34. Hymn

Her hands moved with less frenzy today.

She had patience now. Or maybe calmness of mind. Or, perhaps, Beverly was trying to lull that fiery intruder, sitting on its chair, right above her chest. To bewitch it into a small slumber with the gentle dancing of her fingers. For only a few moments. Just a little while.

Peter Lake was busy. Currently, he was exploring the floor with the tip of his shoe. He felt like humoring her, even though he wasn't particularly proud of his sense of humor. He had followed the music, found her here, and immediately made the decision to be funny. Or, at least, attempt to be funny.

He tried finding a sound. A creak. A spot to step over, so that he could make his poor excuse of a joke. But the floors here were smoother, newer, and while he slid his foot in search of a noise, Beverly suddenly laughed from the piano.

"Déjà vu," she said. She didn't turn around. She kept working her magic. "Isn't that what it's called?"

"Heh. Yeah."

"Good morning, Peter."

"Good morning."

"How long have you been behind me?"

"Not long. I was about to give up."

"I will not turn around until you find it," she said. "I promise."

"I won't find it."

"Then… I'll never turn around."

He peeked a glance down, at the labyrinthic pattern of the floor. The browns and yellows and greens, each hue different, yet gracefully converged. It was like walking on a pond.

Beverly kept her melody going. He couldn't recognize it. What she had played yesterday, he was familiar with. He swore he had heard it elsewhere. But not this. This timid tiptoeing of notes. Gentle and mesmerizing. She was humming to herself, as well. He hadn't taken notice of it until now.

"When you play," he asked, "do you play your own songs?"

"Sometimes."

"Is this one yours?"

"No."

"Oh… I thought it was. I've never heard it."

"You must have heard it before."

"No. I would have remembered something like this."

"It's called O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. It's a hymn."

Peter observed the back of her head as she leaned over the keys.

"What's it about? If it's a hymn, I assume it's about something."

"It was sung in the Middle Ages, seven days before Christmas Eve," said Beverly. "It was translated from Latin around fifty years ago. It's about… mm…"

Her hands continued dancing. Calculated, practiced steps. Key after key. She knew where to touch. She wouldn't be distracted.

"Emmanuel is Christ," said Beverly. "It was the name given to him before He was even conceived. In the hymn, He is asked for. For various reasons. He is asked to liberate. To grant peace, happiness, and wisdom."

He kept up with the arching of her fingers, how her knuckles would spike up and sink down. It was almost as if her hands were floating. Suspended in midair. Caressing the keys and then setting off anew. Not flying, not quite. Floating.

"And…" Peter said. "Are you asking for Emmanuel, then?"

Beverly turned her face a little. He could now see the smooth curve of her cheek, her eyelashes. She was smiling.

"I don't know," she told him, shrugging. "I just like the song."

And she kept playing, nodding and humming softly to herself. Peter leaned back against the wall. Kept looking at the back of her head. And just listened.

There was a dark contrast in the notes she played. It wasn't dissonance. The melody flowed well. But… there was a sort of graceful rivalry, hidden in the music. The notes argued among themselves. But they didn't shout. They danced, spun, caressed each other. Whispered opinions that clashed, and desires that contradicted one another, and perspectives… perspectives on the world, and that which lay above the world… Some of cynicism, others of hope. If this song was about wishing, then, Peter assumed, some people may have wished to believe that wishing worked to begin with.

The melody would undulate across the room in gusts of thick wind. The sound was similar to the smell of the claret he had drunk last night. Sweet, delicate, ancient, a little melancholic… but fiery… so fiery that it hurt to breathe it in…

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't really acknowledge that a human being could compose this. Write it down. Put it in paper. And that a sick young woman with dark red hair could now sit at a piano to play it. Like she would any other song. It wasn't just any song. He didn't know what it was that made it so impossible to believe.

"Does He ever listen?" Peter found himself asking. "In the song?"

Beverly thought about it for a moment. The melody wound down. She moved her hands leisurely.

"Listen to the prayers?" she asked in return.

"Yes."

Beverly said: "No. It's never known if He listens. The hymn is just about the prayers. The wishes for peace and happiness. That's why it's played before Christmas so often, I think. After all, winter is not spring, it's merely the desire for it. The desolation that precedes it. And… the doubt, too."

She lay her hands on her lap and lowered her gaze. Beverly sighed, leaned back into the chair, curled and uncurled her fingers. Peter could see them tremble.

"Thank you," he said.

At long last, she turned. She glanced back at him and their gazes met and she looked tired, but also flushed, and alive.

"You have new clothes," she commented.

"That's why I'm thanking you," he said. "It's the reason why… Well, it's part of the reason why I sought you out."

"Part of the reason?" She rested her chin on the backrest of the chair.

"Yes."

"Mm." She grinned.

Peter Lake let his fingers caress the fuzzy black fabric of his cardigan. The interior of the coat.

"Are they warmer than the ones you had before?" she asked.

"They're lovely."

She chuckled. "I think they are, too. I'm glad you got them. I suppose you aren't too accustomed to Christmas gifts."

Peter lifted his head.

"What confuses me is, it's… not Christmas."

"No. It's been… Yes, two days. It's the twenty-seventh."

"Then why did you give me this?" he asked. "And… why are you playing this song, when you said it's meant to be played before Christmas?"

Beverly hopped to her feet, walked to him. Frenzied red hair bouncing from her shoulders as she glided along the floor.

"Well, Peter," she told him, "maybe I did wish to call for Emmanuel. And, maybe, for a second, it became Christmas for you, all over again. Or perhaps for the first time this year." She peeked a glance at him and added: "Or for the first time ever."

Author's note: To anyone who may be here today, thank you for reading.

Yes, I was listening to The Piano Guys' beautiful version of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel while I was writing the part where Peter listens to Beverly play, just to get my gut reaction/interpretation of the song and put myself in his shoes as he does the same thing. Most of the section where he just rests against the wall and thinks about the music is my immediate response to listening to it in real life.

I really like how this chapter turned out. I wanted to add more scenes of Beverly playing the piano because, for someone who takes pride and is known for being an incredible pianist, she doesn't play it much in the movie. She only does so in a couple of scenes at the very beginning. And, well, this gives me the excuse to add my original dialogues all over the place and extend her relationship with Peter as much as I possibly can XD

Again, thank you for reading. See you next time. Have a great day!