24. In the company of thieves
The white horse had let himself be guided away. This was more terrifying than anything Peter Lake could have put into words. As his friend, his compass, his stubborn wayfinder, was being taken to the stables, Beverly was leading him into the mosaic-looking house, the spirals of blues and silvers.
He feared for a moment that he would find nowhere to enter, only a painted mural of crystal. Maybe he would sink into the pattern and become part of it. Maybe he would then spend eternity gazing into that river of ice. But Beverly opened the door for him and he gazed into a light-flooded room composed of stones and carpets. There were paintings on the walls, tables with lamps and creamy china vases. It was a real room. A real house. No mirage. This was no dream. Neither was Beverly. Her fingers were intertwined with his. Her pianist fingers. Slender and cold and pale.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Beverly, a quiet chuckle reverberating down her arm.
"It all just feels surreal… Like… I'm struggling to piece this all together."
She smiled at him. "You know what my father always says?"
Father. I'm going to meet her father. Oh god.
"What does he say?"
"He says, nothing happens that isn't supposed to."
He snuck a peek at her, at her joyous, beautiful eyes. How could she have been so calm? So composed?
"Then… does that mean he will accept me right away? If I'm… supposed to be here?"
"So that's what you're afraid of…"
"How could I not be?"
"You can not be," she said. "Truly. You'll be alright."
I'm a thief. I'm a bastard. I have nothing to give you. I have nothing to offer. What father would allow his daughter to be in the company of thieves?
"I'm not, heh… I'm not as brave as you."
"I disagree."
"Huh."
"It's true."
"Why?"
Beverly lifted a hand and brushed an errand lock of black hair across his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.
"You're here," she told him, then. "That's why."
And Peter Lake said nothing. He felt, in a way, that he understood. He let her guide him further into the house. He drifted through the atmosphere. Let things settle into place. And when he returned to his senses he found himself brushing shoulders with Beverly, the pianist, in the doorframe of a firelit room, the shadows thick and smokey at the corners. Right beside the fireplace sat a white-haired man on a dark leather chair. The eyes, two dots of darkness, glanced at him. Opposite to where he sat lay a second chair, vacant. Gleaming in the firelight.
"Beverly?" whispered Peter.
"I can't go into the room if the fireplace is lit," she told him. "To be honest, I imagine he wants to speak to you alone, either way. I need to stay outside."
"So…"
"Don't be afraid. I promise, it'll all be fine."
He swallowed.
"Hey," she said. She squeezed his hand gently. He had forgotten it was still there. How could he had forgotten? How? "I'll see you at lunch."
He could still taste the yolk. That longing for simpler times. The breakfast she had made for him.
"Yes," he said, nodding. "I'll see you at lunch."
And her hand slipped away from his. As she turned and walked away, he let the tip of his thumb graze the sensitive skin at the center of his fingers, those folds of flesh, those little creases. Those parts of him she had touched.
And under his breath he spoke, as he slowly walked forward into the heat and the tobacco-smelling half-light. London. Paris. Amsterdam.
Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading.