23. Expectations

"Peter."

"Mm?"

"Look there. Up ahead."

He had allowed his thoughts to wander. The sun was a sphere of white chocolate, melting into the clouds. The woods bordering the river were caked with snow. Dark greens and blacks peeking from coat upon coat of white. And up ahead, where Beverly pointed, came smoke. Chimneys. That was the first thing he saw. Smelled. The burnt, ashy fragrance that danced downstream, toward them.

The house reminded him of a mosaic. The windows and the walls resembled tiny crystals, each a different hue, fusing together to form a structure of creamy blues and pale greys. It looked otherworldly. A castle from a fairytale. A figment of a child's imagination.

"I've only ever known the city," said Peter. "This is beautiful."

"It's called the Lake of the Coheeries," she said. "Lake, like you."

"Like me." He smiled.

They came upon a couple more houses as they approached their destination. Some of the neighbors, gathered around buckets pregnant with flames, trembling and laughing as they balanced themselves on blades and boots. Thickly dressed in hats and capes. Peter Lake sank deeper into his old coat, the solitary barrier between him and this winter, and, for the first time in his life, felt underdressed.

"You're trembling," said Beverly.

"Just cold…"

"Mhm."

Her fingers dug into his coat.

"I'm sure my father could give you something warmer to wear."

"W- What?"

Only now did he acknowledge that, this whole time, he had limited himself to hoping Beverly would allow him to escort her. As he had ridden to her, before he had cast his eye on Pearly Soames and his curved, jagged knife, he had bargained with his own expectations and sought out the least ambitious. But, at the same time, he had forgotten about Florida. He had forgotten about it.

"You want me to stay?"

He was whispering. He couldn't hope to speak any louder.

"I'd like it if you did," she said.

Oh…

"But… I mean, I would too, I'd be happy to- to- stay… But-"

"Oh…" she whispered. "Oh, yeah, I remember. You said you needed to go south."

"It's not that," he mumbled. "I don't need to go south. I just needed to leave the city…"

"Then what is it?"

He looked back. Those around them, around the buckets and the flames, were watching. Some gasped at the sight of the white horse. Breathed out small questions. Followed them as they continued upriver.

"Pearly…" His voice quivered with the words. "He could find out where I am… He could try to hurt you again… And I won't… I won't forgive myself for that…"

Beverly pressed her lips together.

"He won't come here," she told him.

"You don't know that."

"He won't come… I just know. And even if he does, I want you to stay."

Was she ever afraid? Was she ever to be fazed by anything? If it hadn't been for his foolishness, for his decision to break into that house, he wouldn't have put Beverly in danger. All of this was bizarre. She was a mystery. Her calmness frightened him. Peter watched her from the corner of his eye. She seemed to piece his thoughts together. With a teasing smile, she sighed.

"I suppose I've become so accustomed to death that I'm no longer afraid of it, Peter Lake."

Peter was about to comment back on this, but he was cut off by a child's voice.

"Beverly!"

The white horse, at long last, stopped walking. And from the Lake of the Coheeries, the mosaic-looking house, came a little girl, running, followed by what appeared to be a governess. Beverly leaned to the side. He offered his arm for support.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

She slid off the saddle and landed on the ground, her pale blue dress pooling on the snow. Her smile, toothy and radiant and all-consuming. Peter watched her as she leaned down and welcomed the girl into her arms. Her hair was as frenzied and curled as that of Beverly's, but, instead of dark red, it was dark brown, almost black.

"Hello, little one."

The girl's round face nuzzled against her shoulder. Beverly giggled. Peter slid off the saddle and found his footing.

"Dear god," exclaimed the governess, who had caught up with the child. "Miss Beverly, where did you come from?"

"The river."

"The river! But, w- where is your carriage? And your luggage?"

"There was a complication. It's a long story. I was forced to leave those things back home." The governess's jaw wobbled and Beverly put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, please. I'm here. I have plenty of clothes as it is, I won't be lacking in that area."

The little girl's eyes were milky black and large. They found Peter's as they peeked above Beverly's shoulder. He lifted a hand, smiled sheepishly.

"Hello."

"Who is that?" asked the child.

Beverly turned, smiled. "He's with me."

"You really rode that animal up a frozen river with Miss Beverly on the saddle?" exclaimed the governess.

Peter mumbled: "I- Yes."

"You know, that could have ended very badly. What if the beast had slipped? Or fallen? Or- What if you-?"

"It's because of him that I was able to come here to begin with," said Beverly. "Otherwise, god knows what might have happened."

She extended an arm toward him. Invited him forward. And Peter went to her. The white horse followed close by.

"I'm Willa," said the little girl.

"Hello, Willa."

"What's your name?"

"Peter. Peter Lake."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah. Same."

Her little hand was gloved and she offered it to him. He chuckled, took it, and they shook. His hands were gloveless and cold and ash-colored. Peter hoped no one else noticed that they still smelled of salt and silver. The girl's watery black eyes squinted up at him, then. The sun bled into them like a drop of honey.

"I've never seen you before."

"No, I don't think you have."

"Are you Beverly's boyfriend?"

"Willa!" said the governess. Beverly started laughing.

Peter opened his mouth, but he knew no answer to the question. His face became hot and his fingers trembled.

"Please excuse her, sir, she never bites her tongue in the presence of strangers," said the governess.

"No, no, please, I-"

"What a thing to say!"

He didn't make any vocal accusations, but Peter may have detected a second meaning to this reaction by the governess. One that made him feel slightly self-conscious and afraid. Whether she intended to or not, the governess had disregarded the little girl's question as an insult. Why was that? Was it simply due to the bluntness of it? The fact that Willa was in no position to ask such things? Or… perhaps… was it because Peter Lake, with his cheap coat and sloppy haircut and sunken dark eyes, could never be assumed to be Beverly's lover without a touch of irony? That the mere guess that he was with her was as insulting as it was comical? He hated making these theories in his head. He truly did. But he couldn't help himself. He had witnessed many a strange thing those past few hours but, deep down, he was a man. A man in a cheap coat, with a sloppy haircut, and sunken dark eyes, and blood in his hands, and salt and silver under his fingernails.

He peeked a glance at Beverly, whose face was gracefully twisted with joy, and her eyes conveyed no awkwardness or panic. They turned to his and caught the frosty sky. And somehow Peter Lake felt calmer. He smiled at her.

"So it is true," Willa murmured, her little face bright with amusement. "You're her boyfriend."

"Willa Penn-"

"Well," Beverly said. "Let's see what Father thinks on the matter."

Father. Peter's smile faltered. Father. Oh. Oh god.

He was too old to be scared of talking to fathers. But his experience on the matter was so scarce that he may as well had been twenty years younger. Now that he thought about it... when had he exchanged words with a father?

Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading. I feel better now, my stomach is slowly calming down. I missed writing this.