7. American water

Beverly knew water well.

Waters she'd sailed through. An endless bridge of salt and ice between Europe and America. Her death, abandoned, in search of new life.

American doctors. No. More than doctors, American nurses.

Doctors could be blunter. They were embarrassed by the truth, yes, but they could be kind enough to offer some much-earned sincerity. On rare occasions, Beverly was pleasantly surprised by their weakest attempts at honesty. She was starved. Any crumb of truth would satisfy.

But nurses…

"You'll be right as rain in no time!"

Rain.

Water. Like the water she'd crossed to be here. The water she was diving through now. Rain, water. Not crossed, but fallen. No bridge. An annoyance.

American nurses were cold, crystalline rain. Curtains of glass. Beautiful annoyances.

Rain.

Beverly felt uncomfortable among them. These women, with their syruppy grins, their gorgeous eyes. Hands of ivory, brushing along her sweat-dry forehead. Hypnotizing lips, forming fairytales. Little lies, wrapped in tissues.

"Cough here. Cry there. I promise it will all be over soon."

"There, there, sweetie, you're too young to be so pessimistic…"

"You should smile more. Pretty girl like you, it's a pity that you don't smile that much…"

"What a charming girl!"

"Oh, what a funny little accent!"

"Say 'America.' A-mehr-eeh-kah. Haha! Don't you love the way she speaks, Teresa?"

"I have never seen hair as beautiful as yours, my girl. You'll be a beauty when you're older."

"I'm telling you, you're gonna be a real heartbreaker!"

Charming English girl with fire in her chest.

Beverly didn't like the word. The more she heard it, the more she understood just how much it implied. Nowadays, the mere mention of it sent shivers down her spine.

Charming.

She didn't like the word "charming," she didn't like to be called "charming," and, most of the time, she thought that American nurses were, indeed, the perfect definition of "charming."

Their smiles. Those insulting smiles. Their beautiful lips, curled, poised, like a ballerina's tutu. Their whispered incantations. Their nonsensical anecdotes. Their visions of her future.

And Beverly didn't discard American nurses as monsters. Over time she became increasingly conscious of the horrifying weight their occupation truly had, how much they tried to make the best of it… but she couldn't free herself of the bitterness that possessed her.

Her awareness at just how much they belittled her. How stupid they truly considered her to be.

You're gonna be a real heartbreaker.

Nurses knew nothing. They understood nothing. The night that followed this particular comment was smeared in painful sobbing. Beverly had never cried as much as she did that day.

She didn't want to be a heartbreaker. Good lord, if there ever came a chance to hold a heart in her hands, she would do anything but break it. It could as well be the only heart she'd ever get to hold.

It hurt now to acknowledge that if Peter hadn't kissed her knuckles, she would have lost herself to the madness altogether. And completed her transformation into the "charming" heartbreaker with a funny accent.

Maybe it's because I'm not as charming as I perceive myself to be.

She'd used the word once in a manner that he would never completely grasp. A joke for herself, only. And a sad confession for him.

Peter Lake never called her "charming."

Maybe…

She was diving, now. Yielding to the draw of the depth. Bottomless blue, black, purple.

And these thoughts drank at her fingertips as the water caved in at her ears, a pressure so immense it was almost deafening. Bubbles, stones, gathering, blocking the music of the world, the twinkling symphony, the stars she could now touch.

You should smile more.

Beverly's chest felt heavy. She suddenly felt exhausted. The bedsheets were cloaking protectively around her, fanning out, up, away. Bubbles.

Beverly breathed in and her nostrils flared up. She breathed, regardless.

You're gonna be a real heartbreaker.

Beverly had been ten at the time she was first told this. She'd missed England. She'd missed being romantic. Romantic thoughts were linked to a hope that had been ripped clean off her chest, the moment the fire began.

Peter Lake had been eleven years away. She hadn't known, then, that he existed. That he'd find her, let alone return to her, or stay with her.

Or that one day she'd associate water, not to these smiles and these tears, not to the rain that was promised, or the winter that sheltered her, but…

Lake, like you.

A lake was peaceful. Contained, humane. Kinder than rain. Less intimidating than an ocean. It neither pulled nor pushed. There was balance between a lake and the ones who entered it. An understanding of sorts.

No lies, no smiles, no anecdotes. Simple placidity. A space reserved for water and yourself.

Lake, like you.

Peter was born of the water she had crossed. The bridge between truth and deceit. Honey and pepper. Rain and winter. Beautiful lies and ugly reality. There was a reason why he didn't speak like an American.

Lake

This was no lake.

This seductive, beautiful water. Its mouth open and wide, fangs bright with starlight. Its strong hands clutching the sides of her face, drowning the truth, the world above, the torturous little symphony in the sky.

Peter

Hands of ivory. Curled, perfect lips. Sirens dragging her to the early years of her life. Back when she was charming, and easier to deceive. Back when she could say any word and conjure up a giggling storm.

Peter

Beverly Penn was tired. She didn't really understand why, but she had no strength now to resist the temptation. She breathed on. Vomiting bubbles, a flame of glass.

She let herself descend deeper and deeper, until the darkness thinned into color, and she saw Peter Lake.


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

For the last 5 days I've had a wax blockage in my left ear and I'm treating it with medicated ear drops. I'm 3 days into the drops and apparently they're supposed to take effect in 3-5 days after you begin applying them. (...) Well. I'm waiting XD

It's not painful, it's just annoying. Much like Beverly's nurses XD Hence why it was very easy for me to write this chapter right now.

Also, by the way, the "charming" comment is in a way a result of the fact that I have been listening to many of the "Winter's Tale" cast interviews with Colin Farrell and Jessica Brown Findlay, and one of the interviewers asked Jessica if Colin was as "charming" as they say. Both of them sort of laughed at this, claiming that the term "charming" can sometimes be interpreted in a superficial, false, or even "annoying" way.

They meant it as a joke most likely, but I took their commentary and used it a little inside reference. Because I felt like it. And also because I feel like Beverly would realistically dislike the word "charming," being treated like a child/toy, and being lied to so sweetly by these women who are supposed to be honest to her.

I liked exploring a darker/sadder part of Beverly here, the more I write from her perspective the broader her horizons become to me. She has a lot of potential - same with Peter.

Speaking of Peter... I'll see you again soon :3