“Yellow,” Hunter said, after a little thought. I suddenly realized that most five-year-olds might be a little shaky on the identification of colors.

Uh-oh. “So what did he do?” I asked. I struggled to sit all the way up. The sky outside was just getting lighter.

“He just looked at me, and he smiled,” Hunter said. “Then he went in the closet.”

“Wow,” I said inadequately. I couldn’t be sure (until dark, that is), but it sounded very much as though Eric was in the secret hiding place in my closet and dead for the day.

“I gotta go pee,” Hunter said, and slid off my bed to scamper into my bathroom. I heard him flush a minute later, and then he washed his hands—or at least, he turned on the water for a second. I collapsed back onto my pillows, thinking sadly of the hours of sleep I was doomed to lose. By sheer force of will, I got out of bed in my blue nightgown and threw on a robe. I stepped into my slippers, and after Hunter exited my bathroom, I entered it.

A couple of minutes later we were in my kitchen with the lights on. I went directly to the coffeepot, and I found a note propped on it. I recognized the handwriting immediately, and the endorphins flooded my system. Instead of being incredulous that I was up and moving so ungodly early, I felt happy that I was sharing this time with my little cousin. The note, which had been written on one of the pads I keep around for grocery lists, said, “My lover, I came in too close to dawn to wake you, though I was tempted. Your house is full of strange men. A fairy upstairs and a little child downstairs—but as long as there’s not one in my lady’s chamber, I can stand it. I need to talk to you when I rise.” It was signed, in a large scrawl, “ERIC.”

I put the note aside, trying not to worry about Eric’s urgent need to talk to me. I started the coffee to perking, and then I pulled out the griddle and plugged it in. “I hope you like pancakes,” I told Hunter, and his face lit up. He put his orange juice cup down on the table with a happy bang, and juice slopped over the edge. Just as I was about to give him a long look, he jumped up and fetched a paper towel. He took care of the spill with more vigor than attention to detail, but I appreciated the gesture.

“I love pancakes,” he said. “You can make ’em? They don’t come out of the freezer?”