41. Questions

Athansor.

Dog. Child. Bird. Horse. Carrier of miracles. Pain in the ass.

Athansor.

Peter Lake looked upon his friend that night, scurried away into the cold darkness and sat to watch the white horse in the stables. That strange companion that had saved him. That had guided him here.

Athansor?

He thought of it. Saying the name aloud. Let this uncertainty die with a whisper. If the horse lifted his gaze… those light hazelnut eyes… then all would make sense. All mystery would be solved. All question answered.

Question one. Why had the magpie given up his coins?

Athansor.

To follow the girl with red hair. The pianist. The girl of frost. The summer crystalized in her eyes.

Question two. Why had the magpie been asked to stay?

Athansor… Because…

I'm her miracle?

A question to answer a question. Peter licked the chill off his lips. He didn't say a word.

Was Peter Lake truly Saint Peter? Was he different now that he had love? Now that he could feel it?

A flower of fire digging at his chest. He had no idea when that flower had taken root. Had it been during breakfast? Had it been when she turned around and stopped playing that piano? Or had it been when she played? When he chose not to run. For the first time, he hadn't run. He hadn't fled. He had stopped and let himself be found.

Had that been the moment? The moment he knew love?

Athansor… am I her miracle?

He watched the horse's eyes. In the shadows it was hard to read them.

If so, horse of silver, dog of the East, pain in the ass… Question three… was the magpie abandoned for this?

Were his parents entrusted with the secret of his future? Were they in some way motivated by their hope that their son was… a miracle?

Or, or… Were they testing this theory? When they lowered him down on the waves. In the same way that Peter Lake now mouthed Athansor's name in the darkness. Making no sound. Waiting for the courage to speak for real. Had his parents put him on a boat and watched him float into the fog of New York because they knew he was miraculous, or because they wanted to make sure?

Had they in any occasion expected him to sink?

Questions to questions. He could only get answers if he said the name out loud.

Athansor.

Question four.

"You're awake."

Question four…

"Hello."

"Couldn't sleep?" asked little Willa.

"No…"

"Mm. Me neither. You look pale. Heh, did I scare you?"

"Honestly, yes. You're awfully quiet."

"I'm small. I'm hard to notice."

"I miss being small some times."

"You want to be hard to notice?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

Willa leaned into the door. She slithered her gloved little hand into his and Peter glanced down at her.

"Hey… Are you worried about something?" he asked.

"I'm always worried, Peter Lake. But like I said, I'm hard to notice."

"I notice you."

"Even so, when you notice me, you get scared. I scared you."

"Yes. But only for a second. You don't scare me."

Willa asked: "Did you say his name?"

"No. Not yet. I was thinking about it."

Question four.

"Why won't you say it?"

Why was the magpie so scared of answers?

"I don't know."

Questions to questions. No answer. He was terrified of the end of this mystery. His thoughts had wandered and he had found fear. He couldn't help it.

He was scared of both of the possible outcomes.

If he was no miracle, then… he had been destined to sink. He had cheated death. He was a thief. A thief of time and life. He would steal summer. He would steal that intruder, seated on its chair, tormenting Beverly. He would do what he could, but he would know, deep down, that he was a thief. A magpie. That he was stealing what wasn't his. That Beverly's heart had never been his to take. That he would never stop being a thief.

And… if he was a miracle… her miracle… He would become a piece in a puzzle. A cog in a machine. His every action would be unknowingly rehearsed. All he did would be calculated. He would be puppeteered again. The way Pearly had puppeteered him for so long. What difference did it make, to be controlled by a gentler puppeteer? One was controlled regardless.

And this outcome would reveal that he had never been given the choice to love. And, even harder to acknowledge… that Beverly had never been given the choice to love. That she had been assigned to him. And that they had no other alternative but to love. She had no one else but him.

"I don't know," he said, again.

"Peter."

"Yes, Willa?"

"Will you come with me for a moment?"

"It's very late."

"We're already out here. I want to show you something."

Athansor.

"Alright. Where are we going?"

"The greenhouse."

Willa's hand clung to his with persistence. Her hands ached to be held. Peter let her lead him away from the stables, into the night, through the frost and the shrubbery.

Athansor.

He only said it now, to himself alone. "Athansor."

Into the black winter sky. He watched the words turn to dust and smoke away. The wind stole them from him. The breeze danced with the syllables.

Author's Note: Happy New Year! To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading. It's very late for me as I write this so I don't know what else to say. I'm just glad you're here.

I know I kind of left Peter's trail of questions die unceremoniously here but they will receive their proper end in the next chapter, I promise. Until then. See you next time.