60. Sky of paint (part 2)

The first thing Peter Lake noticed was the clock. Large and heavy and gawking from the curve on the ceiling.

The columns, swathed in green and gold and white. And the hands turning against a dark brown pool, eating away the crumbs of the year. What remained of it.

It reminded him of Grand Central Station. The sound of it. The chattiness. The power of that clock, almost intimidating the party unfolding under its rhythmic ticking. There seemed to be an understanding of just how scarce the hours were now. What little time remained to enjoy this particular evening. One year gone by. Another soon begun. He let out a soft sigh. He looked at the ceiling. Creamy beige and yellow. Unpainted. No stars. But the floor was glossy and the shoes tapped along the room. And the clamor was thick and the music cowered under the conversations. Last-minute confessions and memories and nostalgias.

This was Grand Central Station. This was where people said goodbye. Where people said hello.

And Peter Lake was among them. He neither floated nor flew. He didn't hide away in a cavernous sky of paint. Not now.

When we return to the city, stay with me.

Not ever again.

Beverly's fingers moved around his arm. He felt her grip tighten slightly. He turned to face her. She was looking up. She was watching the ceiling, too. Their hands were still interlocked. Her gloved fingers rested between his knuckles.

"Okay?" he murmured.

Beverly whispered: "When I walked in here the other day… When you went down into the furnace… I looked up, too. I stared up for a very long time. Willa got worried. I don't think I returned to my senses until… my father called out for us. When he dragged you out."

He brushed a thumb along her wrist. The white silk cloaking her skin. She sighed. Her painted lips thinned out.

"It's a very tall ceiling."

"Yes."

"It reminds me of my tent, in a way."

He hesitated before asking: "You're afraid of the ceiling coming down on you?"

She looked at him.

"I remembered what you told me. That you were scared of falling, when you slept in the attic of Grand Central Station. And I stood there, looking up, and… I don't know… I just stared up."

Peter returned his attention to the ceiling. The music fluttered. The dancers spun. The clamor thickened.

"Do you think stars are afraid of falling, too?" she asked. "If my theories are right… and all the stars are, in fact, just people? Like you, or me. They always appear so poised… But… are they scared, as well? As scared of you felt in that painted sky? Or, as scared as I was, standing down here, just looking up?"

Peter peeked a glance at her. He studied the soft curves of her profile.

"I'm sure they're not," he said. "If you are right, and the sky is meant to be for the dead… I suppose it wouldn't provide them any additional suffering, for what they've already endured."

She looked down, forward, at the clock and the dancers under it.

"But stars do fall," she said.

"I'm sure they're harnessed to something," he said. "I think they float. Or fly. "

She smiled a little. "Like your horse?"

Athansor. Peter smiled, too.

"Yes. Like him."

"I've never asked you."

"What?"

"What was it like, the first time?"

"The first time I flew?"

She faced him. She nodded. "Yes."

He chuckled. He closed his eyes. And the sounds around them were all soothing and cool. The rustling of clothes. The hum of strings. The tapping of heels.

"I screamed," he said.

"You did?"

"Like a goat."

She squeezed her eyes shut when she laughed. The music stopped and the dancers clapped. And Beverly uncoiled her arm from his to join their clapping.

Her body trembled as she giggled. She pressed her lips together, struggled to quell her own amusement. But Peter joined her laughter, unashamed of what may come of it. And they both laughed as they glided along the room.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading. It means the world to me.

Hopefully I can get these New Year's Eve party chapters done quickly. Because I'm already having fun with them - well, writing this entire story is fun, to be honest.

In here I limited myself to describe the first impression of the party - I basically paused the moment where Peter and Beverly walk into the room, look at each other for half a second, and then keep going. I looked at the room from their perspective and noticed the clock and immediately thought "Grand Central Station." So here you go. Another conversation that I'm very proud of. Another chapter I really like.

Thanks again for being here, and see you next time.