14. Breakfast (part 2)

Dear god, I have gone insane.

"Do you want some eggs?"

"Alright."

"Sit tight, I'm on it."

"Ma'am, I can- I can do that, if you prefer-"

"I don't mind it."

"Really?"

"Please sit down, sir."

"Alright…"

I'm insane.

"You like tea, right?"

"Sure, I like it."

"It'll be ready soon."

And she's insane too.

Peter Lake held the little china teacup in his hand. His thieving hand. The hand that had been fiddling with the safe.

His fingers were ashy and cold. The delicate china caressed his skin. He trembled at the feel of it. It reminded him of holding a bird. Feeling it move feebly, fighting his grasp.

We're both insane.

The redheaded girl, the pianist, went to him with the eggs and then the tea. The simple smell of it made his mouth water, despite everything. For a split second he forgot the place he found himself in. Why he was here to begin with. Why he was sitting now, on a set table. When was the last time he had sat down to eat? With china teacups? And solid forks and knives and spoons? And a mantelpiece?

"Thank you so much," he whispered, impulsively.

"You're welcome."

Her voice carried a sweet hoarseness. He only now took notice of it. It was a cold house, after all. She poured the tea. First in his cup, then in her own. Peter Lake felt very hungry now. But he felt an alien impulse to wait for her to sit down with him. Her bizarre actions warranted some politeness.

"You didn't make yourself anything," he remarked.

He couldn't hear himself. He was so far away.

"Oh, I have boiled eggs, from some days ago. They're cold, so I can eat them just fine."

"Oh…"

She sat down in front of him, her back to the window, setting a tiny basket on the table. There were three boiled eggs inside, wrapped in cloth.

"You may begin," she told him. "You didn't have to wait for me."

"Thanks… Truly, thank you."

And Peter Lake took the fork in his hand. He had held silver knives just some hours before. Stolen silverware. This was being allowed into his hand. He had been invited to feel. To use. It was incredible.

The yolk flooded his mouth. It melted down the sides of his tongue. A thick yellow taste, a homesick warmth. There was no simpler pleasure than this. Peter smiled, and he had no intention to smile.

And the pianist smiled back.

And it was when she smiled back that he realized just where he was, and with whom, and what he was doing. He swallowed. He remembered John and the white horse. Remembered who he was.

"Ahem… You did understand the part about me coming here to steal from you, yeah?"

"From my father, technically."

That playful smirk remained on the curve of her lips. She was breaking the shell of an egg, peeling it away.

"Ma'am, I broke in."

"How?"

She bit into the white, chewed.

"How?" he reiterated.

"Yes. I mean, it's impossible to break into this house. We take it very seriously, whenever we travel. We close everything down." She leaned forward. Mirth flickered in her eyes. "So how did you do it?"

Peter took another bite. A sip of the tea. Her eyes were a liquid, dark turquoise.

"Well, you left the… the door to the roof wedged open."

"Oh," she said. "I did?"

"Yeah. So I just… ehem, I just went in."

"I need to stop doing that," she commented, huffing out a laugh.

She nibbled at the orange heart of the egg. The center as honeyed and molten as the sunlight breaking through her hair.

"I mean…" he said. "You should be scared."

"Well, I'm not."

She said that self-consciously. As if she herself was surprised by this fact.

"Yeah, I can see that."

The pianist had the teacup held gently in both hands. She was sniffing the air around it.

"I like the tea," Peter said.

"I'm glad you do." She opened her eyes. "It's called Lapsang Souchong."

Peter nodded. Licked his lips. Tasted the dried drops of yolk.

"It's black and from China. I can't drink it, it's way too hot for me, but… the smell… I love the smell."

She sniffed again.

"It reminds me of London."

It was a piece of his list. London. His last list. What had forced the safe door open. What had led him here. To the table. To her.

"I've never been there," he murmured. "To London."

"No, I didn't think so, heh," she said, smiling. "I was born there."

Peter Lake was born on the sea. On a boat, for all that matter. He had no country.

"What's it like?"

"It's cold," she giggled. There was an endearing joy in her eyes. "Very cold."

Peter felt the corners of his mouth curling up. He couldn't help himself.

"Well, you're one to talk about the cold…"

He had meant to humor her. He was sinking into the lunacy of it all, participating in it. He was flying again. And she did give him a sympathetic smile, but her playful demeanor significantly faltered. Though she tried to conceal it, Peter noticed.

And he felt the descent from his flight. The wind rising.

"I…" he began, but she spoke first. Not harshly, but she spoke.

"I know. It's not the temperature a house should be at. But… we have no other choice." She stopped. Examined the boiled egg in her hand. "I have no other choice."

She lowered her face to the teacup. Closed her eyes. Sniffed.

"Are you alright?" he murmured. Her eyes rose from the black pool of tea. "I mean… is something wrong with you? Are you sick?"

"Yes," she replied, quickly. Again, her voice was not harsh. She didn't sound offended. She probably just wanted to clarify the situation as soon as possible. A topic this disheartening was best acknowledged quickly. "I have consumption. I'm twenty-one. I should be out and about. Going places and dancing. I should have friends. Maybe even a suitor. But here I am. Heh."

She seemed to be done talking, but then she spoke again. And Peter listened.

"You said you came from the roof, so that means you've seen the tent."

"Yes," he said.

"That's where I sleep. I can't sleep indoors. My father has tried his best to cool the rooms down, but I'm still better off out there. I don't know how long we can keep this up. One doctor said eight months… Another said six months… But it's been eight months since I last saw that second doctor, so, really… I'm already two months dead."

Her lips hung onto that perseverant little smile. Small yet still there. Still not fully gone.

And Peter's own mouth was flooded with yolk now, and memories, and his hunger was slowly disappearing. His eyes lingered on her hands as they wrapped around that cup. He could still hear the music. The frantic melody that had rocked him in the study.

The silence now felt heavy.

Those hands had created so much life by just moving. Pressing keys. For only a few minutes. Her hands were magical. Like his. And, like him, she was not meant to work her magic for much longer.

"My name is Peter Lake," he said.

Author's Note: If there's anyone here, thank you for reading.