He kissed it, overjoyed, and held it to him. A sudden wave of sadness hit him as he remembered their situation. He sighed loudly and said.
"I do enjoy receiving letters…" He said, tinged with sadness. He had feared that Wendy might forget him, or not love him anymore, but he was so touched to know that she did still.
"Wendy still loves me." He said, his mouth splitting widely into a smile. She tut tutted at his reaction.
"You're such an emotional young man…"
Now we shall reveal the naughtiness of Madame Wisteria, for there was no stamp on the envelope, and certainly the post man would not know what to do with a letter simply address to 'Peter Pan'. She had told a lie, you see. There are many reasons a person lies, and as a child it is usually to get out of trouble. Adults lie for all together strange reasons, and sometimes will tell you it is for your own good.
"Peter, I need to talk to you." She said, Peter still clutching his letter. "When, and if Wendy comes back…"
"If?" He mouthed.
"… You need to be behaved. You may not visit her however you like. You must court her like you should."
"I shall take her around the garden…" He mumbled. She nodded and smiled.
"Yes, and you must think of her parents, Peter. You must show her parents that you can take care of her, if you wish you marry her." She said. Peter was overcome.
"You said you would choose the best possible match for her." He said.
"Yes, I did." She said smiling. "I believe that it is you." He held her in his arms quite suddenly now.
"Thank you… for choosing me." He said muffled in her breast. She looked at him and suddenly felt that she should not have given him such hope.
She pulled out of his embrace and looked at him darkly.
"You must promise, Peter. There is no going back after marrying. You cannot leave her for the rest of your life." He laughed at this for he really only ever wanted Wendy.
"Peter, I am serious. You should be bound to her until your death, or hers. Are you sure this is what you want?" Her seriousness did not faze him, in fact, he was quite plucked at the idea of experiencing the adventure of death with his Wendy.
"Of course it is, you daft cow." He responded.
"Good." She said, embracing him. "Then I shall do everything in my power to make it so."
The lie, you see, is that Wendy had already been back, all afternoon even. She had handed the note directly to Madame Wisteria, and Madame was determined to give Peter a chance. She did not, however, trust him to stay to his bed if he knew Wendy was afoot.
Speaking of feet, it is safe to say that the bath time for that night was absolutely the most awful, as Madame Wisteria had yanked his foot from the tub to tuck it painfully underneath her shoulder and scrub ferociously. What she did not know was that his feet were permanently dirty from the excessive frolicking he had done in his Neverland, and would always be there as evidence of his wild nature. He did not cry, but twisted his face in such a contorted wince. It even humored him to let her try, because it surely meant that she was wanted to help, and he was all too happy for it.