21. A white death
The sweet winter wind gathered around Peter's face.
He gasped as they dove into the foggy sunlight. The breeze curled up into the space between his shoulders, slithered into his clothes, gathered in the rough creases. It was all white. All white, nothing but that.
And his mouth flooded with the taste of bitter death. His tongue dried out, the frost bled into the pink, the wind sheltered itself in his body. And through all this, Beverly never once let go. Her cold face pressed itself to his back. Her arms coiled tight around his middle, her hands clinging to his chest.
She didn't scream when the white horse jumped. Nor did she react much to the wings that speared out of its sides. Peter couldn't turn to see if she was alright. The wind was too thick and his lungs were too frozen and his heart was too tight. He wanted to. He was still scared. He wanted to see her. Know for sure that everything was fine. But he couldn't turn around.
Peter therefore didn't get to see the silver gracefully flying out of the satchel, the knives spinning like grey ballerinas and collapsing on the grass. The tray clattered as it hit the ground. And the fence returned for a second and Peter thought that maybe he deserved abandonment and death and embarrassment after all.
This is all my fault.
But when he heard Beverly breathe out he finally allowed himself to relax. The tightness in his chest diminished. And he felt that Beverly lifted her head, loosened her grip. She didn't laugh. She said nothing. She seemed to be solely immersed in the experience. Mesmerized by its ridiculousness. The same way he had been mesmerized during his first flight.
Was she closing her eyes, too, and tasting the city as they descended? Taking in the smell, like she was doing with the black tea? What was she doing? What would her eyes convey, were he to look into them now? Peter didn't know. Couldn't know. And that terrified him.
The hooves sank like teeth into the ice. Peter had braced himself for a slip, but the white horse elegantly landed and began trodding the frozen river. Noiselessly, it carried them downstream.
Once the wind thinned and the hair fell back around his face, the rivers of cold sweat rolling between his eyes, Peter turned.
Beverly's hair had been twisted into a large blue hat when he had taken her from Pearly. Now the thick dark curls wrapped around her neck, forming a scarf.
"Sorry about your hat."
Beverly's eyes looker paler than before. The pools of shadowy turquoise shone, reflecting the ice below, the sky above.
"Don't worry about it," she said.
"And your luggage, and your condition, and... well, sorry about all this."
"I feel fine, Peter."
"Really?"
"I'm fine."
She was smiling again. Barely, but... she was smiling. She rested her chin on his shoulder. Her cheek brushed his ear and part of his neck. Peter shivered.
"Go upriver," she whispered.
And the white horse kept on treading. Huffing rythmically, softly. Its immaculate hooves sank into the ice. The mane of silk-like silver slid between Peter's fingers. The hands that opened safes and wielded knives and pulled Beverly onto the saddle and hopelessly held the reins. Unable to determine the destination.
Some things would never change.
"I owe you some explanations," he murmured.
"Some would be nice," said Beverly, sighing. Smiling. He could hear her smile. It was impossible, but he heard.
"This horse."
She giggled. "This horse."
Peter's mind went blank for an instance. As blank as everything was around them. Even the animal he was riding on melted into it. The whiteness. The ice. The sky. Up and down, and right and left. They were swimming in oblivion. Moving in nothingness. All that existed was... them. And what to say? What to tell her?
"He saved me," he whispered. "He saved my life. He showed up out of nowhere. He... set off. Just like that... And I don't know how it's possible, I wish I could tell you for sure how- how any of this is possible. But all I can say is… I'm sorry."
"Peter."
"Ma'am?"
"Beverly."
"Beverly. Sorry."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming for me."
Pearly went to you because of me. He knew where I'd been.
"You shouldn't thank me."
"I am."
"I could have gotten you killed."
"You saved me."
"I put you at risk."
Beverly's chin lifted from his shoulder. Peter turned slightly to the side, toward her, tried to look at her face. Then her mouth pressed gently to his cheek. He tensed up. Froze. His own mouth opened slightly. The whiteness thickened, its subtle hints of blue and silver thinning out. The line between the ice and the sky practically vanished. They were all that existed. All that was. All that would be.
I love you.
Her lips were cold and firm against his skin. Again he acknowledged it, this was the first time they touched. The first time the side of her face caressed his own. The first time her hair twirled around the curve of his ear and bundled up at the back of his neck. Her arms were around him.
I love you.
"I'm alright, Peter Lake," she murmured. And her voice breezed coolly, softly across his skin. "Thank you for coming for me."
I love you.
Her kiss was a drop of rain. An evening in autumn.
Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading.