11. Sun-washed piano
The blues were becoming lilac.
Peter Lake spanned the smoothness of the walls with his hand. Whistled softly at the coldness piercing through his skin. It was obvious that people lived here. That they hadn't been gone for long. That they would come back.
But why, why… if they were so wealthy… because they were wealthy, they clearly were… why couldn't they heat themselves up? Or spare a bed, a warm room, for the help? Or light up a fire? Some candles, at least? The wax there was as solid and cold as the walls. A creamy pale yellow. No disfigurement. Misshaping. No dried drops on the sides.
Whoever lived here had a death wish.
Peter Lake walked silently along the halls, found the staircase. A grandfather clock muffled his footsteps. He walked to the rhythm of time. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
He began his journey down the stairs, but soon came to a halt. On the dark blue carpet lay two white slippers. Thrown there, as if in a hurry. One turned in a different direction than the other.
Whoever had fled from this cold, cold house, whoever was here before Peter showed up, must have been ecstatic to leave. Whoever was sleeping on that bed, on the roof. He couldn't blame them.
He turned, went back up. Crossed the hall. He found a great room, with windows pregnant with the dawning sunlight. A harp. The window frames were curled around the top, some tear-shaped, some rectangular. A piano, gleaming in purples and golds. The light flooded the room, like silk. And, further, in the shadows by the side, under a doorframe, lay the study. Peter Lake went there.
One turn around the desk, one push of a chair, one cabinet opened, and he was looking at it.
"There you are, you beauty."
The fingers delineated the sides. The sharp edges. They wrapped around the dial.
Beat, little heart. Dance with me.
There came the thumping, the small noises, on the other side of the door. The heart began to beat and Peter began to work his magic. The cold metal against the side of his face. The wrinkle of the wall. There was no wrinkle to focus on now. Only the glass panes. The dawning sunlight outside.
I need to be quick. John needs to know. Go, Peter. Be quick.
What now? Cities? Cities. That was a good list to make.
Cities…
His breathing, inaudible now. But under his coat, under his shirt, his panicked heart quivered. He was scared of the light. Scared of the sharpening of the shadows. Of Pearly. He was looking.
Peter needed to be quick.
New York… New Hampshire… New Orleans…
New. All New. New… That was easy. Easier.
New… New…
It was not as easy as he thought. That metallic little heartbeat shrank away. Disappeared under the clamor of his own.
No-no-no…
He licked his lips.
No more "new." Just cities.
Rome… Paris… London… Saint Petersburg… Moscow…
Saint. Saint Peter. Cecil had called him Saint Peter. Before that, he had called himself Saint Peter.
His fingers moved. His heartbeat dimmed down. The metallic drumming returned.
Salem… Birmingham… Barcelona…
He trembled as the door gave in. A tremble of tremendous relief. Realization. This was the last time. The last safe. The last dance. He would never steal again. He was going to miss it, in a strange, twisted way. Only now was he realizing... how much he would miss this sinful life of his. The magic in his fingertips. His knowledge would slowly fade over time. He would forget the heartbeat. His lists. His safes...
With shaky hands he unlocked the door. And a wash of daylight, sharp as a blade, white as snow, traveled across the room. Peter Lake let out a whimper of surprise. He remembered the knives.
Pearly Soames. The rumble of his voice.
Do it slowly… Use the knives.
The knife in his hand. The body. The fence.
His eyes crawled up the ceiling, down the walls. He needed to be quick.
He needed to say goodbye to John. To the City of Justice.
He moved his hand, went to open the door.
And there came an explosion. As bright and as sharp as the wave of light that had preceded it.
And music erupted around Peter Lake.
Author's Note: ...
See you next time ;)