29. Footprints of frost

"Still dizzy?"

"Not as much."

"Good."

"Don't let go of me yet, though."

The world had stopped tilting, but a slight buzz lingered stubbornly in his ears. Her arm was wrapped around his. Slender, musical fingers sunk into the folds of his coat.

Beverly laughed out a puff of white. "Are you tricking me, Peter?"

"Not for the world," he said. "I wouldn't dare."

"Do I intimidate you that much?" she teased.

"You terrify me," he told her, smiling.

The blue twilight swayed, silk-like, around them. He could see her still, despite the darkness. The snow on the ground and the frost on the branches reflected the moonlight. And these tiny drops of white and silver shone off the glassy surface of her eyes.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"I know," she said. "I love how the Coheeries looks during this time of the year. Even in the darkness, in the middle of the night, you can see it so clearly. It's stunning."

He nodded. Blushed. "It is."

Their feet sank into the carpet of snow. Each step brought forth a soft creak, a crunch, sounds that somehow reminded him of the cackle of the fireplace. Back when Penn spoke to him.

"Hey," he said.

"What?"

"Tell me," he said. She looked at him, brow creasing, with a touch of confusion. "Tell me about your life. Your story. I told you all about mine. Tell me, you know… who you are. Who you've been, who you want to be…" After a pause, he concluded: "Anything, really."

Beverly smiled. Her features soft in the half-light, under that shower of blue and silver.

Then she asked: "Where shall I begin?"

"Well…" said Peter Lake. He thought for a second. Then: "When did you come here? To New York? You said you were born in London."

Beverly said: "I've been in one true journey in my life. Across the sea. When my father began his empire, The Sun, you know. Also, the year in which I was first diagnosed."

"How old were you?"

"Mm… I truly can't remember. I was definitely no older than eight. Maybe seven."

"Oh."

"There were better doctors out here. My parents had connections, they knew where to go. I didn't understand much back then. I was so heartbroken when we left that I swore not to lose my accent. And, heh, I succeeded, somehow. I don't know how. But I… did."

"Yeah," he said, chuckling softly.

"I wanted to drink black tea but I was warned against it. I didn't even like tea that much, but I was so upset when I was told I wouldn't be able to drink it anymore. The typical, you know. You never know you love something until you lose it."

He nodded, said nothing. Allowed her to continue.

"The first years were frustrating," said Beverly. "I don't recall the pain as much as I do the frustration. A new place, a new reality. Warnings and threats all around me. Promises on one side, 'it'll go away,' 'you'll be right as rain in no time…' and on the other side, weeks. Months. Years."

She paused, then continued: "My father was always busy and, in my early teens, I sadly remember feeling resentful toward him. His growth, his dedication to The Sun… I couldn't understand, back then, that he was working so hard for my sake. The more he grew, the more money he got. And the money he earned, he'd spend on more doctors. More solutions. Theories. Treatments… His hands trembled, that's how much he wrote and typed and printed. There were papercuts on his fingers."

She paused again. Then: "But, of course, back then, I could only focus on what my life had become. I couldn't sleep indoors anymore. I wanted to go out and dance, but I was forbidden to do so. The tent was built. Then another, out here, when we bought the house. My father always says that this is my mother's house. She chose every piece of it. The windows and the bricks and the colors of the walls. Everything… She wanted to build the most pleasant place she could. Somewhere I wouldn't feel so frustrated. Well, not just me, but all of us. All of us were frustrated, in some way or another, because of my condition." Beverly then said: "Even during my resentful years, I remember… I always loved this place. It felt like a dream."

Peter Lake asked softly: "Your mother… What happened to her?"

"My mother…" she began. She blinked, licked her lips, and said: "She gave birth to Willa when I was fourteen. Afterwards, she was gone. Just like that. And, in order not to upset me… I was never given an explanation. I don't know if she died during childbirth… if she had a hemorrhage… They just told me she felt no pain. That she simply fell asleep."

Beverly turned her face to his and the rings of water spun around her pupils.

"And I think that it's worse not to know," she told him. "Because… I could imagine things. And who knows? Maybe she didn't go painlessly, or peacefully. Maybe that, too, was a lie. Meant to make me feel less sad about losing my mother." She smiled mirthlessly. "As if one could ever feel any other way when a mother dies…"

Peter Lake hadn't noticed until now. The ground under her feet had stopped crunching. The sound of her steps had become something soft and molten, similar to that of a sponge sinking into a bathtub. He peeked a glance at the ground, watched as they walked.

"Beverly."

She looked down. With every step she took, puddles of silver pooled around her feet. They stopped in their tracks. She uncoiled her arm from his and lifted her skirt, just a little. The snow fizzled underneath her. Coals. Embers. She was burning. Peter Lake shivered.

"I'm-"

"Don't apologize," she murmured, her voice gentle. "Please."

"I shouldn't have asked about- I-"

"Please, Peter." He looked at her eyes. Held her gaze. She wasn't scolding him. She wasn't angry. She just looked scared. "This is not your fault."

Then whose fault was it? He needed someone to blame. Something. Anything. A face behind her suffering. A finger that had pointed to her and instructed Death to follow. A force responsible for her illness. He needed someone to hate for bringing her this misery.

"I just need a moment," she whispered. The shadows darkened under her naked feet. "Don't worry, I'll- I'll be alright in a second."

"Beverly."

She looked at him. Her face was pale and her lips were pinker than ever. Violet shadows fell in leaves across her face.

I can help. He offered his hands. She lowered her gaze to his fingertips. I can help you. Beverly took a step, toward him, and the silver dripped down her toes. She put her hands in his.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Trust me."

She trembled, but nodded. Peter brushed a thumb across her wrist. Felt the thunder. The pressure. The blood on the other side, scalding and wild. The snow fizzled underneath her again. New pools began to form around her feet. A flush swept across her cheeks and she breathed out a chuckle, closing her eyes.

"Actually, this isn't helping…"

"Can you hear your heart?" he asked.

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. Dove into it, almost.

"When the fever comes, it's about the only thing I can hear."

Peter Lake spoke, then. And he made his voice as quiet, as soothing as he could.

"I'll tell you a story. When I cracked my first safe, my heart was literally in my throat. I could feel it. Most of all, I could hear it. It beat so loud it nearly deafened me. I couldn't hear the tumblers. I couldn't focus on where to turn the dial, where to stop, where to change direction."

She was breathing slowly through her partly-open mouth. Her eyes were fixed on his. She was swimming in his gaze. Focusing solely on it, as if hypnotized. Under his thumb, her pulse thundered.

"I had to learn to quieten it. Slow it down, quell the sound, so I could work between the beats." He bent his knees slightly, leveled his face with hers. "The trick to it is lists. Animals. Colors. Saints. Cities. Meaningless words you say as you exhale, to slow down the breath. Inhale quietly and say the words until the breath is gone." He once again brushed a thumb across her wrist and Beverly shivered. "Got it?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Do you need a list? I tend to do cities. Countries. Places, in general. But, again, it can be anything. Whatever you want."

Beverly lowered her gaze to the molten snow draped over her feet. She closed her eyes.

She slipped her wrists out of his grip and instead placed her fingers on his palms. And Peter Lake held her hands gently. She was trembling a little. The tips of her fingers moved lightly against his skin. Caressing it, almost. At times it tickled. But he didn't laugh. He just watched her face, her lowered eyelids, as she whispered:

"Castor… Pollux… Capella… Ursa Major…"

Stars. Peter peeked a glance upward. The velvet-black sky was broken by branches into shards of glass. And still he caught sight of the splatters of white, so far away yet so clearly visible. He had never seen so many stars.

"Ursa Minor… Polaris…"

The frost sizzled and Peter looked down. He gasped out a puff of white, grinned, felt a swell of relief in his chest. Beverly's eyes opened. She followed his gaze downward and the light winter breeze gathered in her hair. The silver on her feet was solidifying. Snowy spirals were forming on her skin. Beverly squeezed his hands, just a little, and again, Peter breathed out a chuckle.

"It works," she whispered, giggling. "Peter, it works."

"Keep going," he encouraged.

She closed her eyes again. And she kept going.

"Pleiades… Perseus… Cassiopeia…"

And watched her as she breathed, as she smiled, as the frost danced on her feet. And realized, too late, that he had never felt more at peace than he did now. Out here, in the darkness, in the biting cold. He was relieved to see her smile again.

When Beverly opened her eyes, they twinkled, despite the poor lighting. The way Cecil's eyes would reflect a dusty glow, even while cloaked in shadow. Peter couldn't stop looking at her. He was lost in a fog of wonder. He was thinking. And thinking. Her hands were in his.

"I don't understand, Beverly…" he murmured, finally. "I can't understand why no one has ever loved you."

Her cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed a creamy rose-purple in the moonlight. She whispered: "I don't know… How come you've never been married? Or promised?"

"I think you know why."

"No… I really don't. I don't understand why no one has ever loved you, either. Because…" She smiled gently at him. "What you said before was not true. You're not dumb, Peter. And you're not ugly. You're marvelous."

He said nothing. He didn't know what to say. How to respond to such a thing. And despite the dumbfounded silence that followed, Beverly didn't demand a response or tease him for his shyness. She coiled her arm around his again, despite the fact that the world had long stopped tilting and he no longer had excuses to keep her this close, and led him further into the night and the cold and the trees.

I love you. He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to. He wanted… and wanted…

But he simply walked by her side that evening. Reveled in her smile and her conversation. And when he found his voice again, she listened to what he said. And the things he talked about were trivial and worthless and small, but it was enough. It was enough for them. She never let go of his arm.

To whoever is here today, thank you for reading. I hope you have a great day.