15. Breakfast (part 3)

The pianist set down the cup. Folded her hands, one on top of the other. And a radiant smile shone across her face.

"And where are you from, Peter Lake?"

Again, he found himself unable to resist smiling back. He lowered his gaze. One finger grazed the outline of the plate.

"A boat."

She laughed. Hard and clear. It was wonderful.

But then she repeated what he'd said, in an almost-pitiful tone.

"A boat."

"I mean it. A little boat, washed ashore on Brooklyn. That's where they found me."

"Who found you?"

"Fishermen. A bunch of them. They fished me out. And, well… Humpstone John. He took me under his wing, raised me, all that."

Her eyes had regained their mirth. Even against the light, framed by the dark red hair, they glowed. Peter had never seen their equal.

"I was on my way to see him, actually. Like, after this."

She laughed again. It sent shivers down his spine. He had made her laugh more than once, in just a few minutes. When else had he made someone laugh this much? And she wasn't forcing it, he could tell she wasn't forcing it. Her laughter was imperfect, dry and hoarse and bouncy. It came from a place deep within her throat. She wasn't making an attempt to be refined or polite. She was giving in to her own amusement.

It was wonderful. Peter Lake kept thinking that, but… it was wonderful.

"So… your morning routine was meant to go as follows," she said. "You rob a house or two, then go see your friend. Will, heh, will he not have any questions? 'Hello, Peter Lake, my good friend. Let me just ignore that inconspicuous bag on your shoulder! Here, gimme a hug.'"

And she spread her arms and wrapped them tight against her chest, hugging herself. And Peter did laugh, now. He couldn't recognize it came from his own throat. She was wonderful.

"Yeah, something like that."

"Really!" she exclaimed, eyes opening wide.

"Yes, really."

"Oh, well, lucky guess."

They both chuckled. Quietly, secretly. Then the air around them thickened and silence returned.

"I'm… Well, a small detail you missed about my morning routine was the fact that I have to flee the city today."

"Oh," she murmured. She was peeling the last egg.

"Lately I've been having a disagreement with an old boss."

"Ah, I see," she murmured. "I suppose those sort of things are hard to settle in your line of work."

"Heh. Yeah."

"Has it always been this way for you?"

"Ma'am?"

"I mean… Have you always been this way? Was this what you wanted to do with your life?"

Another alien query. Peter had to wait a few seconds before her question sank in. He was not used to being asked these sort of things. No one had ever really asked him. He had never really thought about the answer.

"No child ever dreams of being a thief when he grows up," he muttered. He arched his eyebrows. The words slipped effortlessly between his lips. She was biting into the egg, her eyes set on him and only him. "I always wanted to be a mechanic. I've always liked… you know, fixing things. Getting to the inside of things. I liked seeing what most didn't. Invisible wires, turning. The sort of organisms no one ever sees, hidden behind metal doors, because they're stupid ugly, it's true…"

She smiled, laughed softly. A flutter in his chest. A tickling sensation. He grinned, felt himself blushing.

"Un-Until there's a malfunction, and people finally acknowledge that that is how things work. That is how they are able to enjoy certain rides or… certain homes. I wanted to be the one with the key to those metal doors. See the ugliness that creates beauty. Be the one to tell them, 'This is how things work.'" He paused, then: "I've always been fascinated by that. But, as you can see, it didn't quite work out."

She savored his words. Considered all he had said.

And, after a moment, she murmured: "Peter Lake."

He had lived with his name all his life. It shouldn't have felt so deliciously strange to hear it in that hoarse, sweet voice. It shouldn't have made him feel so flustered.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You can call me Beverly. Please don't call me ma'am."

"B… Beverly."

"Heh. Yes."

It reminded him of a rose-colored sky. The sky that had hovered over his head, when he first lay eyes upon that tent. The sky he walked towards as he held onto the rope, as he paced the walls of the house he was now inside of. The bluish clouds. Lilac little stars, persevering despite the early hours. Beverly was the name of that sky.

"What's the best thing you've ever stolen?"

Peter swam in her gaze. Those large pools of blue and green and yellow. Two palettes. Two rings of water.

"I get the feeling that I haven't stolen it yet," he said.

He feared this answer could be interpreted as a threat. He had not meant it that way. He waited for the decay of her joy. For her fleeing. But Beverly, the pianist, just smiled. The gentleness thickening like honey in her gaze.

"Aren't you the charmer," she whispered.

And Peter Lake, again, helplessly felt the warmth rising in his cheeks. He was mesmerized by the sight of her. He couldn't find any more to say. He was making a fool of himself, most likely. But he could do nothing about it.

"Thank you," he said. "I can't thank you enough for… you know, all this."

"It's my pleasure, Peter," said Beverly.

And when she stood up, so did he, and he felt the wind rising. His flight coming to an end. The sinking of his stomach. His heart growing heavy.

"It's been lovely," she said. "But I need to get ready."

"You're leaving?"

"I'm going to the country. My family is waiting for me."

"Oh."

Peter caressed the backrest of his chair with his thumbs. The yolk was still plastered to the roof of his mouth. She had fed and listened to him. She had laughed. He had laughed.

He looked at her as she stood against the light, in her white nightgown and bare feet. The unruly cape of dark red hair. Her pale, sickly, smiling face. Her lowered eyelashes. He wanted to see her eyes one more time. When else, and on whom, would he ever see eyes like hers again?

"I'm…" he began.

Beverly lifted her gaze. And Peter Lake felt that familiar hum of discouragement in his belly.

"I will be setting off, after, you know, after seeing John. I'll go south. Wait till this whole disagreement blows over."

"Oh, alright," she said.

"If- Well, if I come back, and I think I will, maybe in some months, we can- I mean, we could…"

Her gaze was brimmed with gratitude and gentleness. She didn't seem offended. She seemed to appreciate his offer, even relish it. But what was he asking? What was he dreaming of? What did he ever think would become of them? Peter trembled when she spoke.

"I'd love that," she whispered. "I would, truly. But… by the time you return, I'm afraid I'll already be dead."

The wind was rising. The ground was solid under his feet. His flight had ended.

"Please don't steal anything on your way out," she said. Her mouth curved in its stubborn little grin. Her eyes as glossy and clear as water.

And Peter Lake let her go. And let himself go.

He came out through the front door. He crossed the street. The white horse gleamed in the daylight. He forgot the rope and the hook. He didn't really mind forgetting about them, when he later remembered. Because he didn't forget Beverly. And on his ride to John, he didn't think about any other thing.

The sky itself was Beverly. The wintry clouds over his head. The cold. The water. The sunlight.

She had become everything around him, in just a short while. She truly was magical.

Author's Note: If anyone is here today, thank you for checking out my fanfiction. I hope you enjoy it so far.