‘How much longer until Christmas?’ an expectant Silky Josephine asks me the other morning before breakfast. 

     ‘Well,’ I said, having to do some quick math to give her an answer, ‘seven months, I think. A little more.’ 

     This was clearly not the answer that Silky wanted to hear. Her ears drop, her eyes, her head. Everything that was pert—which is everything with Silky—slumped with a rare unhappiness. 

     ‘Oh,’ Silky said, and I know that she was sad, because she left it at that, no more questions, which is not like Silky at all, just a lengthy sigh, and then she turned back to the room from which she came. 

      ‘Why?’ I asked her. 

    ‘I wanted pancakes.’ Silky told me, ‘With peanut butter. And I thought if it was close to being Christmas, I would wish for them.’ 

     Silky sighed again, long and sadly. ‘But it’s not,’ she said. ‘Christmas is not close at all.’ 

     ‘There are other things you can make a wish on, Silky,’ I told her. 

     One ear raised, a cinnamon eyebrow. 

     ‘What other things?’ Silky asks. 

     ‘Well,’ I say, ‘Stars and rainbows, wishing bones and wishing wells, ladybirds, dandelions and even feathers.’ 

     ‘Feathers?’ 

     ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Feathers. Find one. Stick it in the ground. Walk around it making your wish, for pancakes or whatever, and if the feather doesn’t fall, your wish will come true.’ 

     Perk, perk, perk, up Silky Josephine lights. 

     ‘Ohhhh,’ she says. ‘How much longer until we go on our walk?’ 

     ‘Not long my sweet girl,’ I tell her, ‘not long at all.’