25. Fathers

"Take a seat."

"Thank you…"

"Do you take wine with your meals?"

An odd icebreaker, but an icebreaker regardless. Peter Lake's fingers drummed soundlessly against the armrests of the chair. The leather sank under his touch, the firelight breaking into paths and then fussing back into unity.

"Eh, sometimes…"

"Mhm…"

The father had her eyes. She had his, to be more specific. Liquid and bottomless. He also showed hints of that stubborn smile his daughter so loved to brandish. Though, unlike Beverly, his own grin was soured by what Peter could only identify as a weathered cynicism. Even if he curled his lips, he looked tired. More than anything, he looked tired. Tired of smiling, perhaps.

"We'll have some later. Will you be alright with claret?"

"Anything."

"Mhm."

"I- Uh…"

"Mhm?"

Peter couldn't hold his tongue, for some reason. He was much too nervous and much too self-conscious to stop himself.

"Eh, forgive me, but I thought… I thought 'claret' was pronounced… 'clarette.'"

"No, it's 'claret.'"

"Mm… Always thought it was 'clarette.'"

"It's like in 'wallet,' see, you don't say 'wallette,' you say 'wallet.'"

"Yeah. Heh, I- Yes, you're probably right. You're the journalist, after all."

His eyes popped open. Shit.

The father raised an eyebrow. His fingers were bony and interlaced over his belly. "Ah. I see you know who I am."

I saw your desk. I saw the quills and the paper.

"Yes. I- Yes, sir."

"You read The Sun?"

"No, sir. But… I know who you are."

The father's liquid eyes traveled up and down Peter's coat. "How old are you?"

"I'm thirty-five, sir."

"Then why are you calling me 'sir'?"

"Well, I- you're older than me… and I'm your guest… sir." There came a pause. Peter assumed the father was giving him a longer period of time to defend his answer. "I mean, is it- do you not consider it appropriate for me to- to- to refer to you as 'sir'?"

"It's not that, it's perfectly appropriate, I just find it amusing."

"Amusing?"

The father tilted his head, the small curve of his mouth twisting and thinning out. He squinted at Peter, in a way that reminded him of Willa, the little girl. How she had squinted up at him earlier.

"I mean," said the father, "can I be honest with you?"

Peter mumbled: "Eh… Yes."

"You look like a crook."

The flames cackled quietly. The fiery snowdrops descended in the father's eyes and he huffed out a quick, dry, humorless chuckle.

"Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Well…" murmured Peter, finding his voice, "if it's honesty you want, sir, I am a bit wounded."

"It is honesty I want, but not that sort of honesty. Here, I'll give you an example, since you don't seem to know me very well, either."

The father sat forward slowly, leaning into the armrests with his elbows. He briefly let his calloused fingers touch the cynical curve of his lips.

"My name is Isaac Penn, I'm the editor in chief of The Sun. I'm a widower and I have two daughters, Beverly and Willa. I don't know who you are, I don't know where you came from, or why you're here now, but I'm happy to find out. I like to approach people with an open mind. I simply assume you're a crook, based not only on your physical appearance and your clothing, but mostly on the fact that you know what I do and yet you don't read my newspaper. I saw you panic after you said that I was a journalist, implying that you didn't want me to know you knew. So… the reasons why you know what I do must be questionable, at best. You're drumming your fingers and you call me 'sir' repeatedly, therefore implying that you're especially nervous of being in my presence, more than any other suitor could ever hope to be. So, yes. You look like a crook. But, again, I want to approach you with an open mind. If Beverly brought you all the way out here, then… there must be a reason."

Peter's eyes were drying out in the firelight. He had stopped blinking. His mouth had also stayed open all throughout Penn's monologue and the tip of his tongue felt pasty. He winced at the silence that followed. And Penn leaned back on his chair and licked his lips.

"There. Now you know what I want." After a second pause, he said: "I want to know. Who are you? Who are you to Beverly? How come I've never seen you before? How come no one's ever seen you before? How did she get here with no carriage and no luggage and why did you come with her? What do you do? What is your relationship to my daughter? Are you aware of her condition? What are your intentions, your desires, your goals? That is the honesty I want. Be brief and concise in your answers and pause only if someone comes into the room."

"'Be brief'?" repeated Peter softly. "These are complicated questions."

"If you were one of my journalists, you'd be finished by now. God made the world in six days, ape him."

Saint Peter. Peter chuckled to himself. He was no saint nothing. He remembered Cecil and allowed himself to miss him for a second. He missed the thick, suffocating darkness of the stables. How his friend's dark eyes would twinkle despite the shadows. His strong grip, the rough hum of his voice. He had been a good friend. Peter felt lonelier than ever.

"I'll try," he said, at last.

"Unnecessary."

"Alright."

"Unnecessary."

Peter nodded. Breathed in, out. His fingers moved slowly, making no sound, sliding across the armrests.

"My name is Peter Lake," he said. "I'm an orphan. When I was a baby I was found in a model boat by fishermen and clam diggers. I've never known my parents. You guessed right, I'm a thief, and I'm a damn good one. However, I just recently decided to reevaluate my life following an ugly disagreement with an old boss. I decided to move out of New York and start anew. But before I could make my leave, I met Beverly."

"Be brief, I said," murmured Penn.

"I love her," said Peter. "I fell in love with her from the moment I saw her, I don't know how that's possible, but it's just how things happened."

"Uh-huh."

"She was forced to leave her luggage and her carriage due to the fact that she was attacked. I was there, I got her out, and I got her here, and she told me to stay. She told me to talk to you and that is what I'm doing. Our relationship goes by no name. I have no intentions. I had no hope to stay until she asked me to. I'm in love with her. That is all. And as long as she wants me by her side, I'll stay by her side. Do you understand?"

The father nodded. His brow furrowed slightly.

"How do I know you're not moved by vanity or curiosity?"

"I'm an orphan," said Peter, and in his own voice he detected a mild bitterness. "Orphans don't have vanity. I don't know how to explain it, but vanity needs nurturing, one that orphans do not have."

"Mhm."

"And this isn't me acting out of curiosity, either. Had that been the case, I would have been satisfied with just one conversation with Beverly."

"And you're not?"

"No. I want to be with her. As long as she wants me as well, of course."

"Alright," said the father. "Tell me, now, is this interest in my daughter linked to greed in any way? You're a thief, after all, you confirmed it yourself."

Peter licked his lips, arched his eyebrows. He realized that his knees were wobbling, moving erratically, in short motions, from side to side. Penn had taken notice more than once, he could tell, but he had not deviated his haunting eyes from their subject. The color was congealed there. Pools of ice. Beverly's eyes were warm with youth and rich in expression. These were the eyes of an exhausted dreamer. Frozen remains. These eyes could feasibly belong to her one day.

"I won't take a penny from you, for a start," said Peter Lake. "And I never intended to do so. The main drive behind my decision to come into your house was… ehem, let's say it came from a third party."

"Uh-huh."

Peter paused before continuing. His knees stilled. So did his fingers.

"I will accept no favors, not even a kind word said on my behalf, if it so pleases you. I only ask for Beverly's wishes to be respected. As long as she wants me here, I'll stay. When she wants me to leave, I promise, I'll leave. You won't even notice I'm gone. You may even forget I was here in the first place."

Penn nodded slowly. A cloud passed over his brow in the half-light. When he spoke again, there was a subtle tremor in his voice.

"Now… Are you aware of her condition?"

"Yes, sir."

"Prove it."

"I don't want to talk about it. It will only bring us both pain."

"Prove it."

Peter nodded. "Alright…" And then he deviated his eyes from Penn's, looked down at his knees, which had stopped shaking. He lifted his head a second later and murmured: "She has consumption. She's… dying."

"Mm-mhm."

"Her fever is so high that she will neither eat warm meals, nor come into firelit rooms, nor sleep indoors, regardless of how cold a house gets. She has no friends. No lovers. No one… No one wants her."

"Mm-mhm."

The shadows deepened in Penn's face. His wrinkled flesh thickened almost momentarily before Peter's eyes. And whatever exhaustion he saw in the man before this happened, augmented. All in all, he felt sorry for the father.

"She's an incredible piano player," continued Peter Lake. "And she laughs and makes jokes despite the fact that she's suffering."

"And… what do you make of all this?"

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

Penn's expression had slowly become desperate. The pale yellow of the fireplace thickened in his eyes. And now it was his knees that wobbled, just a touch.

"I've never loved much before," said Peter. His voice was soft. "Definitely not like this. Not ever… I've never seen a loved one suffer the way Beverly does. Therefore… though I've had my personal run-ins with death… I've never watched it creep upon those I care about. I've never been in a position where I couldn't… cheat death. Outrun it or dodge it. So I've never known to fear it until now."

"Mhm…"

"Just the thought of it…" Peter clenched his jaw. "Just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. To think of… of…"

"Mhm."

"But I'm willing to fear," he whispered. "And I'm willing to suffer. And I'm willing to go through this, if it means I will be by her side. Because… I want to be with her. I want her to be happy."

Penn nodded, slowly. His knees kept shaking. And something shone somewhere in Peter's mind. A thought, a possibility, illuminated by a second's whim.

"And despite all this," said Peter, "I swear, there may still be a chance. I know there is. It's the most logical conclusion I can come to, based on everything that has happened these last few hours."

"Mm. So you claim you can cheat death, regardless."

Peter hesitated. Penn stared at him.

He said, like he'd said before: "I can try."

"And how do you hope to try?"

"The same way I always have," the words slipped out of his mouth on their own accord. "Quietly, carefully. Opening doors. Fiddling with locks. After all, I'm a thief, as you so keenly observed. I steal things. Can't I steal… just one life?"

Penn let himself sink back on the chair. The hands folded neatly over his belly. And his knees stilled. The smirk on his face thinned out.

"Well, Peter Lake, we'll see about you."

"Thank you, sir."

"We've already eaten, since we expected Beverly to arrive later. But you and her are welcome to have something to eat before supper."

"Alright."

"I will show you to your room."

"My room?"

"Well, did you really think I'd let you sleep in that tent?" Penn chuckled dryly.

"No, it's not- huh-" Peter stammered. "It's not that, I just… Never mind."

His gaze dropped. And all at once his knees began wobbling again.

If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading.