61. Mister Lake

"Miss Penn!"

Her laughter died abruptly, cut out by the mention of her name.

Beverly turned and Peter stopped walking. The music resumed. An old woman moved toward them, her olive skin sprinkled in powder. The silken layers of her gown seemed to weigh her down.

"Miss Penn, you're here!"

Beverly grinned. "Happy New Year."

"Oh, I'm so happy you were able to come."

"So am I."

Peter didn't know who she was. He assumed it must have been the owner of the house.

"You look radiant, dear."

"Thank you. Oh, so do you."

A timid pleasure dawned on Beverly's face. The notes fluttered about curls of red hair, the breezy fabric of her sleeves. Winter breathed feebly from the open door.

"How is your father?"

"He's well. He decided to stay behind."

"Aw, what a pity. Your mother loved these sort of events."

"Yes, so he's told me… She used to say that the house was bigger on the inside than on the outside."

"Well? Do you not agree?"

Beverly giggled, and it was wonderful. "I do agree."

"And your little sister?"

"As energetic as ever."

"And… oh! This must be Mr. Lake."

Mister Lake. Peter felt fire on his face. He was back in the furnace room. He was looking into the flames, the metal, the salt on Penn's eyes. A horrifying fear struck him and he didn't understand why.

Mister Lake.

Willa would have pointed it out. Why won't you call things what they are, Peter? You are a man, and an adult, and you are among strangers, and so, naturally… Mister Lake.

Where are you from, Peter Lake?

Beverly had called him by his name, directly. No "mister."

You may call me Beverly. Please don't call me "ma'am."

She hated to use words like that.

Now, Beverly's hand rested gently on his arm. And he remembered the breezing frost slithering into the room, from the door, and he could hear the music, and the music was sweet and delicate and all around him. And he felt calm again. And he smiled a little.

"Yes, this is him. Peter Lake."

The old woman eyed him curiously, from head to toe. Her eyes slithering along a suit that didn't belong to him. But he sensed no hostility in this inspection. No assumptions or prejudices. And it was a pleasant surprise, to be sure.

"So, we meet at last. Miss Penn has told me all about you."

"She- Oh."

Peter blushed. Amusement crawled across the woman's powdered face and she grinned. And Peter could tell that this grin was genuine, despite his initial concerns.

"You're the one who saved old Penn. You stayed in the house, went down into the furnace."

Peter hesitated. He looked at Beverly. He relaxed.

"Yes… I did go down into the furnace room, yes."

"Oh, Miss Penn was so worried. She kept talking into the ceiling, the poor thing. And she was saying such strange things… She talked about her friend, who was born in the sea and who lived in Grand Central Station, in the stars. Who rode on a white horse. Who saved her. Who was now saving old Penn." And the woman said it again: "Mister Lake. You do exist, after all. It's a pleasure to meet you, at long last."

He bowed his head, just a touch, and Beverly smiled.

"Please," he said, "just call me Peter."

"Certainly. You two enjoy yourselves."

"Thank you."

"Thank you," echoed Beverly.

And the woman carried her heavy silks across the room, into the gathering crowd. And Peter turned his head in her direction, and Beverly bit her lips playfully, and he chuckled, and she chuckled.

"Mister Lake," he said.

"I never utter such obscenities," she replied, lifting her chin. "You know me better than that."

"That's why it surprises me."

"Please, she's a sweetheart, don't hold it up against her."

"I don't. I don't hold anything against her. She seemed lovely."

He raised his eyebrows. He licked his lips and sighed.
"Should we find a table?" he asked. "There are some around here."

"Yes."

"Alright… Do- Which one do you prefer?"

"I don't mind. Any will do."

So they sat, wherever they saw fit.

There were flowers on the mantelpiece. Creamy white and pale yellow. The petals thick as paintbrushes. Little Willa would have taken one or two, Peter knew. She would have placed them around the bed in the greenhouse. She would know that flowers like these could only be stolen.

There was a small plate, too. And little ounces of chocolate, wrapped in orange paper. Beverly took one. She unwrapped it slowly. She bit into it and savored it for as long as she could. She was still smiling. Her lips curled in that stagnant, beautiful grin.

He hadn't noticed the color of her earrings. Pale green. They contrasted with the reds of her hair and her gown and her lips. They were like little leaves. Fragments of spring, lost in her curls.

I love you so much. I wish you knew. I wish…

Peter Lake reached out, but then a bottle floated between them and poured gold into their glasses. And he helplessly stared at the bubbles through the glass and Beverly giggled next to him. She covered her mouth. She was still tasting the candy.

"Is that…" he murmured.

"Yes. That's champagne."

"Like, real champagne."

"Of course."

His fingers slid down the glass. Its delicate patterns and swirls. And the champagne was cold and it fizzled under his touch, through this invisible wall of sand and limestone.

"It's not as thick as wine," Beverly said. "Or as strong. Champagne is lighter, thinner, and also much colder. You'll be alright. Just drink slowly."

"Okay."

"And if you get dizzy, just stay seated."

He laughed softly. He kept looking at the glass. At the flowers on the table.

"I never dreamed of seeing real champagne," he said. "Or even smelling it."

It had a sharp but subtle scent. Weaker than claret's. It smelled of dust. Not dirt, or ash, but… dust. Silver sprinkles. Snowdrops of crystal. It was strange.

"Well," Beverly said, "you still think some things are impossible… You, of all people."

He who slept in Stations and flew on horses. He who was born in the sea.

I love you.

The music stopped. Beverly clapped, and so did everyone else. And she looked at him. And the wrapping paper danced between her gloved, musical fingers. And Peter Lake smiled at her.

And she smiled back.

I love you.

And she set down her purse, a small bag of crimson, upon the mantelpiece. And she peeked a glance around the room.

"I'm not supposed to do this," she whispered. "But..."

To hell with it.

Peter watched her. She took off her gloves. One and then the other.

"You're not supposed to?" he asked.

"Shh..."

He noticed, only now, that he had never seen her arms. Her sleeves always rolled up to her wrists. Her pulse, fiery and thick.

She had hair on her arms, small and thin and barely visible. Golden red. And her pink skin glowed in the candlelight. And her pianist fingers reached out for his.

And he took her hand. It felt nicer, now. To feel her skin, against his own, rather than the stroke of silk.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Come."

She said it again, softer. "Yes."

And he stood up, and so did she. And they walked together.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

So, about the old woman. In the movie, Peter and Beverly don't talk to anyone at the party and no one talks to them. The party scene is super short and it makes sense that they just show the most important parts of the evening (i.e. Peter "stealing" the little ounce of chocolate [which I will get to, don't worry], Peter and Beverly dancing, Beverly drinking the champagne, etc.). But... I of course NEED to add more to everything. So here they talk to the owner of the house, and Peter gets to see that he is not belittled for being here, which I think is crucial for his personal growth as a character.

Also, about the gloves. In the movie, Beverly arrives at the party with gloves but, during the dance with Peter, she has no gloves anymore. Which is a bit weird, not only for the obvious reason (why did she take off the gloves?), but also given the fact that, in the 1910's, during social gatherings (parties, dinners, etc.), especially in the upper class, women always wore gloves, and a woman participating in a social gathering or meal without gloves was seen as unladylike or unorthodox. Especially during evening gatherings, where women wore gloves that rolled up to their bicep (these are the gloves Beverly wears), unfitting or missing gloves indicated that you belonged to a lower social class.

So, in here, I decided that Beverly should still take off the gloves, but, unlike in the movie, where her decision is not explained or even mentioned at all, I want to "explain" her decision. And during the dance, next chapter, I will be talking about it. Because I feel like Beverly dancing with Peter without gloves is significant, or at least has the potential to be significant, if only I dig into the meaning of it more than the film did. So... I'll do that.

*I notice that I love talking about hands in this story. Peter's "thieving" hands, I always try to find metaphors tied to them. And Beverly's hands, the only things she can use to "laugh" at her illness. And when their hands touch, or come together, and it's just... magical, I guess. I love talking about hands. I just... love talking, in general. I could find symbolism in the dumbest things, I could do this all day XD

Thanks again for being here. I appreciate it. Take care, I'll see you again soon.