20. Touch
"Peter Lake."
She breathed out his name. A skip in her voice. A small laugh, an outtake of breath, caused either by the hopping of the white horse as it breezed down the street, or the rush of adrenaline, or both, it could be both.
Her hold tightened around his waist. Her cold breath caressed the back of his neck and some tendrils of her hair tickled his cheek.
This was the first time Peter touched her.
He hadn't come to realize this until they had gone through three or four blocks. Until his stomach had fully untangled and his heart had stopped aching. He hadn't calmed down yet, that was too much to ask. He knew that Pearly followed close by. That he wouldn't just let them go. That his face was twisted in fury. That his eyes were wild. He could see those eyes. He could smell his breath.
London, Paris, Amsterdam…
But he was not as bewildered as he'd been initially. Beverly was behind him now. And he was going to get her away. He would help her. Pearly wouldn't reach them. They were alright now. They were alright now. The City of Justice was done for. London, Paris, Amsterdam, Moscow, Beijing, Saint Petersburg, Sydney, New York, Philadelphia. Goddamn it. Calm down. Calm down.
"Hold on," he said stupidly. "Hold on."
The white horse dashed on its own accord. It once again dodged the automobiles and their outraged drivers, and the women with their feathers and their coats and their purses, and the men with their canes and their spectacles and their loud, loud complaints.
"Sir!"
"Aw, you scoundrel!"
"Oh! You again!"
Get some reins on that wild horse, will you?
"Hey, miss, your hat! Your hat!"
Beverly's head sank into the space between his shoulder blades. Her hands trembled against his belly.
You're making her nervous.
"Miss!"
And if she gets nervous, her heartbeat quickens. She will grow warm. She needs to stay cold. She needs to stay alive.
"Miss, are you alright?"
She whispered. He heard her. He could hear her.
"Yes."
But no one else did. Pearly was shouting down the street. His screaming melted into the clamor of the klaxons.
"Hey, buddy, stop that horse!"
Shut up.
"You are not going anywhere, this is unacceptable, I'm notifying the police!"
"Go fuck yourself!" screamed Peter Lake, as loud as possible, and to his delight, Beverly laughed again.
The klaxons sang around them, the walkers exclaimed, the men bleated like goats. The white horse galloped frantically by now. Its hooves clacking as wildly and quickly as the notes Beverly had played on that piano.
"Beverly," said Peter at some point.
"Yes?"
Her voice shook. Their bodies wobbled on top of the white horse. The clacking became thudding. A softer sound. Muddy and cold. They were being taken away from the street, into the park, and into dirt paths, with frosty fallen leaves. Peter didn't know where they were going. He only knew to keep moving.
"I'm sorry… I'm very sorry…"
She may have replied to him. Her words were muffled by his coat and the wind and the drumming in his ears.
But he could hear other things. He could hear them. The wolves. The sharks. Whatever they were. He could hear the engines. The rubber rolling up the dirt, the frost, the leaves. And the huffs of a stallion. The gasping breaths of Pearly Soames.
This is all my fault…
"Go fast!" she shouted into the wind.
"Yes, clearly!"
But he had no way to tell that damn horse how fast to go. He was well past that. The horse was special. And Peter couldn't tell her this. He couldn't sink into further embarrassment and self-loathing.
This is all my fault. This is all your fault, too. You stupid horse. You made me go into that house. You made me love her. You made me return to her. Now… Now…
"Peter."
"Ma'am?"
"Go north, go along the river."
And the white horse turned among the trees. The white horse listened. Peter felt a sinking in his stomach.
"He never listens," he spoke into the wind.
"What?"
And in a second the sky spread out before them. The trees shrank behind the white horse. Cowered from the drop. A river of ice. A white death.
No-no-no…
The white horse lunged forward. Beverly's grip tightened.
"Peter?"
Oh no.
"Hold on!"
"Hold on?"
And Peter Lake was sure that she would not listen. That she would jump and let herself fall back on the yellow grass. That she would sooner risk dealing with those animals than trust his advice. That despite her charming acceptance of the nonsensical and the illogical, Beverly had her limits. And this was the limit. His baffling request. This white horse, barreling forward toward the edge of the cliff.
This is all my fault…
"Please don't let go of me!"
"Peter! Peter, wait!"
And the white became all they could see. All that lay below and above and around.
The horse jumped. And Beverly didn't.
Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thanks for reading.