In Memory of Christine McVie

"Really beautiful, this," she said (when he appeared in the garden). "Must not rain here." She was seated at the outdoor piano, returning to a run of chords that gave her comfort. "It doesn't rain unless you want it to," he replied, and sat down in one of the chairs closest to the chiminea (which glowed warm with a blue light, but did not burn); he had folded his wings in tightly. "Will I ... ," she began carefully, "... need to do that? Have those? Learn how they work? I'll try, but ... I'm not a huge fan of flying." "No wings unless you want them," Peter said softly. "No rain unless you need some. No itinerary." She stopped playing and stared at him. "I've been on tour for almost 50 years," she whispered (and he smiled). "No itinerary," he repeated. "Until, of course, you want one." She shook her head, amused and in disbelief, and continued playing.