Wendy and Peter spent two days in near companionable silence.
They discovered in the early afternoon of the first day that she couldn't read without getting motion sick. So, that stopped all research in its tracks. Peter considered offering to do it himself, but he couldn't decide whether she would be thankful for his help or pissed off that he offered it.
Instead, he opted for novels read aloud. Without announcing it, he just began one that he hadn't read yet. He knew Wendy had, but he was the one reading so he got to decide. She lifted her eyes from where she was balled up on the chair, wrapped in blankets, with the windows ajar, stupidly.
There were times when he knew he had fallen asleep, book in hand, snoring softly and there were times when he knew she had fallen asleep, head at a strange angle, out like a light.
They had both been on the road for weeks, burning the candle at both ends, struggling to sleep when they were able to. If he was stupider and more optimistic, he might have been able to convince himself that the only reason Wendy continued to act like she hated him was because she was tired rather than the fact that she actually just hated him.
After dinner on the second day, one of the crew members knocked on their door and let them know they would be arriving at the island in a few hours. When Peter turned back from the door, he found Wendy frowning at him.
Looking at her then, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him. Reality came crashing down on them quickly, freezing and painful. Who they were and who they had been was coming back to them; research would no longer be put on pause and they would return to the tense silences and angry looks, thrown coffee cups and grief and guilt.
XXX
"Patience is not a virtue you seem to possess," Peter bit out after Wendy reminded him for the umpteenth time that they needed to ask about the manor's library as soon as they arrived at the check-in desk.
Wendy eyed him cautiously. If not for his tone, the comment might have been construed as banter, but the days of bantering were long gone between them and Peter simply had to accept that. As he had to accept his new reality of sleepless nights and heads full of every person he had ever hurt. Life was not kind, but then again, he had never been particularly kind to life.
"We are steps away from the clerk. You can wait a moment," he told her as they swept across the marble floors of the old mansion, shoes clacking loudly in the cavernous room, what had one been a grand foyer meant to Gold's fantastical, egocentric entrances, but was now the lobby of an opulent hotel. Outside, the dark blue night hung around the mansion, filled with salty air and the crash of waves.
On the way up from the ship, luggage loaded into a carriage, it had begun to flurry, the snowflakes catching in the dim light of the lampposts that curved up the islands towering cliff road. The carriage couldn't keep out the chill that swept in off the ocean and Peter had been glad to finally make it into the shinning manor on the cliffside.
Arriving at the desk, he curtly said, "We'll need a room. Two beds, preferably."
A bleary eyed desk clerk, who clearly did not get paid enough for the night shift, slowly leafed through the registration book, and shook his head. "We only have a King suite available."
Peter sighed, "It'll do," and slid across the cash.
The clerk had barely taken the money from Peter before Wendy stuck a finger in his side.
He cast a sharp look her way before saying, "We heard about the library. How close is the content of the collection to the original manor?"
"Identical," the clerk said. "When the town took over the manor, one of the most important undertakings was the restoration of the library. It was hard work, but not a single book was lost." He said it in a drowsy, practiced way that made Peter think this was a spiel that was shoved down his throat.
"Really?" Wendy asked, on her tiptoes, slightly too short to be able to lean over the desk like Peter.
The clerk nodded, bored.
"And what time does it open?"
"Eight. You can take breakfast in the library if you like. Many of our guests enjoy the experience," the clerk explained. Peter almost wanted to correct the clerk and assure him that Wendy was not the average guest and so would not be 'enjoying' the experience.
Turning with a key in hand and waving over the bellboy who carried their bags, Peter asked, "Happy now?"
Wendy frowned, her eyebrows pulling together. "I'm not sure happy is the right word," she said, tersely. Wendy never got close to pleased with him these days. On the ship, he had been lulled close to peace the days they had on the ship. Just being around Wendy without either of them being upset was an existence he could get used to.
But it had shattered.
It left Peter burning, bruised and ashamed.
He hated that he followed after her like a puppy, waiting, hoping to get kicked just for a moment of attention, a glimmer of a smile. He had once been a powerful man and now he had been reduced to a research assistant who bankrolled everything, saddled with a woman who couldn't decided if she wanted to kiss or kill him, plagued with piercing guilt from his past.
He was a shadow of who he used to be, and he couldn't bring himself to regret that, but what would his existence be like after this? Once Wendy reached a resolution for Baelfire?
He was a corpse of what he could be.
Following Wendy down the hall towards their room, something cold twisted in him.
XXX
"We'll get up at six tomorrow," Wendy said, reaching over the bed and carefully arranging the wall of pillows that they had agreed upon for the king bed.
Outside the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the night pressed in, deep and inky, full of howling winds and icy sea spray. Inside, candles and oil lamps made the room glow. Everything was cream-coloured, soft and comforting. The chairs surrounding their fireplace were milky silk, with a curling pattern the reminded Peter of the waves outside. The bed was silk was well, piled with pillows and blankets. When they had arrived and taken one look at the bed, neither of them wanted to fight over it. They had simply agreed to a pillow boundary and that had been that.
Peter scoffed. "There's no need for that."
"Yes, there is." Wendy stood straight and counted off on her fingers. "We'll need to get dressed, organize the notes, construct a plan to get through the books and get breakfast before the doors open at eight."
"I think that's a little much." Peter grabbed his pyjamas and quickly went into the bathroom. He shut the door tightly behind him but that didn't stop Wendy from standing at the door and attempting to reprimand him.
"It's not. It's cutting it too close." Her voice was muffled through the door, but he could tell she was irritated, probably standing with her hands on her hips, eyebrows furrowed.
"Close to what? We have four days before our ship comes back. Plenty of time. There's no need to get there right when it opens and stay right until it closes," he said as he shucked his shirt off.
"This is our best opportunity to find Baelfire's spell."
He humphed. "We've done more in less time. There's no need for it." He took his time buttoning up his pyjama shirt and then set about running the water long enough so that it steamed up the mirror and filled the room with a heady heat.
He had hoped that dallying the bathroom long enough to get Wendy off his back about the early wake up time, but when he opened the door, she was standing right out front, dressed in her own pyjamas, hair done into two braids he wanted to tug on, looking pissed.
"We'll get up at six," she said firmly.
He stepped around her. "You can get up at six. I'll get up at a more reasonable hour."
"We just had two days of lazing about and napping," she said, following him around the bed to his side. This was the Wendy he couldn't tolerate; nagging and stubborn as hell, completely refusing to listen to anyone else's thoughts but her own.
"After months of practically no sleep," he bit out. He sat down heavily on the bed and waited for Wendy to leave, but it seemed she wasn't about to let this go.
"That's your own fault," she said tersely, folding her arms over her own chest. He wasn't entirely sure if he meant it was his own fault he wouldn't take a sleeping potion or if it was his own fault because of all he had done.
He straightened, trying to come off as icy and untouchable as possible. "I'm aware," he said through gritted teeth. "But I'll remind you, I'm not your lackey. I don't have to come when you call."
She scoffed. "You have nothing better to do."
He wasn't quick enough to stop himself from wincing. Wendy's eyes softened, warm and brown, and she opened her mouth to apologize, but he beat her to it. "Act like you hate me, talk like you hate me, whatever, but own your insults, bird."
There was a long awkward pause where they both were still, eyes locked, waiting for the other to break. And because she was intolerable, insufferable Wendy, she broke first. "I just… value your help."
A better part of himself knew she was scared for Baelfire and simply wanted his help, but the part that was still fucking hurt, that remembered who he used to be, didn't really care.
"I would never have known, the way you act," he said tightly. She sniffed, holding her head high, in a way that made her look like a haughty heiress who believed everyone was beneath her. He continued, reckless and cruel, "That's why Matthew left isn't it? Hm? You couldn't keep up the act."
She hesitated, her eyes slipping from his, before letting out a long sigh. "More or less."
"Yeah, so, own what you do, Wendy. It's fucking exhausting otherwise."
Wendy's eyebrows furrowed together. "I'm supposed to hate you."
He gave her a long look. Wendy was endlessly easy to read. She wore her heart on her sleeve and she made it crystal clear to everyone around her exactly how she felt all the time. It was why Matthew had seen through her, why he had always seen through her; why he had always seen her. But just then, he wasn't so sure what she was feeling, what exactly she meant.
Of course, she hated him.
It didn't matter if maybe she was attracted to him, if she sometimes liked working with him, she still hated him.
"I'm aware," he said tersely. He reached over and turned off the oil lamp by his bedside. It wasn't the most effective way to end the conversation since most of the lights were still on, but Wendy didn't need to be told that he was done.
XXX
When Peter woke up in the morning, Wendy was gone.
Her empty side of the bed made his breath catch in his throat before he shook himself and threw off the covers. She was just at the goddamn library. He didn't need to act like it was the end of the goddamn world.
He washed and dressed quickly, pulling on a black wool sweater. Despite the luxury of the hotel, there was a decided chill in the air. He walked at a leisurely pace down to the library, reminding himself along the way that there was no reason for him to rush since he was decidedly not Wendy's lackey.
His shoes clicked on the marble floors all the way to the library. Vaulted ceilings soared above him, again in cream, with golden detailing all over the walls. Chandeliers shone and glimmered up ahead, adorned with gold and crystal. He whistled at the opulence, the grandeur. This was most certainly Gold's nicest manor, and it was so nice, he might even admit it to his brother when he saw him again.
A servant opened the tall double doors for him as he came upon the library. One entire side of the room was floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out onto a churning navy sea. Grey light filtered in to the room, balancing the warm light that came from the chandeliers and oil lamps. Before him was a wide open space before a tall fire place, with many tables all dressed in fine linen. A few people sat at the tables, sipping from fine china and eating breakfast. On either side of the dining area, there were rows and rows of shelves, all stacked with books.
Peter stood a moment staring before he regained himself and was able to tell the maitre d', "I believe my wife is here. She'll be the only one actually reading the books."
The old man nodded before ushering Peter behind several stacks and guiding him to a large table, again dressed with fine linen, right in front of a window. Wendy sat by the window, hunched over a text, a cup of tea and a slice of banana bread completely forgotten beside her.
The maitre d' gave him a menu and disappeared behind the stacks.
He sat down across from her and waved a waiter over. She glanced up at him quickly and then at the clock behind her. It was half past nine. She threw him a glare before returning to her work.
A waiter came over and waited patiently as Peter ordered eggs benedict with an extra side of potatoes, a coffee and then, "I actually think I'll also have a mimosa." The waiter nodded and left with his order.
"A mimosa?" Wendy seethed as soon as the man was out of earshot.
"I'm acting like a tourist, unlike you," he said, waving his hand at the table covered in books.
"Because I actually care about someone else and so I'm feeling the time constraint we have," she bit out.
He stretched, lazily. "Must be tough."
Even though this was how things had been for months, years, decades between them, it hurt to slip back into these squabbles. Life would have been easier if it came back naturally to Peter; he wished desperately that it would.
He turned and rested his chin on his hand and looked out at the sea stretching out before him.
"Well?" demanded Wendy.
"Well, what?" he said, barely taking his eyes off the sea.
"Aren't you going to start?" she asked, impatient.
He turned back and gave her a bored look. "I'm waiting for my breakfast."
"You're insufferable," she ground out, her cheeks turning red.
"And you're not in charge of me." She glared back at him as he continued and said, "I don't have to be here."
She narrowed her eyes.
"That's the part of the argument when you ask why I don't just leave."
She lifted her chin and glared at him, defiant.
"Go on," he taunted. "Do it."
She stared at him a long time, eyes narrowed, looking like a debutante that might strike him down with a few carefully placed words. After a long pause she finally spat, "You're being cruel."
He grinned a grinned that was all teeth and let out a laugh that was not kind. "I am cruel."
Wendy glared at him, arms crossed, and he returned the stare back, with as much animosity as he could muster. After a long moment, Wendy turned and broke eye contact, but he didn't miss the way her lip quivered when she turned away from him. It almost made him reconsider himself.
"Do whatever," she said, turning back to her book.
And so he did. He waited patiently for his breakfast to arrive and when it did, he ate slowly, leisurely, sipping on his mimosa and eating every last bit of his breakfast. Once he was done he asked the waiter for another coffee and a blueberry danish before finally turning to a small, leather bound book from the top of one of the piles that Wendy had made.
He flipped through it lazily, one hand holding the book and one hand holding the danish. But as he flipped through the pages and read, a sense of dread came over him. The book was small and unassuming. It looked much more like someone's journal rather than a formal book on magic and spells.
Every few pages a new spell began, first with a small introduction and then the spell itself, all writing in a jagged, tiny script that Peter had to squint to read. He finally put the danish down and leaned forward, the dread sitting in his stomach like a lead ball.
The spells in this book were ancient. They didn't follow the rules that he and Wendy had become familiar with, didn't follow the patterns, use the same words or structures. Each one was far from mundane, far from human. These spells were not meant for average magic users. They were meant to harness great power, to bring down great mercy or great harm.
He continued to read, hunched over, his throat tight and his heart hammering until he flipped to a page. After the first sentence, he knew, with the sense of dread turning into fear and terror, that this was the spell that Baelfire had used.