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Chapter Text

PART I - THE LOST

I

GRACE

Dance of the Druids – Bear McCreary, Raya Yarbrough

The first thing Grace noticed was the temperature of the water. It was cold, but not the kind that made your teeth chatter; rather, the refreshing cold you would find diving into a lake on a hot summers day. As it washed away the sleep in her eyes and wrenched her mind to alert, she remembered that she had to breathe.

Her mouth opened on instinct; the influx of saltwater burning her throat as she clawed at its surface. Her eyes looked around wildly until she found what she was looking for; Light, there was light billowing in shattered beams through the ocean’s surface.

Grace scrambled against the water; legs kicking her frantically towards the air she so desperately needed. She gasped triumphantly upon reaching it. The warm air much more welcoming compared to the chilled pressure below.

Water. How on Earth had she ended up treading in water? She must have been dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time her imagination had dropped her in an impossible situation. This one, however, would be the most treacherous yet.

As she treaded, Grace looked for anything physical she could swim towards; a buoy, an island or even a floating barrel. As she thought her hand absentmindedly ran over the water. Blue eyes caught it’s movement in interest; the water rippled in satin waves. She grasped at the surface, as if she was expecting to take hold of the sheet-like texture. No such luck, the satin dissolved in her fingertips.

She scanned the horizon again and was disappointed to find that there was no sign of any land or persons in her immediate view. Something clawed at her chest, panic.

Now, Grace knew she should remain calm at a time like this, but when faced with the prospect of open ocean and knowing very little about swimming long distances; she found it very difficult to access her rational mind.

Her arms floundered as she attempted to look around but she struggled to manoeuvre herself appropriately. Her breath heightened and she could see her hands splash helplessly against the ocean. The panic seized her throat and thwarted what little air that entered.

The edges of Grace’s vision began to blur as she continued to splash haphazardly against the waves. Minutes passed; the black blur grew thicker and thicker until she could barely see a speck of blue.

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, she could barely hear past the roaring of the ocean in her ears. In the instance of senseless effort, her mind began to dim until finally, her eyes closed, her arms ceased their efforts, and she welcomed the endless darkness.

-

Someone was dragging Grace across the hard ground. She could feel her shoulder bruise from the friction. Voices were everywhere, shouting blurs bogged against the water in her ears. Shadows passed intermittently across her shrouded vision but Grace could not make sense of them between the blinding peaks of light. She was chilled to the bone and could barely feel her skin amongst the numb cold.

“State your na-”

The water in her ears moved and Grace caught a glimpse of the words spoken between the waves of warm pressure release. She coughed, the movement emptying the water from her ears entirely as she rolled over to dispel the fluid on the deck.

“I will not ask you again,” Someone ordered, “State your name and purpose upon the seas.”

Grace wheezed but no voice accompanied the noise. Her throat was dry and salty. To her relief, someone gave her some water to drink – she gulped it down gratefully as her eyes began to clear.

The first coughing fit had been to dispel water from her lungs, the second had been brought about when she had laid eyes upon her questioner. He was a man from the waist up, the lower half of him covered in fur like an animal. She had never seen such a creature before in her life.

A hand smoothed over her back in small circles, her nightshirt catching on another material as it moved. At some point a towel had been placed over her shoulders, she gripped it tightly around herself to stave off the chill.

“Grace,” She replied. It was still a wheeze, but it was a decipherable wheeze at least.

“And what is your purpose upon the seas, ‘Grace’?” The suspicious tone was evident in the creatures voice.

“I don’t have one,” Grace responded, her throat felt warm as it cleared, “I’m here by mistake.”

A laugh rumbled around her and Grace’s head whipped up at the noise. She was surrounded by all manner of creatures that she couldn’t have perceived; it made her head spin.

“Mistake?” Her Interrogator laughed, “One does not end up in the middle of the ocean by mistake. Were you thrown overboard another ship?”

Grace glared at him, “I wasn’t on a ship. I was in my bed.”

The hand on her back fell away and she caught movement in her peripheral vision. A woman with a long braid of gold spun hair, placed herself between Grace and the creature. Her stature was small and only partially blocked Grace from view, however, the presence emanating from the form was anything but.

“Captain, this line of questioning is getting us nowhere,” She intervened, “She is clearly confused.”

“No, I’m not,” Grace protested weakly.

The Captain ignored her, “What would you have us do, your majesty?”

Grace’s attention peaked at the address but when the woman did not correct him, she began to wonder if she had misheard. Grace assessed her surroundings; the warm wood of the deck was a dark lacquered brown and was punctured by various railings and masts of similar coloured wood.

Masts? When was the last time that masts and sails were used legitimately for travel? Surely, all functional boats now relied on engines and turbines to keep them moving. She assumed this must be some kind of live action role play.

Around her, the crew began to return to their duties – the novelty of her wearing off as the conversation between the woman and the Captain wore on. She couldn’t hear their conversation, so instead she watched them.

The crew was no organized group of men. It was a band of animals and humanoid creatures of all shapes and sizes. Despite their differences, she watched them move about the boat in perfect harmony. If this was a role play, it was a well-practiced one.

The woman kneeled before Grace slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, “Come with me and we’ll get you situated.”

Grace stared at her extended hand, very crisp memories of “stranger danger” warnings she’d heard coming to mind, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

The smile on the woman’s face faltered but she did not give in, “It’s all right. My name is Lucy, I’m not going to hurt you. This is Captain Strol.”

The Captain stood behind Lucy with his arms crossed and brow furrowed. The sight doing nothing to comfort Grace.

When it was clear to Lucy that Grace would not move, she seated herself cross legged in front of her patiently.

Captain Strol did not move immediately, but after giving Grace a hard look of warning, he eventually moved away, barking orders to the crew in gruff tones.

Lucy leaned forward on her crossed legs, “There now, the scary Faun is gone. I know everything must be confusing to you right now but try to imagine how it must be for us,” She coaxed, “We found you floating mid ocean with no land nearby except for the shores of Galma and Narnia. We are understandably confused as to how you came to be there.”

Grace stared into Lucy’s kind eyes and felt some of the wariness begin to dissipate, they were big, blue, and crinkled from laughter at the outer corners. Her innocence all but seeped from them.

“I wasn’t lying or confused,” Grace admitted roughly, “I was lying in my bed when the sheets turned into water.”

Lucy raised her brows, “Your sheets… turned to water?”

“I’m as shocked as you are.”

But Lucy wasn’t shocked, if anything, Grace noticed that there was a spark of understanding behind the woman’s eyes, “I don’t know if I’d consider it shocking; stranger things have happened.”

“Like what?” Grace challenged.

The woman smiled fondly, “Like magical lands inside of wooden wardrobes.”

A beat of silence passed where Grace did not know how to respond and Lucy’s smile only grew dreamier. She took her shivering hands and helped Grace into a standing position. The motion causing a stir within the crew of men. Grace was suddenly very aware of what she was wearing and grasped the towel tightly around herself, trying to cover as much skin as possible.

“You have a choice,” Lucy said, following her eyeline, “You can wait on the deck until we reach port-”

Grace didn’t like this idea, the looks of the crewmen had become more frequent and whilst their eyes did not linger, she was still uncomfortable.

“Or you can follow me to my quarters and we can get you some food and dry clothes.”

She met Lucy’s eyes in earnest, “Some dry clothes would be nice.”

The answering smile was contagious and as she was ushered further into the ship, Grace found herself smiling too. Her feet tripping on themselves as she attempted to keep pace with the babbling Lucy.

Once situated in a cabin, she was given a shift and her pick of dresses to wear. When Grace had said she couldn’t decide, Lucy thrust a green one towards her claiming the colour complimented her eyes. The dress was tight and a little short in the sleeves, but it covered all the important places and for Grace, that was good enough.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Lucy picked up the thin wet material from the floor, “What were these coverings for? They didn’t seem to do much for your modesty.”

Grace looked up from the laces on her left arm, “They’re pyjamas.”

Lucy stared bewilderedly at the shorts in her hand, “Pyjamas? I do not believe I have heard of such a thing.”

“Then what do you sleep in?” Grace chuckled.

“A shift, of course.”

Grace took the clothing from her, “Where I come from, these are pretty standard.”

Lucy eyed the lace trim warily, “I’m sure they are, but whilst you are here you may want to use the shift.”

The clothes were handed off, traded for a spread of dishes, sandwiches, cakes and tea. The latter of which Grace wondered how they had produced. To boil water one needed heat and fire on a wooden boat was a recipe for disaster. She was too ravenous to ask, however, instead choosing to dive into the food as soon as it was placed.

As they sat and ate, Lucy spoke of her latest endeavours in a place called Galma. Grace listened intently, though lacked enough context to engage in the conversation.

Lucy continued speaking despite Grace’s clear confusion, “We are but half a day’s trip from Narnia now – if the winds favour us.”

Grace’s ears perked at the name. “I don’t mean to seem rude,” She began timidly, “But what is Narnia?”

Lucy chuckled, “Narnia is the kingdom west of our current location. It is filled with vast forests, dancing lawns and great fields of which my siblings and I rule over.”

Grace had taken the space of her explanation to take a sip of water and almost choked on it, “Rule?”

Lucy had the sense to look a little bashful, “I am sorry, I was a little selfish in not telling you my station. Others tend to treat me differently because of it.”

“It’s fine,” Grace wheezed as she wiped her mouth, “I can understand why you didn’t mention it at first. I should have known when the Captain addressed you earlier.”

The bashful appearance remained and Lucy looked up at Grace with her big blue eyes, “Do you forgive me for my discretion?”

Grace shook her head, “There is nothing to forgive.”

Lucy sighed in relief, “Thank Aslan.”

Grace smiled at her. Against the burning in her lungs a warm feeling began spread at the mention of that name.

Aslan… what a strange person to thank. But the thought did not linger as the feeling did not last longer than the time in which the name was spoken.  

After she gave her situation more thought – for she had never been in the presence of royalty before – Grace asked, “Should I address you similarly to the Captain, your majesty?”

Lucy held up her hand, “Please, there is no need in such informal quarters. ‘Lucy’ is fine.”

“And in formal quarters?” Grace prodded.

There was a mischievous gleam in the Queen’s eye, “Then you shall know me as Queen Lucy the Valiant, Lady of the Eastern Sea and Mistress of the Healers Guild.”

They shared a laugh and Lucy relented, “Just Lucy is fine. I never saw the need for such formalities amongst friends.”

Many more laughs were shared as the Valiant Queen told Grace of her kingdom, and as the afternoon went on, Grace felt less like she was in a dream.

She wouldn’t admit it to herself yet, however, and when Lucy deposited her in a cot at the edge of the cabin, Grace found she couldn’t sleep. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the wooden painted ceiling as the ship rocked back and forth.

As each second passed, only one thought repeated in her mind. A vow that she would not forget for as long as her feet stood upon this unknown world.

She would return to her home if it was the last thing she did, and from the earnest look in Lucy’s eyes Grace was sure that she would not be alone.

Chapter Text

II

EDMUND

When Edmund awoke that morning, he had assumed it would be an ordinary day. Now, as he sat in the dining hall with his half-eaten breakfast, he arrived at the conclusion that it would be anything but.

He was a prepared person; every plot came with a thousand strings of ‘what ifs’ and he planned for each and every one. But of all the mishaps and mischief his sister could have gotten herself into, this was the last that Edmund would have seen coming.

“Essentially,” He summarised after Lucy had finished her story, “You’ve brought home a stray?”

Lucy looked affronted, “She’s not a stray. Grace is my friend.”

 “Friends? In the 12 hours you’ve known her?” Edmund raised his eyebrows, “You’re too trusting Lu.”

“Ed,” Peter glared warningly.

Edmund ignored him, “You find her floating in the middle of the ocean; She’s confused, tired and just happens to need somewhere to stay? Doesn’t this seem suspicious to you, at all?”

“Strol confirmed that there was no land in the immediate vicinity, nor any ships that could have dropped her there. Her explanation is the only one that suits.”

Edmund dropped his fork noisily onto his plate, “That her sheets turned to water?”

Susan eyed him warningly from across the table.

 “I could see it in her eyes, she was just as shocked to be on the ship as we were to board her. There was no lie in her reaction,” Lucy huffed.

Edmund rounded on his elder sister for sense, “Su, what do you think of all this?”

Susan shifted in her seat, chin held high in their sisters defence, “I would agree with Lucy.”

Before Edmund could protest, Peter cut him off, “Please explain.”

“Well… when I met her at the docks, she had the oddest look on her face. None of her manners or addresses have been entirely appropriate, either. It’s as if she’s never been in the presence of royalty in her life.”

“How did she address you?” Peter asked, skewering a sausage on his fork.

 “She used my first name and then proceeded to perform a curtsy in the oddest fashion. It was like she was receiving praise at the end of a performance, rather than bowing out of respect for station.”

“The use of your first name may be partially my fault,” Lucy admitted, “I was trying to put her at ease so I told her about you before we arrived.”

Edmund groaned and ran a hand over his tired face, “How much did you tell her, Lucy?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be read in a history book, Edmund,” Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.

Susan cut between them, “From the way she spoke, it seems like she doesn’t intend to stay. She’s already asked how to return to her home,” She shrugged delicately, “I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.”

Peter hummed and gave Lucy a meaningful look, “Someone will have to tell her.”

“This doesn’t solve the issue of her staying at Cair Paravel,” Edmund reminded them, “With the ambassador from Calormen arriving tomorrow, it will be too difficult to maintain them both under the same roof.”

“I don’t think it would be proper for us to immediately kick her out of the palace after telling her we can’t help her,” Susan chided.

Peter nodded still eyeing their youngest sister reproachfully, “Not to mention that if we did, she could escape the country with whatever information she now has.”

“I suppose then we have our answer,” Lucy smiled cheekily at her brothers’ glares, “Grace stays with us, as I promised her.”

The utter cheek of it, Edmund thought, half torn between frustration and fondness. Trust that Lucy would mastermind a situation like this. She always managed to get them into fiddles of the most peculiar kind but he couldn’t give her all the credit; sometimes it seemed like trouble dogged her every footstep.

Now Lucy had dragged them into it again by taking a strange woman aboard her ship and bringing her home. Promising shelter and safety in Cair Paravel, no less. It was noble and Edmund regarded her well for the thought, but she did not think of the repercussions if this person turned out to be less than savory.

He sighed, every possible solution to this problem was barred because of the information Lucy had told her friend. Now, it seemed, the Daughter of Eve would be forced to bear the consequences.

“She can’t stay here freely,” Edmund grunted as he buttered his toast with more force than necessary, “There will be conditions.”

Lucy, who had been so busy with her muffin that she had not noticed her brothers brooding, visibly slumped. Susan watched the exchange with mirthful eyes over her cup of tea.

Peter simply smiled in that serene manner and asked, “What will it take to make you comfortable with this, brother?”

There was a pause while Edmund thought. Constant surveillance was a given, as were daily reports on any activity. Her access to the palace and ability to send correspondence would need to be limited until she could be trusted. Edmund looked up from his plate and voiced his ideas assuredly.

“Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” Lucy gaped.

Peter rumbled a laugh through his half-eaten sausage, “It may seem it, Lu, but considering your friends situation, it is well thought out.”

Edmund nodded, turning to grin at his sister in triumph, but when he saw her – her big blue eyes downcast and small shoulders slumped in dejection – he softened slightly, “It’s not meant as a personal offence, Lu. I trust your judgement but must also listen to my own. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

When Lucy did not accept the olive branch, Edmund returned to Peter, “Do you agree with the sanctions?”

Peters eyes flickered between the two, clearly torn on the ruling. Lucy had looked up at their eldest brother, her big eyes entreating him from across the table. Edmund almost resigned to loss – He knew the power of Lucy’s pleading eyes as he himself had been at the mercy of them many a time.

Peter sighed, stabbing his silver fork into his plate and lifting a sausage sized trophy into the air, “Daytime watch with weekly reports,” He pointed his fork in Edmunds direction, “Of which you will oversee.”

Oh, the pleasure of small victories! He grinned at his brother, pleased at least that he had won the battle. Granted, the war was still to be fought but it was a victory none the less.

Edmund was not entirely happy with the reduced outcome, but he knew it was a far better plan than letting a stranger run rampant. At this thought, he realised that two of his requests had gone unanswered, “And what of access to Cair Paravel and correspondence?”

Peter had lifted his fork to his mouth and was poised to take a bite, but the question had stopped him. He sighed and he dropped his hand, eyeing the uneaten sausage forlornly.

“Any of the guards should know where the woman should and should not be,” He answered, “As for the other, we will cross that bridge if we reach it.”

Edmund nodded; it was an acceptable result considering that the order of the Cair’s Guards lied with him.

“Good,” Peter smiled and pointed the sausage fork in Lucy’s direction, “You will tell Grace the circumstances.”

Lucy scowled at the cold meat, “It was Edmunds idea to add sanctions to her stay, let him do it.”

Edmund rolled his eyes, “I hardly think she wants to hear that she’s stuck here from a stranger.”

“I hardly think she wants to hear that she’s stuck here at all,” Susan added lowly.

“Enough,” Peter sighed, “You’ll both go. Edmund, you best be there to explain the sanctions properly and Lucy, you will be there to provide comfort.”

Edmund and Lucy nodded but neither seemed pleased at the overall outcome. Such is the nature of negotiation.

Edmund returned to his breakfast, barely noticing the fast pace which Lucy ate hers. He had barely shovelled two spoonful’s into his mouth before his younger sister was at his side and tugging his sleeve.

“Let’s go,” She ordered forlornly, “The sooner this nasty business is dealt with, the better.”

“I’m still eating,” Edmund protested.

Lucy looked at him, her blue eyes watery and pleading. Whether she knew what she was doing or was simply sad, Edmund didn’t know. Either way, he caved immediately.

“Can you take this to my study please,” Edmund asked as he held his plate out to an awaiting faun.

The Faun took it with a small bow and alighted from the room. Behind them, Lucy lead Edmund through the doorway. Both walking as if condemned.

At the table, Peter sighed as he mournfully eyed the cold food on his plate, “I just wanted to eat my sausages.”

Chapter Text

III

GRACE

My Tears Ricochet – Taylor Swift

Lifted from the warring sea on a sun bleached cliffside, sat a glistening castle of great size and consequence. Cair Paravel was its name. When Grace had been informed of this, she thought there had never been a place named so beautifully.

Everything about the Cair glistened in the sunlight as if it had been formed from the sand on the beach situated below it. It was clear that the hands which had formed it were no child’s; There was no simplicity in the design of many spires, towers and balconies which had been built into the cliffside.

It was on one of these balconies that Grace sat impatiently. After an awkward first meeting at the docks and an extremely bumpy carriage ride; Queen Susan and Lucy had left her whilst they ‘held counsel with their brothers’. It was a phrase which she was not well acquainted with, but Grace could read between the lines. They were deciding her fate.

She fidgeted in her seat, nestled between two guards in shining silver armor. Their eyes shifted to her frequently and warily, like she would make a run for it at any second.

Grace could not blame them. Her appearance had disintegrated rapidly since her arrival in the sea. Her hair had always been wild with curls and frizzed at the edges. Without the proper tools it would air dry into a mess. The mess which she was sure now sat on her skull.

Her eyes felt sore from endless rubbing. After she and Lucy had finished speaking, Grace found herself unable to find sleep – the constant rocking of the ship waking her regularly.

The lack of sleep had left her restless and paranoid and Grace had almost cried in joy at the thought of dry land and left the water behind with a skip in her step.

The guards shifted to attention at the sound of fast steps and Grace looked up in interest at the approaching party.

Lucy was crossing the large balcony with increasing speed, her golden hair softly shining under the sun. She walked arm and arm with one of her elder brothers. His stride was not as hurried as hers but the difference did not hinder him. One of his long, sure strides matched three of her quick ones and the two moved harmoniously aside each other.

If her memory served her right, the dark-haired man she clung to would be either Edmund or Peter. She wasn’t sure which, as Lucy had not gone into detail of their appearances.

His hair was in stark contrast to Lucy’s, a deep brown which almost matched their sister, Queen Susan’s. It was trimmed shorter than Grace had expected for the period. When people told stories of Kings and Queens in medieval ages, men were often depicted with shoulder length hair. However, it was a welcome difference as it reminded her of the men in her world.

While his hair did not shine in the sunlight, his eyes did. They were a dark brown with an onyx ring and gleamed with a presence of mind.

As the siblings drew closer, those eyes assessed her thoroughly. His intense black gaze was unsettling but Grace did not relent, returning it with the curious expression she was sure she possessed.   

Every muscle in his body was poised to look calm; even his face was relaxed in expression. He held himself in perfect placement, the only tell of his emotions being the strong undercurrent to his dark eyes.

Grace could not discern what the exact emotion was, only that it was strong and negative. She wondered if it was directed towards her or if there was some other weight pressing upon the King’s shoulders.

She needn’t think about it for long, for they reached her moments later and the full force of the King’s stare made it clear. She was the weight.

Beside her, the guards stepped forward and nodded their heads in respect, Grace attempted to follow their lead and dipped into an attempted curtsy. She had done this before when she met Queen Susan for the first time, but by the piteous look on the Queen’s face she was sure she wasn’t doing it properly. Lucy’s brother, at least, had the ability to hide his grimace.

Lucy switched sides and took Graces arm with an appreciative smile, “Thank you for waiting for us, Grace.”

Grace released a breath and mumbled that it was ‘no trouble’. She didn’t feel the need to specify that her patience was not by choice.

Lucy only patted her arm comfortingly before making introductions, “This is my brother, King Edmund.”

The dark-haired King kept his distance, eyes guarded and stubborn as he stood apart with his hand held firmly on his sword hilt. He was still staring at her, assessing the situation. Grace attempted to look as non-threatening as possible, however with the current state of her hair and wild look she undoubtedly bore from a restless night’s sleep, she probably wasn’t giving him any comfort.

 “She won’t bite you, Edmund,” Lucy whispered impatiently.

King Edmund gave his sister a withering look and begrudgingly stepped closer. He nodded to the guards who melted obediently into the shadows. Grace would have felt lighter, if not for his black eyes settling upon her again. It’s intensity growing tenfold as he rested both hands warningly on the hilt of his sword.  

Grace found she could not look away; there was something in the way he held her gaze, his black eyes mysterious and powerful in the light of day.

When he finally spoke, the words were firm and lifeless; He recounted her story briefly before telling her about the foundation of Narnia’s law and the importance of fairness and some other things which Grace could honestly say she did not listen to.

It was a speech and a well-rehearsed one by the sound of his droning monotonous voice. The words came naturally to him as if he’d spoken them from birth.

When he had finished with the formalities, his tone shifted from monotonous to sympathetic. King Edmund was speaking to her directly now, the formal tone softening delicately as he outlined what would come next.

He spoke in various large words as though he were a judge upon a pedestal, detailing her sentence. A few words waded through the thick sleep in her mind which she slowly pieced together. It was all she needed to gather his meaning.

The conversation around her fuzzed at its edges and somewhere between the words ‘asylum’ and ‘sanctions’, Grace had disassociated from the situation entirely.

Her eyes flickered between the siblings as her mind struggled to focus on the reality. Lucy had taken up one of her arms in support and Grace leaned into it gratefully. King Edmund on the other hand, had taken a step back at this reaction.

Something wet and slippery dropped onto her hand, Grace looked into the sky in search for the source but found no clouds amongst the clear blue. More wetness rolled over her cheek and Grace hurriedly wiped her face of the treacherous liquid.

She startled when her hand was grasped. Lucy was looking at her worriedly.

Grace struggled to speak through the thickness in her throat, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

By the firm line of his mouth, King Edmund must have finished speaking long ago and was displeased. He assessed her dishevelled appearance and misty eyes, “Maybe this conversation would be better had after you’ve had some sleep?”

“No, I slept on the boat,” Grace lied stubbornly, drying her cheeks again on her sleeve.

He continued to silently frown at her until she grew frustrated with him.

“Well?” She prompted him roughly.

The King didn’t move, annoyance clear in the set of his brow. He seemed undecided whether to proceed, whether the level of effort he was putting in was worth it for the individual sniffling before him.

Grace stared back levelly.

Eventually, the King sighed, his fingers grazing absentmindedly on his sword hilt once again, “We understand you are currently in a difficult position and are left without shelter. As a gesture of good will, my siblings and I offer you asylum in Cair Paravel.”

Grace didn’t understand, “But why would you offer me asylum when you could just send me home?”

King Edmund shook his head, “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. We don’t know how to send you home.”

Grace looked to Lucy for support, “But you told me you came through a wardrobe. Can’t I go back that way?”

Lucy rubbed her arm in small soothing circles, “My siblings and I have reigned over Narnia for nearly 13 years and our memories have faded with time. We don’t know where the wardrobe is.”

Thirteen years? Grace’s hands shook at the thought of being stuck here longer than a week, “Surely, someone else has come across it?”

The solemn looks they gave her were answer enough. Grace’s hope faltered, her voice catching on it as it left her soul, “I’m stuck here?”

King Edmund gave a tight nod, “I’m afraid so.”

Her breaths shortened and she gripped Lucy’s hands with adrenaline laced strength. The notion of being stuck here had not occurred to Grace and she was unprepared for the fallout.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of a way out. Willed herself to wake up in her warm bed, to the feel of smooth cotton sheets at her fingertips and glow in the dark stars on the ceiling.

When Grace opened her eyes, King Edmund was still watching her warily. His eyes constantly flickering between the two ladies as his knuckles stretched white over the hilt of his sword. He was no longer uncertain on how to proceed; Grace could see the determination in his eyes. If she reacted to the news in any way he would deem as a threat, things could get a lot worse for her.

It was hard not to give in to the anguish. To the rolling waves of emotion which broke against her skin and fought to pass it. She was so close to the life she’d always wanted. To the future she’d worked so hard for. Now it was a world away, trapped just out of her reach.  

Grace tried to reconcile to the inconceivable truth. Her mind holding together by the thinnest thread of her will. She couldn’t look at Lucy or King Edmund, the sting of their sympathetic looks would only serve to scatter her mind.

She refused rely on them for support. The only person who was going to look out for her best interests now was herself. It was comforting, this familiar thought. Grace let her self-reliance fuel her stubborn mind as she returned her eyes to the King’s. The first step to survival was to not anger the man with the sword.

Grace released a deep and shuddering breath, “You are offering me a place to stay?”

Lucy nodded eagerly at her side, “I know it is not what you wanted but Narnia is such a wonderful place. I’m sure in time, you will come to love it as much as we do.”

Grace didn’t doubt that enough time with Lucy would grant her the happiness to stay forever, however, it wasn’t in her plans to follow that ambition. She wondered how much freedom she would be allowed during her stay; If it was possible that she could find the wardrobe herself.

 “As I mentioned, you would be staying here, at Cair Paravel,” King Edmund gestured vaguely at the glistening castle.

“Would it be possible for me to search for this wardrobe while I am here?” Grace asked hopefully.

When King Edmund’s face stiffened, her hopes dissipated, “We think it is best that you remain on the Cair’s grounds.”

It seemed that her route to freedom was not one the King viewed favourably. Grace was sure if it was up to him, she would be locked in some dreary room for the remainder of her days. Never to look at anything but the sandy bricks of Cair Paravel.

She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, the distrust was all but spoken. Grace didn’t like games with words, always preferring to get to the point.

There was a nasty swelling in her stomach as she spoke her thoughts aloud, “You don’t trust me.”

King Edmund’s brows rose in mock astonishment, “No.”

Grace almost fumbled at the blunt response, “Why?”

His eyes narrowed accusingly, “With all due respect, the question should be why should we trust you?”

Grace glared daggers at him. The King had managed to serve her with cold hard reason. Reason which she had no argument for. She had to give it to him, If someone had magically appeared in her house, she wouldn’t trust them either.

“I suppose that’s fair,” She acquiesced unwillingly. Feeling like a petulant child who had been scolded.

“Good,” King Edmund’s brow smoothed at her acquiescence. From his belt he pulled a scroll of paper and held it aloft, “Now that the situation is understood. I’ve taken the liberty of transcribing the sanctions of your stay.”

Trying not to look affronted at his choice of wording, Grace took the scroll gingerly from his fingertips. She broke the seal which made the paper unravel with a light swoosh. With trust being in question, she wasn’t overly surprised at the rules scrawled on the thick parchment, however, that reasoning did not lessen her growing resentment towards the dark-haired king.

After a minute of scanning over the words, King Edmund became impatient, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Grace replied, nose in the paper as she committed the words to memory.

Lucy, who read the scroll over her shoulder, snorted delicately, “Was the royal seal necessary?”

Edmund merely shrugged, “It’s an official decree.”

“You really didn’t need to take such effort on my behalf,” Grace muttered sarcastically.

Her remark earned her a raised brow, “It’s not for your benefit I assure you. This parchment will follow you throughout your stay.”

There was little Grace could do to stop the incredulous look on her face, “Excuse me?”

 “You’re excused,” Edmund said innocently.

Grace wasn’t sure what the repercussions were for slapping a King, but she desperately wanted to find out.

“You already have a guard on me,” She paused to quote the scroll directly, “‘From sunrise to sundown’, who I am sure will be more than capable of managing these rules. Why should I need to carry around a piece of paper?”

“You carry the paper so that all other Narnian subjects are aware of the sanctions of your stay.”

“So it’s a cone of shame,” Grace deadpanned.

“I beg your pardon?” King Edmund spat.

Grace shot him a withering look, “It’s something that is put around an animals head to stop it from licking its wounds.”

Lucy laughed in amazement, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such medicine.”

“It’s probably not common practice here because it’s quite embarrassing for the animal,” Grace stared at King Edmund pointedly.

“Fine,” The King plucked the scroll from her fingers, “The scroll will be given to Casys who will carry it whilst on watch.”

“Poor Casys,” Grace remarked lowly.

Lucy ignored the comment, taking Grace’s arm easily now that she was no longer needed for support. She had positioned herself between the two, “I’m glad that’s settled. I was so worried that you might be upset.”

Grace didn’t dare look at the young Queen for fear Lucy may see just how upset she was. Now with a blockade between her and the King, Grace felt her emotions pressing harder against her skin. A heavy depression settled on her chest and sunk into her heart, it made her want to curl up and sob on the marble floor.

But she couldn’t; Not here on a balcony with two monarchs and multiple guards staring at her. She had to get away.

“I need some air,” Grace said monotonously. Slowly, she released herself from Lucy’s grip and dipped into a short curtsey.

Lucy let her go easily but Grace could feel her worried eyes on her back as she walked away. At first, there was no destination but that changed the moment she saw the stairs lowering from the edge of the balcony. Her feet changed path before her mind caught up with their movements.

“Wait!” King Edmund called after her, “I haven’t assigned you a guard.”

Grace didn’t stop, her pace quickening as she reached the marble stairs. It was an endless path leading downwards, with no clear destination in sight. Perfect; she was already lost, what harm could a few more steps do her?

When she reached a corner she turned, wary of whomever the King had sent after her but there was no one in sight and she was alone on the marble stairs. Grateful for the solitude, Grace let the first tears fall.

-

Grace felt a presence before she heard them, though it was hard to hear anyone over the rumbling waves of the beach. She was sat atop the sand, her toes deep within it’s surface, just out of reach of the waves.

She had originally stalked down here with the plan to submerge herself. If she was lucky, she might have ended up back in her bed, this nightmare far behind and forgotten.

However upon setting foot on the scorching sand, she came to the stuttering realisation that she was afraid. The ocean stretched before her, it’s expanse incomprehensible to her mind. Just like it had been when she’d almost drowned. She found she couldn’t step foot in it. Even the very thought of swimming was barred in her mind.

Lucy unceremoniously planted herself beside her. She was uncharacteristically quiet. An action Grace was sure was meant to comfort her. Lucy was here for support, not solution.

Grace’s cheeks were stingingly raw from her salty tears and she had to wipe her nose from the excess every couple of minutes. She was ashamed to be seen this way; Grace didn’t like crying at the best of times, nevertheless crying in front of a stranger. In her mind, she threw daggers at the hateful image of King Edmund.

“I don’t like your brother.”

Lucy laughed softly, “Don’t worry. He grows on you.”

 “We’ll see,” Grace sniffed.

Lucy didn’t respond, simply placing a hand on Grace’s back comfortingly, “How are you feeling?”

It took everything in Grace not to start sobbing again. “Not well,” she swallowed thickly.

Lucy pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and offered it to Grace, “Here.”

“Thank you,” Grace choked, wiping the material across her face aggressively.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lucy asked.

Grace thought about it as she wrung the material between her fingers, “I wouldn’t want to burden you.”

Lucy shook her head, blue eyes filled with concern, “You wouldn’t be.”

Grace’s shoulders tightened against the thought. She wasn’t used to having someone to confide in and wouldn’t know where to start, “This whole thing is a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.”

Her friend nodded understandingly, hand moving in circles against her back. It reminded Grace of the moment they’d met upon the deck. Her eyes returned to the rumble of the waves on the shore, unable to look at the Queen and her kind eyes any longer.

After a moment of silence Grace sighed and relaxed her shoulders, “It’s just… a lot to take in.”

“I completely agree.”

“I had a plan for my life. I’ve worked so hard to achieve everything I’ve ever wanted and this little misadventure,” Grace roughly gestured towards the ocean, “has completely screwed everything over.”

Once the words began spilling there was nothing to stop them and Grace found herself expelling her every thought like vomit, “I was going to see the world, I was going to write my book, I was going to show every asshole in my life exactly what I was worth, I was going to find…” Her hands clawed at the sand maddeningly as she choked on her words.

The tears had started again, burning streaks across her cheeks like a comet tearing across the sky, “I need to get home, Lucy. There must be a way to convince your brother to let me leave the castle.”

Lucy sighed in resignation as her hands dropped to the sand, “I tried to fight against the sanctions but Edmund made a strong argument. I did manage to lessen them, however. Ed originally was gunning for a twenty-four-hour watch.”

Grace’s jaw dropped in indignation, “You’re joking.”

She shook her head, “I wish I was.”

King Edmund had stared at her like she was a ticking timebomb; something to be feared, watched and defused before setting free. The distrust only served to make her madder, “Your brother doesn’t really do trust does he?”

“He has his reasons,” Lucy spoke softly, “But no matter what they are, Edmund will not relent easily. The only person who can override him is Peter.”

“How would we convince him?” Grace asked, her back straightening in hope.

“You’d need to behave really well.”

Grace’s shoulders hunched over again, “If I was to behave really well, I’d be stuck inside my room all day.”

Lucy hummed thoughtfully.

“I can’t sit by and twiddle my thumbs all day, Lucy, I’ll go mad.”

Lucy took a hold of her arm comfortingly, “It’s alright. We’ll figure something out.”

Grace watched as her friend thought, only slightly comforted by the plan before them. It wasn’t a very good one, if the High King was anything like his brother then it might end with her locked in a cell.

“What are your talents?” Lucy asked.

Grace’s brows knitted together, “Talents?”

Lucy looked at her meaningfully, “Yes, talents. Is there anything special you can do?”

“No,” Grace deadpanned.

“How about skills?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“A talent is a natural gift you are born with. A skill is something you have learned,” Lucy explained.

Grace thought for a moment, there was not much she could do well that would serve her in this time. Her current work mainly involved computers which were clearly unavailable and her hobbies consisted of writing and baking. Her mind hung on the last word, was baking the same in this world?

“I’ve spent the last two or so years learning to make sourdough,” Grace offered.

“Sourdough?”

“It’s a kind of bread,” she clarified, “But there is a fermented mixture used to make it.”

Lucy looked as though she wasn’t following, but gave an easy smile in any case, “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know much about bread.”

“It’s rather simple really.”

Her friends eyebrow’s raised in disbelief, “So simple that it takes two years to learn?”

Grace laughed, “It’s not meant to. Sometimes the bread would turn out well, and then other times it would be a mess. It took me a long time to figure out what the defining factor was.”

“I see,” Lucy said thoughtfully, “So sourdough bread is temperamental?”

Grace gave Lucy a conspiratorial look, “My sourdough bread is.”

They shared a laugh. Grace felt lighter with the movement, if a little delirious. The low sleep was beginning to catch up with her.  

“I guess if that is your only skill, then we could put you to work in the kitchens,” Lucy pondered.

“Just making bread?” Grace was convinced that making bread would not fill the empty time before her.

Lucy smiled at her encouragingly, “I’m sure there is more they can teach you.”

She supposed her friend was right. It was a far better outcome than staring at blank walls for the rest of her life – and she had a feeling it would be the rest of her life if King Edmund had any say in it.

Grace sighed in resignation, “How do I get a job in the kitchens?”

Lucy grinned, pleased that her idea had taken hold, “Leave it to me.”

Chapter Text

IV

EDMUND

It should have been a cheerful day; the sunlight streaming through the open windows of Cair Paravel bathed the castle in afternoon sun. As Edmund marched through the sunlit hallways, he found he couldn’t find the time to appreciate it.

In his hands sat a thick stack of parchment, reports from the northern borders of Narnia. The giants had begun pillaging the villages on the border, leaving casualties and destroyed homes in their wake.

He rounded the corridor to his brothers study, knocking on the door and entering before he was admitted.

Peter was staring at the map on his desk and did not acknowledge his entrance. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, the only show of his worried thoughts for the situation.

 “What news?” Peter asked, his voice echoing hauntingly against the cobblestone.

“Nothing good,” Edmund dropped the reports atop the map, “The giants are slowly moving south. They are making examples of any Narnian settlements they find.”

Peter sighed and ran a hand over his face tiredly, “They are testing our limits.”

“Yes,” Edmund agreed.

As his brother lifted the reports, eyes skimming the pages with crinkled worry, Edmund took the opportunity to review the map.

Nine attacks on Narnian homes in the last month – Orieus had marked the locations of each in startlingly red paint. They were all near what should be the border of Ettinsmoor. The border which Edmund knew had become virtually non-existent since the reign of Jadis began.

His calloused fingers trailed lightly over the markings in thought. If the attacks continued then they would need to step in. Something both he and Peter were wary of as it may escalate the situation. Edmund knew a diplomatic truce would not hold; There is only one thing the Ettins respected, strength.

With strength came war and inevitably death. It was clear the decision weighed heavily on Peters soul as they desperately searched for a solution.

“We need a solution which is diplomatic yet has the strength to ensure they will not cross Narnia again,” Peter placed the reports aside with a grimace.

Edmund’s hand found the hilt of his sword, “No easy feat.”

Peter sank into his seat and rubbed his hands over his face tiredly.

As Edmunds eyes continued to trail the lines of the map they only furrowed further. It was clear that the giants were testing how far they could trespass before Aslan’s Army interfered. The lowest point was nearly two kilometres below the Stone Hills and far into the border that was established under the reign of King Frank.

“We need to reestablish a border between Narnia and Ettinsmoor. A border which could be enforced in future,” He offered.

Peter nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, but where?”

“It would be helpful if there was a landmark we could use to mark it,” Edmunds fingers ran along the parchment, it was clear that the previously established border could no longer be relied upon. The Stone Hills were once apart of Narnia before the reign of Jadis, however, many giants now called it home, “Perhaps we could build a wall just past the Stone Hills?”

“Can we fund such a venture?” Peter asked, “And who’s to say the giants will not simply ignore it?”

Edmund supposed it might be an expensive task with little promise of a good outcome. A wall would be symbolic as the giants held the strength to easily decimate it, “We could withstand the cost but the point would be moot if the giants ignore the wall.”

Peter deflated a little, the words Edmund had left unsaid were obvious, unless we pushed them back. It seemed war may be inevitable.

Both men fell into silence as they continued to study the map. Edmund was sure there was an obvious solution but found it difficult to focus through his sore eyes.

A lighter knock broke the silence and the brothers watched Lucy slip between the heavy wooden doors. Edmund nodded respectfully, still a little burned by the ordeal Lucy had put him through with their new guest hours ago. If Lucy noticed, she didn’t comment on it.

“Oh good, you’re both here,” She smiled, stepping lithely across the room.

“We’re discussing the attacks from the Ettins,” Edmund explained, eyes still transfixed upon the map.

Lucy followed his gaze, “What number is it up to now?”

“Nine attacks,” Peter confirmed sombrely.

“And the casualties?” Lucy asked.

Edmund gestured vaguely at the reports, “There is no definitive number, but there are numerous reports of missing people.”

Lucy picked up the report. As her eyes traced the words a sorrow filled them, “What can we do?”

“There is not much to be done without starting a war,” Peter sighed, “And there is no guarantee of lasting peace until a border between Narnia and Ettinsmoor is established.”

“I see,” Lucy acknowledged, eyes flitting between the red dots adorned on the map, “What have you come up with?”

“We’ve thought about building a wall. Something which can be fortified and defended,” Edmund explained.

“But the issue with a wall,” Peter continued tiredly, “Is that the giants may consider it insignificant.”

Lucy nodded, “I agree, a wall is too passive.”

“The Ettins are not smart enough for diplomatic relations,” Edmund sighed, “A show of strength is needed to scare them into obeyance.”

Peter sighed; his eyes red rimmed as he glared disappointedly at the map. Edmund wondered when he had last slept.  

They both knew that any battle between Narnia and Ettinsmoor would have a disastrous impact on both sides, however, diplomatic relations had been laid thinly since Jadis’ defeat and it proved difficult to find common ground for a sustainable peace treaty. The climates and lifestyles of the two were so different that neither country wanted anything from the other.

“Perhaps the border could be drawn where the terrain changes?” Lucy suggested.

Peters brow furrowed, “What do you mean?”

Edmund leaned over the map, eyes tracing the line of the Stone Hills, “The earth around Ettinsmoor is rocky and barren, do you mean that the line should be drawn where this terrain begins?”

Lucy nodded.

Peter eyed Edmund questioningly, “Do we know where it changes?”

He pointed to the words on the parchment, “The Stone Hills. We could send scouts to sight the area and report back.”

“We’d need a detailed picture of the border,” Peter thought aloud, “Perhaps some cartographers could be added?”

Edmund agreed eagerly and watched as his brother began jotting down points on a scrap piece of parchment.

“If there will be more than just scouts, then I will send some healers with the party,” Lucy added.

Edmund waved her off, “I hardly think they’ll need it, Lu. The scouts would remain out of sight.”

“Whom did you have in mind?” Peter addressed Edmund.

If the party was to survive without healers, they would need to be quick, smart and able to easily escape.  

“The cheetahs, the eagles or the foxes?” Edmund suggested, “The quicker or more discreet, the better. They will be able to escape easily and their eyesight will prove efficient.”

Peter nodded, adding names to the list on his sheet.

Lucy cut him with an intense look, displeased that her idea had been overlooked, “The healers aren’t for the party. There are plenty of injured and there are not enough adequate healers in the field. It’s an issue the Crown cannot continue to ignore.”

“We aren’t ignoring it,” Peter gestured obviously to the plans on the table.

Lucy narrowed her eyes, “Making battle plans will do nothing to help those who are already dying.”

“If the party is too large, then the giants may mistake it as an act of aggression,” Edmund reasoned, “It could start a war.”

“And if we send no help at all, our people will think we’ve abandoned them,” Lucy returned. She turned to Peter, imploringly, “Besides, wouldn’t you prefer an established medical tent when Aslan’s Army arrives?”

Peter didn’t comment. Edmund could see he was still hesitant to make plans for war without exploring all possible avenues first.

Lucy, however, mistook his silence for compliance. “I will have a list drawn up of suitable applicants, then? Perhaps I may even go myself?” she asked Peter hopefully.

The High King stared at their younger sister with apprehension.

Edmund sighed, seating himself in a padded armchair and catching his elder brothers eye, hoping that his look conveyed his thoughts, ‘We’ve talked about this, you dolt’.

It was just before Lucy had embarked on her trip to Galma and the brothers had overviewed the security details for the umpteenth time. Or rather, Peter had. Edmund had grumbled the entire meeting about unnecessary measures and something about ‘no more coddling’. Lucy was now one and twenty years of age and no longer a child.

Peter’s eyes showed he understood but there was a determination set in them that made Edmund want to groan. Their brother was not ready to admit total defeat, even with Lucy’s big blue eyes staring at him.

There was evidence now towards Lucy’s wisdom that the High King could not refute. Her plan was the obvious solution staring them in the face. The giants had settled as far as the Stone Hills so as an act of goodwill, the Narnians would let them keep it. A small offering alongside the threat of Aslan’s Army upon the new border might be enough to keep the Ettins at bay.

Further than that, she had raised the question of adequate need for any injured. Lucy was proving to be quite an invaluable asset to Narnia. As a King, it made Edmund proud to see the Queen she had become. As a brother, it saddened him to lose the spirited child she was.

“Well?” Lucy pressed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Edmund laughed internally, perhaps they needn’t completely lose the spirited child.

Peter relented, “How many healers would you recommend?”

Lucy lit up at his acquiescence, “If we were to send more than one scouting party, I would place a maximum of two within each.”

Edmund smile swelled with pride, “Multiple parties will ensure the job is completed in a timely manner. I think four parties should do, don’t you Pete?”

Peter agreed with him, continuously scribbling notes on the spare page. “We’ll have to evacuate anyone living in the northern reaches of Narnia,” He added tensely, “Our people must be kept out of the crossfire.”

“The sooner we embark the better then,” Edmund sighed as he heaved himself from the armchair, “I’ll begin gathering the parties.”

“Wait,” Lucy stopped him, “I have another matter I wish to speak with you both about.”

Edmund dropped unceremoniously back into the armchair; annoyed at Lucy’s interruption.

Peter, however, just smiled to himself and continued scribbling on the parchment. He was far more tolerant of Lucy’s antics.

Lucy watched him expectantly, when Peter realised that she was waiting for his response, he hummed at her as if to say, ‘I’m listening’. In reality, Edmund knew his mind was elsewhere.

But it was enough for Lucy and so she began, “I’ve spoken to Grace-”

“You mean we’ve spoken to Grace,” Edmund cut in sharply, “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“What I meant is that I spoke to her after your unempathetic nonsense of a speech,” Lucy shot back.

“I was just being honest,” Edmund defended.

Lucy pressed on, “I want Grace to work at Cair Paravel.”

Edmund blanched and he felt – rather than heard – Peter’s laugh at his expression. “What?” He spluttered, “You can’t be serious.”

Lucy levelled him with a hard look, “I will not let you shut Grace up in her room all day.”

Edmund groaned, it was as if no one had actually read the order’s he’d written, “She won’t be shut up, she’s free to roam Cair-“

“Only in the areas of which you and Peter have approved.”

“Which is anywhere within the Cair’s grounds except our private rooms and studies. If I’m not mistaken, that is a large area.”

Lucy scoffed, “A large empty area. How will she be entertained, by walking wall to wall in the hallways?”

“Cair Paravel has many entertainments,” Edmund grumbled.

“Name one.”

Edmund didn’t see fit to grace her challenge with an answer. His mind revolted against any idea of Grace’s presence anywhere in the castle – anywhere near him. He tried to flag down Peter for assistance, but his brother was otherwise occupied.

When he didn’t respond, Lucy continued, “I think the Kitchens would be suitable-”

His head was shaking before she’d finished her sentence, “Absolutely not.”

Lucy turned to their elder brother expectantly, “What do you think, Pete?”

He did not respond, quill sliding across a sheet of parchment as he crossed out a thought.

“Peter,” Lucy tried again, this time the call pulled him from his reverie.

Peter looked up, eyes wide and clearly unknowing of the situation before him, “I’m sorry, what were we talking about?”

Lucy sighed, “I’m giving Grace a job in the kitchens.”

“Right,” Peter responded lowly, “And?”

Edmund’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped in outrage, “And? Tell me, Pete, do you enjoy the taste of poison?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “I hardly think that she could find poison in the kitchens, Ed. Regardless, she will be under constant supervision. Might I remind you that is something you demanded.”

“She could have brought it with her.”

“That’s unlikely,” Lucy said, cutting across them defiantly, “Considering I have seen her undressed and burned all of her previous clothes personally.”

“There are other places to hide things,” Edmund muttered darkly.

Lucy scoffed.

Peter looked at Edmund warningly, his cheeks slightly pink at the implication, “Do you truly think she could do such a thing, Ed?”

Edmund nodded solemnly, “I think anyone could, with the right motive.”

“But do you think she could do it, Edmund?” Lucy persisted with eyes ablaze, “You met her too. Surely you have your own opinion, separate from your prejudices.”

Edmund glared at her stubbornly. There was a small voice in his mind which knew she wouldn’t. It came from the part of him that sat apart from his obstinance; a side that was reasonable, true and above all else, untrustworthy.

There was nothing that they knew of Grace, apart from her apparent appearance from Spare Oom. Alongside that, there was no tangible proof that she was telling the truth or that her true motive was to return there as she claimed. Until there was proof that her story and intentions were true, Edmund would not budge one bit on his stance.

If he were however to examine the little evidence on the table before him, he could see that she did not plan to slit their throats in their sleep. This did not mean, however, that she was not playing the long game.

Her eyes were fitful and wild – something which he could see was due to a lack of sleep – but beneath them, there was a numb sadness that lingered. It was a look he’d seen in the eye of many a soldier who’d returned from war. It was a look he feared meant she was not as innocent as Lucy would like to believe.

It was Lucy who was looking at him now; her blue eyes kind and understanding against the stubborn brown of his own. He knew if he disagreed with her opinion she would understand but would feel wounded that he did not trust her to make this decision.

It was for that reason only that he resigned, “No. I don’t think she could.”

Peter waved a hand in his direction, asking him to elaborate further.

Edmund exhaled and allowed himself the relax in his chair, “If you believe in her, Lucy. Then I believe in you.”

Lucy looked to Peter with a wide grin and waved her hand in Edmunds direction as if to say, ‘You see?’

“Is she skilled for the job?” Peter asked doubtfully.

Lucy’s smile faltered and she looked between both brothers sheepishly, “Well… she can make bread.”

“Bread?” Edmund asked, brows raised in poorly concealed mockery. At least the whole of his breakfast could not be poisoned.

 “It’s not much of a recommendation, is it?” Peter agreed with him.

“Anyone can learn how to cook,” Lucy responded stubbornly.

“Can they?” Edmund mocked. He distinctly recalled a few years ago, when Lucy’s attempt at a birthday cake spectacularly failed, “Remind me, just how did your tour around the kitchen go?”

Lucy stuck out her tongue.

Peter gave a rough ‘ahem’ to draw the two’s attention, “I’m sure she could learn. However, with the current cook still in training, I wouldn’t want to put an extra burden on the kitchen staff.”

Edmund agreed, ever since Mrs Beaver had retired from their service, the food quality at Cair Paravel had decreased drastically. Her replacement had proven to be quite frazzled by the workload and another charge under her wing wouldn’t help matters.

“How about we just start with bread?” Lucy pleaded, “We give Grace her own corner of the kitchen, show her where the ingredients are, and let her go at it.”

“If you wanted her sufficiently occupied for a whole day, I don’t think bread will do it.” Edmund declared disapprovingly.

Lucy turned to Edmund, her pleasant face narrowed in frustration, “Well then, what would you have her do, brother?”

The image of Grace mucking out a stall or two in the stables came to mind, “Give me a week, I’ll find her something.”

“I won’t make her wait a week whilst we figure out what to do with her,” Lucy said, turning her big eyes to entreat Peter once again.

Peter looked between the two, torn between arguments like he had been this morning. Edmund resigned to the outcome. Lucy was right on one thing; Grace couldn’t be allowed hours of idle time in the day. He’d wondered how he’d not thought of this issue himself. It was one of the most important rules he’d learned as a King of Narnia; Never give your enemy time to plot your downfall.

The Kitchens were not what Edmund would have picked for work, but he supposed it was better than the alternative he’d pictured – Lucy would never forgive him if he actually went through with that one. Surely, between the four of them they could come up with something to keep Grace occupied in the long term.

Peter released a long breath, “Very well then. Just the bread.”

The High King turned to Edmund and asked, “Can you notify her guard?”

Edmund nodded.

Lucy’s face lit up in that joyous way only younger sisters could manage when indulged and she clapped her hands. “Thank you! Thank you! I’ll let her know straight away!” She exclaimed, already halfway towards the door and out of it before either brother could stop her.

Peter turned to him then, voice low as not to be overheard, “What do you think of her?”

Edmund tilted his head, “Who? Lucy?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “The new human from Spare Oom.”

“Grace?” Edmund’s brows raised; he hadn’t anticipated such an interest from his brother.

The High King nodded and leaned over the desk expectantly.

As Edmund thought about it, his mind returned to their meeting that morning. Grace seemed dazed and confused – something which he attributed to the unknown surroundings. Her eyes were sad; the dull blue hue reflecting the span of her emotions like an open book. Her face mirrored to this, it was as expressive and loud as she was. He imagined it would land her in trouble more often than not.

She would be trouble, he decided, even if she were not here for nefarious reasons she would find herself within them. Edmund was sure of it.

He caught the movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow under the crack of the wooden door of the study. Someone was listening to their conversation.

“Well,” Edmund spoke loudly, “She’s no great beauty.”

Peter stared at him puzzledly, clearly not expecting such a response from him. Edmund had expected this as his family knew he cared little for a person’s surface. He was always watching the person within. It was more of a habit than a virtue; by watching, Edmund was given the evidence he needed to make decisions.

He did not comment further until Lucy poked her red face through the door and scolded, “She’s a darn sight prettier than you!”

Peter stared widely after their sister as she slammed the wooden door closed, “How did you know she was there?”

Edmund shrugged, “The shadow under the door.”

Chapter Text

V

GRACE

What’s Up Danger – Blackway, Black Caviar

“Isn’t it good news?” Lucy asked.

“I suppose,” Grace allowed, a yawn slipping through her lips as she spoke.

Lucy took her arm as she led her through the halls of Cair Paravel. Through her sleepy mind, Grace had gathered that she was being herded towards the Guest Wing. A fancy name for her new prison, though she supposed if it had a bed she could sleep in, it would suffice.

The sunlight had turned golden and bathed the hall with quickly dimming light. When Grace had asked what time it was, Lucy had offered to take her to the sundial in the gardens but Grace refused. If she had to walk any farther she might pass out and the last thing she wanted was to make a larger scene than she already had.

“Here we are,” Lucy beamed. She had stopped them afront a set of white double doors adorned with rich gold handles. Lucy did not open them, she simply stared patiently at Grace to do the honours.

Grace released a breath of laughter at her friend. She took a hold of the handle and lightly pushed the door open. It moved slowly and silently across the cold marble floor, revealing the room within. Grace’s eyes widened; it was larger than she’d thought it would be.

The sprawling white marble opened to a luxurious living space, the four-poster bed and chaise only demonstrating the wealth of its owners. If this was a guest room, she couldn’t imagine what Lucy’s room would look like.

Lucy was full on beaming beside her, “You like it?”

 “It’s big,” Grace responded.

So big that Grace could run a marathon from wall to wall. She stalked across the room, finding perch on one of the open windows beside the bed, the glass was stained with the image of flowers and allowed coloured light to filter across the floor.

“This is my favorite guest room,” Lucy gushed, “Mainly, because I worked on it myself.”

Grace turned to her friend in surprise.

Lucy shrugged, “I was quite young when Cair Paravel became our permanent residence and Susan did not want to burden me with too much. This room is one of the few things she allowed me power over.”

“It’s beautiful,” Grace complimented.

Lucy’s beam grew impossibly wider, “Thank you.”

Grace smiled with her, eyes trailing back to the four-poster bed at her side. It was covered in sheets of midnight blue, the tips embroidered with gold spun thread images of lions.

“I’d imagine you’d want to sleep,” Lucy added sheepishly, “It has been a long journey.”

As if on cue, Grace yawned. She attempted to cover the large motion of her mouth but it was too late.

Lucy only laughed, “Good night, Grace.”

-

No matter what Grace tried, she could not sleep. She didn’t think she was overtired for if Grace closed her eyes she could feel the grip of sleep over them. However, just before it pulled her under, her eyes would snap awake.

It was always something; the bed was too soft, the sheets were too tight, the pillow was too low. At one point a stray tear had landed on her hand and she’d recoiled from it, mind fraught that she’d been taken into water again.

It had been hours of tossing and turning back and forth and Grace knew she was nearing the end of her rope. If this maintained, she would go mad.

Grace grunted in frustration and threw herself from the feather mattress. Immediately, she felt lighter for it. Whether that was for being free of her fear or delirious from the lack of sleep, she did not know.

She paced the length of the room, the back-and-forth motion like a cat stalking its prey. There were thoughts spilling forth in her mind. Frantic thoughts and plans that Grace knew better than to speak aloud, let alone act on.

It wouldn’t be too hard to slip her guards if she had any. She didn’t doubt the idea, surely King Edmund would not be so stupid as to leave her alone for any prolonged period of time?

Grace shivered against the chill of the night air. She wasn’t going anywhere if she couldn’t cover herself. If she was to survive she needed warmth, shelter and food.

Warmth was easy enough; she lifted the dark sheet from the bed and draped it over her shoulders. It was a thick linen which would provide enough insulation against the cold and the gold spun embroidery provided enough weight that it would not blow away in the wind.

She’d need something to attach it to her body so it would not fly off her when she ran. Grace eyed the room for a rope to fasten it with. Her eyes instead laid on the dress Lucy had lent her.

Lucy.

Grace swallowed thickly against her guilt-ridden tears. How could she do this to her friend? To the one person who believed in her.

But how would she get home otherwise? Lucy’s plan consisted of relying on the goodwill of two men. Two Kings, who seemed to care neither for her wishes or her sanity. She touched the dress forlornly, a symbol of friendship she had not received in a long time.

Her hands trailed over the embroidered fabric fondly but stopped at something hard at the waistline. It was a belt. Grace dared not breathe as she fumbled with the clasp and shakily removed the leather from the dress. It was sturdy and fit around her waist with a little room to spare. It was perfect.

Grace stared at the accessory in her hands as the pieces pulled together and she knew that the decision was made.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” She whispered.

As Grace bent over every which way to get the ties tightened on her sleeves, it occurred to her that there was a reason noble ladies needed assistance dressing. The dress was looser than it had been earlier that day, which gave her the freedom of movement in her arms.

Grace eyed her shoes warily as her hands buckled the sheet around her torso. They were uncomfortable but would give her some much-needed protection against the ground. She decided to take them and tied the straps to her belt to ensure they were not lost.

Once everything was accounted for Grace crept softly towards the ground, her bare feet barely making a sound on the marble floor. The door handle was thankfully light and cracked open without a sound. She listened… there was nothing.

The crack was increased just enough to squeeze her head through. She glanced around the hallway nervously, but there wasn’t a guard in sight.

“You know, I don’t think giants are all that scary really.”

Grace jumped, hand flying to her mouth to stifle any noise. The voices were above her but when she turned to look she couldn’t see anything amidst the dark rafters.

“Really Caius? I remember you soiling the air at the sight of a large tree,” A second scratchy voice added.

“I did not, Marius!” The first, Caius, protested, “You need your sight checked you old geezer.”

The second, Marius, scoffed lightly, “I nearly had to swerve to miss it. I don’t think my sight is the problem here.”

Caius laughed, “A good job you did too. We wouldn’t want your pretty feathers messed up.” A rustle sounded from above and Grace watched a dark feather gently float down.

They must be in the rafters, she gleaned. Grace leaned further through the opening, testing to see if she would be noticed.

“All I’m saying is, giants are big, slow and dumb. We are small, quick and clever. They don’t have a chance of catching us in the air.”

Marius scoffed, “You won’t have much of a chance to dodge the rocks thrown at you. They have no need of catapults, fledgling.”

“They won’t even know we’re there,” Caius dismissed, “We’ll be in and out, quick as lightning.”

“Such a feat will be difficult with a cartographer upon your back.”

Grace decided it was now or never. Slowly, she slipped through the sliver of doorway, careful to not catch anything on the handle. She dared not breathe as she hugged the wall, moving in sidesteps to melt into the shadows.

“Do we really have to take them on our back?” Caius whined.

“It was not requested of us but I see no other way of passing information of the border to them. It is better if they see the landscape for themselves.”

The voices were getting quieter and with each step Grace felt her muscles begin to relax. She was almost at the end of the hallway. Almost free.

“Are we not to scout the skies whilst they work away on the ground? I heard the Cheetah’s have been included in the parties, surely they can defend them from below.”

Marius was silent and Grace froze, heart beating so loudly in her chest she was sure the guard had heard it.

“I suppose that is true,” His old scratchy voice relented.

Grace heaved a sigh of relief, finally reaching the end of the hallway. She turned the corner hesitantly but found there were no guards past that point.

Now where did she go? It occurred to Grace that a map would have been useful, before departing on such a journey. She could not follow the path which Lucy took her to the guest rooms, that was the other way. From here on out, she was completely on her own.

She thought about going back, the thought fleeting and quickly dismissed. If King Edmund found out about this, it would only vindicate his ideas of her.

Grace stepped forward, silently and uncertainly but forward, nonetheless. She slunk through the hallways, the only light being the torches upon the marble wall. Cair Paravel was a maze of hallways and tapestries, each hallway looking scarily like the rest. She would have used the tapestries, but it was too dark to discern anything from them.

Eventually she smelt it, the crisp cool fresh air which could only come from outside. Her heart leapt and she hurried towards it, relieved to have a direction at last. It was sheer luck that there was not a guard posted on the doorway. Grace supposed it may have been a servants entrance, the door was plain and held no importance.

It creaked as Grace opened it, her eyes widening in fear at the thought of anyone hearing the noise. She quickly slid through as soon as it was open enough to let her, only taking stock of the gravel pathway under her feat as she sprinted away.

When she reached the safety of trees, she looked back. Cair Paravel stared back at her, still too large and too close in her mind. Grace looked back at the forest, knowing that from this point, there was no turning back.

She was mindful of the stones under her feet, cutting into her skin in sharp points and took the shoes from her belt and put them on. She had no socks but the rubber soles were a blessed respite as she urged her feet forwards.

Food and shelter. Those were the two most important things at this moment. Beneath her, Grace’s feet protested at the thought of more walking. She would also need a way to travel. Horseback may work, but she knew very little of horses. Perhaps she could find some travelling peddler and go with them.

When she’d rested and was situated with a way of travelling, Grace would need to figure out where she was travelling to. The Wardrobe, Lucy had called it. Although, she was not sure if anyone apart from the Kings and Queens would know anything about such a thing.

As she thought and walked and walked and thought, Grace realised how half-baked her plan truly was. She cursed herself; in her manic state she had not thought about the fundamental point of the escape plan, what one does when they actually escape.

The woods opened to a large and open plain. Grace stared in wonder at the endless starry night above her; never in her life had she seen so many stars. She searched for lights in the distance, hoping to find a small village to rest but was disappointed to find nothing but the endless shadowed plain.

A breeze floated past, blowing the sheet from atop her head and exposing her to the chilled night air. It was too cold to sleep outside but Grace feared that may be her only option.

“Oi! Stop!”

She froze, foot half stepping onto the plain before two shadows cut off her ascent.

“What do you think you’re doing out here?” The elder of the two asked. His feathers dark except from the silver flecks which caught the light of the moon.

Grace didn’t move, secretly hoping that they were talking to someone else.

“We can see you,” The other said, shaking its wings into place on its side.

Grace slumped visually and conceded defeat. She stepped slowly from the shade of the trees, her skin alarmingly pale in the moonlight.

“Thought you’d given us the slip did you?” The elder bird grizzled; he turned his head to eye her scathingly.

Grace looked at them, incredulous at the cheek, “I did give you the slip.”

“But you didn’t make it the whole way,” The younger bird, Caius, sniffed.

Marius, the elder, ignored them both, “You seem to have wondered far from your rooms, Madam. Let us escort you back.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Grace objected, her mind whirring with ideas on how to flee their sight.

Caius lifted his wings threateningly, “You won’t make it far from here. You’d best do what we say.”

“I made it this far.”

“You got lucky,” Marius cut, “You will not be so fortunate from here.”

The elder bird shook his feathers and began herding Grace through the woods. When she didn’t move, he pecked at her heels.

“Stop that,” Grace admonished, hands flying to her ankles.

“Get moving,” Caius ordered, following the elders lead.

In a whirlwind of fast thinking, Grace slipped one of the shoes from her feet and held it aloft. The threat clear to her two assailants; Stop or be hit. The action surprised her, she wasn’t usually violent but knew that she wouldn’t give up on her freedom so easily.

The birds – eagles, Grace realised as she noted their white masks and dark bodies – ceased their pecking at the threat.

“I’m not going anywhere but home,” She determined.

The two eagles looked at each other uncertainly.

“Where is home?” Marius asked.

Grace’s mind grasped at the name Lucy had used to describe it, “I don’t know what you would call it, but I know it is through a Wardrobe.”

From the blank expressions on their faces, Grace realised that the pair didn’t know what she was talking about.

“You’re confused, Madam,” Marius consoled, “A good night’s rest will do wonders for you.”

“No,” Grace refused, grip tightening on the leather shoe, “I know there is another name for it, I just can’t think of it right now.”

“You’d best follow us back to your rooms,” Caius said, “Before we notify the guard.”

What was it Lucy had said? The city of wardrobe in the land of… what?

Marius looked to his counterpart sparingly, “We shouldn’t notify the guard, the King’s and Queen’s would have our jobs if they knew we’d let her out.”

Grace willed herself to think, what did a wardrobe sit in? A room? There was more to it than that.

“They probably know already,” Caius reasoned, “King Edmund has spies everywhere.”

“If he knew about it, we wouldn’t be the only ones pursuing her.”

“Spare Oom!” Grace exclaimed, causing the pair to jump and squawk, “I come from Spare Oom.”

This time, the Eagles understood her. They looked between themselves, wordlessly communicating their next step.

Marius was the first to speak, “What are you doing in Narnia?”

“It was an accident.”

“There is no accident that would facilitate a journey like that,” Caius rebuffed her.

“Please, I just want to go home. Do you know where the Wardrobe is?” Grace pleaded.

There was a shift in Marius’s face and when he next blinked he was looking at Grace empathetically.  

Caius caught his line of thinking and waddled defiantly in front of his counterpart, “Marius, no.”

“What harm is there in helping her get home,” The elder eagle reasoned.

“There is a lot of harm,” Caius argued, “We are to deploy with the cartographers tomorrow, there wouldn’t be enough time, even if we knew where we were going. Not to mention that our jobs will be forfeit once they find her missing.”

Grace eyed Marius over Caius’s wing, eyes pleading for any kind of assistance. If they would not take her home, perhaps they would simply let her go.

There was little hope when the elder eagles face hardened, “You are right.”

The weight of defeat hung from Grace’s shoulders like a medal of shame. She needn’t be pecked into submission this time and allowed herself to be herded back into the walls of Cair Paravel. They watched her closely the entire walk, she could feel the burning of their eyes on her back. If there were any thoughts of making an escape, their discerning gaze put an end to it.

When at last, they reached the room, Grace was resigned and tired. She wanted nothing more than to sleep forever. When the door opened and she sighted the bed, she frowned. The strangling feeling of the sheets returning like a phantom across her skin.

Instead, she dropped unceremoniously onto the chaise and immediately submitted to the welcoming arms of sleep.

Chapter Text

VI

GRACE

When Will My Life Begin – Mandy Moore

When she opened her eyes the next morning, Grace had expected to see her ocean blue quilt and a handful of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, When instead, Grace saw the blank roof of her guest room, she gave a frustrated exhale.

I just want to go home, she thought tiredly, yawning and scratching at her face with her fingertips.

Three sharp knocks on wood startled her awake, it sounded familiar, like it was the second time someone had knocked on her door this… morning? She sat up and looked to one of the windows beside of the bed. The first cracks of sunlight had begun to peek through and were shining into the room cheerfully. Someone had come to speak to her at the crack of dawn.

At the crack of dawn. For heaven’s sake.

Another persistent knock joined the conversation in her mind. Grace sighed, whoever this was, they were not patient.

“I’m coming.” She called, her voice still cracking with the whispers of sleep.

If the person on the other side heard her, they did not acknowledge it. Grace pulled herself from the sheets groggily and trudged towards the ornately carved door.

Another knock began as Grace reached the door, and she pulled it open mid rap, an annoyed expression on her face. “Yes?” She asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Whomever it was, they still did not speak. Although Grace did hear a brief gruff of disapproval.

Grace’s face crumpled in displeasure, “If you’re going to wake me up this early, you better have a good-” But she stopped, unable to finish the sentence when her eyes fastened to the being in front of her.

The Centaur stared at her evenly, unphased but still holding an ever-present aura of disapproval. “You are Grace?” He asked in a deep tone which vibrated so soundly in Grace’s chest that she thought she’d spoken the words herself.

“Yes.” Grace whispered, slightly in awe. She had seen many creatures in her short time in Narnia. Lucy had called them fauns, talking animals and minotaurs. However, she’d not yet seen a centaur and thus was unprepared at the sheer size of one.  

The Centaur towered over her; his strong shadow nearly doubled in size against hers. His features were sharply angled and every muscle on his body appeared to be toned.

Had he come to take her away to some dungeon? Grace shuddered at the thought, when she was caught trying to flee, she feared this might be the outcome.

The Centaur bowed his head slightly and introduced himself, “I am Casys.”

Grace tried to smile friendlily, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Casys did not return the smile but Grace noted his muscles relax. A moment passed where the two shared a slow stare. Eventually when Grace’s curiosity got the better of her she asked why he had come.

“I am your assigned guard,” Casys explained.

Ah, my babysitter, Grace thought. She opened the door wider and motioned for Casys to enter.

The Centaur shook his head, “No. The hallway is enclosed enough for me,” he glanced at the roof with a sliver of nervousness before continuing, “I have come to collect you for your kitchen duties.”

“Oh!” Grace exclaimed, “So early?”

“His majesty, King Edmund has instructed me to take you down to the Kitchens each day at dawn,” Casys confirmed gruffly.

Grace nodded, already feeling lighter and with a sense of purpose as she stepped through the doorway, “Then let’s go, I can’t spend a moment longer in that room.”

She had taken a few steps down the hallway before Casys stopped her. His hooves stamping against the marble stone as he caught up, “Before we do, I believe you may wish to dress yourself.”

Grace, stunned with his direct speech took a moment to realise that she was still in only her shift.  She yelped and scurried back to her room, ignoring the humorous look in the Centaur’s eyes.

-

Casys had led her down to the Kitchens at a steady pace. He didn’t say much to her, except to answer her enquiries about things they saw or overheard.

Dawn had barely broken and yet, the Cair was already abuzz with movement. She and Casys were caught in the waves of staff moving about their duties for the day. It was dizzying, the amount of creatures that moved about in the cascading hallways. Grace, who had never thought such beings could be real before, wanted to sit still in her wonder and watch them move about their days.

But there was no time to observe the creatures in their work, Casys had informed her that she was already late and Grace hurried behind him as he cleared their path.

The kitchens were revealed to be quite close to her quarters and Grace was relieved that she would not have to traipse the length of the Cair to get to work each day. She left Casys at the doorway who bowed his head solemnly and wished her luck, making excuses of small areas not suiting centaurs.

When Grace entered the room, she found she had to agree. The sheer heat that radiated against her skin when she entered the room was suffocating. The ovens – plural, as there were at least three of them – ran along the far side of the room. They blazed infernos that thickened the air with sweltering heat and in front of them, all manner of beings scurried about performing menial tasks such as; cutting, kneading, tossing and cooking.

Grace watched them, entranced at their synchronicity. They ducked and swerved between each other without so much as a word spoken.

A large hare caught her eye as it tossed dough between its paws. It’s eyes tensed in focus and its tongue poking out between its lips. When the dough crumbled to the countertop with a thunk, it let out a loud groan which interrupted the smooth sounds of sizzling, chopping and fur sliding atop the marble floor.  

“Argh!” The hare exclaimed, shaking the mixture from its paws and wiping them on a cloth, “I shall never get this mixture right.”

A Badger looked up from one of the ovens, the hair on its head mussed about like it had been pawing at it, “Well don’t give up,” It cried, “Breakfast is in less than an hour and the Kings and Queens can’t go without toast.”

“I don’t know what else I can do!” The hare cried in response, shovelling the mixture into a basket, “I’ve looked over Mrs Beavers recipe a hundred times at least and it’s not coming together like it should.”

Grace could clearly see the problem just by looking at the dried dough, the hare hadn’t added enough water. “Excuse me,” She interjected politely, hoping to catch the hare before it threw the mixture away.

The Badger looked up at her startled before barely taking in her features before dipping into a low bow, “Your Majesty.”

Several other animals in the kitchen froze as if they had been caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

The hare looked between the two of them oddly and after a beat of appraisal towards Grace it murmured, “She’s not a queen, you dolt.”

The Badger looked up and squinted at Grace with their small eyes, “Isn’t she? I can’t see her from here. I’m sorry, dear, I saw the shape of a human and assumed.”

Grace smiled sheepishly and waved the Badger off, mildly uncomfortable with the amount of eyes staring at her. She pointed to the woven basket sitting in the hare’s arms and suggested, “The mixture is fine, you just need to add a bit more water to make it cohesive.”

The hare simply stared at her and Grace thought she could almost see the puzzle piece fit in the creatures eyes. “More water,” It stated dumbly, “But the recipe doesn’t call for more water!”

Grace followed its eyesight to the torn paper on the table and read over the contents. Ah, there it was, a slight smudge on the number next to the water measurements. Grace pointed it out to the hare, picking up the page and pointing out the wear on its edges.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” The hare cried, joyous that it did not need to start again. It flipped the basket over onto the table and began kneading again, this time adding water to the mixture.

The Badger, who had been watching the transaction with the utmost curiosity, waddled closer to the two and inspected the – now cohesive – mass of dough. “It’s almost perfect,” They squeaked before squinting up at Grace, “How did you know that was what it needed?”

“The recipe,” Grace replied, holding up the worn sheet.

“No, no,” The Badger pressed, “You knew before you looked at it.”

Grace felt her cheeks flush, “I have some experience with bread,” she admitted.

“Oh,” Recognition lit their small eyes, “You’re my new bread maker!”

“That’s me,” Grace said awkwardly, still a little uncomfortable with the number of eyes upon her. The kitchen staff still had not moved from their statuesque positions, however, they seemed to thaw a little when they realised she was not royalty.

The Badger waddled slightly as she moved around the table to greet Grace properly. They took her hand, shaking it enthusiastically and saying, “Oh, thank Aslan! We were beginning to worry you wouldn’t show.”

“I’m so sorry, there was a little trouble with my clothes,” Grace said in a small voice. She really hated being late. Really, she hated being in the wrong for anything. It gave her this thick, gooey, unpleasant feeling in her stomach that only abided with time. How long the feeling remained was up to the severity of her actions.

The Badger waved off her apology with a smile, “No matter, no matter. You’re here now and you clearly know what you’re talking about,” They motioned to the table, “You can pick up where Kit has left off.”

The Badger waved the hare – Kit – away from the table and signalled for her to begin.

Fuelled by the sick oozy feeling and the need to put her hands to work, Grace did not hesitate and immediately began kneading. The Badger watched through narrowed eyes, murmuring small ooh’s and ah’s as she worked.

Grace felt a little put off by the constant attention but allowed it without comment. If anything, it was to wash a little of the guilt away. When she had looked at the Badger for the third time, however, the creature seemed to catch on.

“Oh don’t mind me, dear,” They said, patting Grace’s arm, “I’m only admiring your work.”

Grace startled, “I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t-“

“No, no. Don’t worry. I’m only squinting at you like this because I’ve forgotten my glasses today.”

Glasses? What would a badger need with glasses?

“We don’t have amazing sight, us badgers,” They tapped a claw to the corner of their eye, “These are made for foraging at night, not managing an entire kitchen,” In an exaggerated movement, their hands widened to gesture to the room.

Grace smiled, slightly comforted at the Badgers words, “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you land the job of kitchen manager?”

The Badger waddled towards the ovens, apparently done watching Grace, “I took the job as a favour to my friend, Mrs Beaver. She had been boiling down here in these palace kitchens for near on ten years since the Great Peace began. Had many singed hairs to show for it, too.”

“She said to me, ‘Mrs Badger, I have worked and lived in and loved these kitchens for nearly ten years, but I think now I would like a few years of peace. Will you take up my mantle?’”

Mrs Badger barely paused for breath, “Now, I could hardly say no to her. Not my dearest friend! So I packed up my things, kissed Mr Badger goodbye and now I am here. Cooking for the Kings and Queens!”

Grace only smiled and attempted to focus on transferring the dough to an iron sheet. Her fingers caught uncomfortably in the sticky mixture and Grace had to pry the them away. When she had finished shaping the dough into a ball and cleared as much of it from her hands as possible, she covered the ball with a damp cloth.

Mrs Badger had stopped paying attention to her. Focusing instead on a large pot which she was stirring slowly.

Grace, curious at the contents of the pot, creeped closer to Mrs Badger. Upon eyeing its contents, it was a mixture of various vegetables and meat amongst some kind of stock.

“Is that for breakfast?” Grace asked.

“Hmm?” Mrs Badger looked as though she’d been interrupted mid thought, “No, this is for supper. The meat and vegetables will stew over the day and it will be ready to serve tonight.”

Grace’s nose wrinkled slightly; she had always hated the taste of stew. She wasn’t sure why, she only recalled eating copious amounts of it as a child. The earthy flavour and the texture of the too-soft vegetables were vivid in memory.

“Do the Kings and Queens regularly eat such things?” Grace asked with an attempted nonchalance.

Mrs Badger pondered the question for a moment, “They have quite simple tastes when it comes to food. For breakfast, they’ll usually have toast, eggs, sausages and beans. Lunch is usually sandwiches and fruit. Then dinner offers a few different options, stew being a favorite amongst them.”

“Do other Narnians eat like this?”

“Oh yes, we’re all for simplicity here. You’ll find none of those complex dishes they have down south. Although, one time an ambassador from Archenland ordered a dish of pie filled with leeks, potatoes and sausages which has become well liked here.”

The hare, Kit, appeared then; a tray of the afore mentioned breakfast items in hand. With all the food lined together on the tray, Grace was reminded of a breakfast dish she’d once had. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was called.

Mrs Badger set her spoon aside and looked over the food, “Don’t forget the blood pudding this time,” She reminded Kit. Then she turned to Grace and prompted her in a gentle yet firm voice that one could only associate with a boss, “How’s that bread coming along?”

Graces eyes grew wide and she returned to her station hastily, mumbling apologies as she went.

-

When she had rolled, proofed and scored enough bread to last the day and eaten her breakfast of porridge and bacon, Grace returned to the company of Casys in the hallway. He was shifting from hoof to hoof and gazing at the roof warily.

Grace wondered at the choice of her companion. Clearly the Centaur was not completely comfortable in enclosed spaces, wouldn’t a different guard have been more prudent?

She didn’t let the thought linger, approaching Casys with an easy smile and saying, “I have some free time.”

Casys only stared at her from under his strong brow, either unimpressed with her accomplishment or waiting for her to explain her statement.

Grace’s smile faltered, when she and Lucy had discussed work they clearly hadn’t thought this far. Bread was a slow process; two separate hours were needed for proofing – once after the batch is first made and another when the scored loaf was placed in the baking tray. Another half an hour was required for baking.

In the hot kitchen, Grace found that the mixture had proofed a lot quicker than expected which meant that she could begin folding them into loaves and loading the trays. Mrs Badger had offered to tend to baking the loaves once the ovens were empty. This left Grace free for the rest of the day.

What on earth was she going to do with a whole day? What did women do in a time like this? Embroidery? She didn’t have the patience. Dancing? That was only fun if you had a partner. Sword fighting? She wished, but there was no way Casys would let her near a sword, yet.

While Grace mused, Casys had returned to glaring at the ceiling with his foot scraping against the floor. Grace studied him, his tensed muscles and furrowed face reminded her of King Edmund’s look the day before. He had said he was uncomfortable in small spaces which meant any of the ideas that Grace had would cause him discomfort. Since Casys would be this irritable as long as he was inside, there was nothing else for it.

“What do you normally do during the day, Casys?” Grace asked.

For the first time since she had met him, Casys smiled.

-

Surely, there had never been sunlight like this on Earth. Grace thought she may be content to sit in it forever. It’s soft rays tickled her skin in warmth, not too hot to burn her, although she was sure that if she stayed out for too long she would turn as red as the poppies she laid in.

Casys was circling her in large gallops, pleased to be out of the castle at last. If it bothered him so much, Grace wondered how he would handle the remainder of his post as her guard. Surely if she spoke to King Edmund, something could be arranged. Either that or she would have to obtain some sunscreen and a book.

Casys eventually slowed and joined her on the grass. Grace tried not to stare at the Centaur but she had found it difficult. He knelt similarly to a horse; a manoeuvre she hadn’t expected. Then again, what should she have expected? Her thoughts paused when she saw his face, or more importantly his gaze which was fixed firmly into the distance.

Grace turned to look at the offending direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary; some hills, a road of dirt draped over them. There was nothing to cause alarm.

“Is something wrong?” She asked him.

Casys didn’t move or speak and continued to stare stubbornly over the road.

They both sat staring over the hill for a minute. The soft breeze grazing amongst their ears in long whispers. Until finally, she heard it too.

The rolling crunch of carriage wheels was faint but became progressively louder until Grace sighted the top of a Narnian carriage, not unlike the one that had transported her from the ship to Cair Paravel.

Unlike the first time she saw it, Grace was not worn by exhaustion and could now appreciate the magnificent craftmanship rolling atop the hillside. The fine wood was a rich lacquered brown adorned with gold embellishments that gleamed in the sun. The design was simple, yet beautiful with curved edges flicking off the main lines like twisted vines. When Grace had imagined a pumpkin turning into a carriage as a child, this was the picture she had conjured.

When the carriage came within walking distance, Casys launched to his hoofs and pulled Grace behind him.

A dizzying moment passed while Grace gathered her bearings, then another when the carriage continued to pass by them. All the while Casys kept a firm grip on her arm, his constant pull keeping her concealed in his silhouette.

She couldn’t understand his actions but gathered that silence was imperative by the severe look on the Centaur’s face. Grace held her tongue until she could no longer hear the roar of carriage wheels.

“Why did you do that?” She asked, voice cracking in the silence.

If Casys had an answer, he did not provide one. Instead he turned and began to follow the carriages path.

Grace grumbled indignantly and stood stubbornly still until Casys noticed she was not following him.

He gestured to her to follow but she refused. Simply, she chose to return his gesture. They both could be stubborn and unobliging and see where that got them.

The contest continued. Their eyes of blue and grey bore into each other and ground like stones against a siege wall. Surprisingly Casys was the first to give way.

He exhaled in annoyance and stared firmly over her shoulder. It was the same spot he had stared in before. It made Grace wonder if there were more carriages coming?

“It is not safe, I should not have brought you this far from the Cair,” Casys explained, attempting to resume their journey.

Grace’s eyes widened and she did not move, “What harm am I going to do to the Narnians out here?”

Casys stopped again and turned to her. His head cocked slightly to the left and brow furrowed deeply as he surveyed her. When the silence dragged and he refused to respond, Grace released a noise of displeasure. It was an immature noise and Grace wasn’t sure but she may have stamped her foot.

But Grace was too upset to care and continued to plead, “Could you just answer me?”

He didn’t move.

“Please,” She implored.

Then, finally the Centaur trotted towards her, hand fast in a satchel at his waist. He pulled out a scroll of paper, sealed in a wax image of a lion.

He held it out to her, “You did read this parchment, correct?”

Grace gingerly took the scroll from his fingers; the seal had already been broken and it weighed so heavily that when she took the scroll at its middle the paper unfurled of its own accord. She decided that she had not seen the paper before, however, the handwriting was eerily familiar.

It seemed that King Edmund had rewritten their previously discussed orders for her babysitter with a few minor adjustments.

I, Edmund, by the gift of Aslan, by election and by conquest, King of Narnia, Duke of the Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table hereby decree that for the safety of herself and others; Grace, formerly of the land of Spare Oom, be placed under watch from sunrise to sundown each day.

To serve as her protector, jailer and if need be, executor, I place Sir Casys, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table. In all matters pertaining to Grace, Sir Casys’s instructions must be followed. Those who disobey will suffer penalties based on severity as decided by the Crown.

This decree will remain absolute until such time as the Crown sees fit to remove it.

The scroll had been signed in flowing ink, ‘ER’ it read. The penmanship would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the meaning of the words.

“For the safety of herself and others?” Grace asked Casys.

Her eyes remained transfixed on the ink but she saw his nod in her peripheral vision.

“I don’t understand, Casys.”

“It is not for you to understand, Grace,” Casys replied, “You need only know to follow my lead.”

Grace rewound the scroll and pointed it back in his direction, “And your lead was to hide me from a carriage?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“There are many dangerous things that lurk within the wild of Narnia, things that you could not defend yourself from.”

Grace raised an eyebrow, “And one of those things resided in a royal carriage? One that was clearly sent by your Kings and Queens?”

“That carriage was carrying an ambassador from a neighbour of Narnia-“

“Ah, so the ambassador was the threat,” Grace interjected.

“Peace,” Casys huffed, growing frustrated with Grace’s interruptions.

Grace stilled in that moment, for the Centaur was frighteningly serious. His hands had balled into fists and his right hoof was pawing at the dirt. At once she felt regret for her actions, she hadn’t meant to make Casys this upset.

He calmed slowly; taking deep breaths and repeatedly stretching and clenching his hands to self soothe. Grace didn’t rush him this time; she was becoming increasingly aware that he was twice her size and could probably kill her. She was reminded of her first conversation with King Edmund when he grasped his sword so firmly his knuckles had turned white. If she was going to survive, she needed to learn to control her temper and watch her tongue.

“The neighbour, Calormen, is not yet a friend of Narnia,” Casys explained, “The land to the south is harsh which in turn creates harsh people. They follow customs which would not even be thought of here and there is no telling what they would do if they found a Daughter of Eve on the side of the road.”

Grace shuddered involuntarily, she had seen and read enough of medieval history to understand what those customs may be. She nodded to Casys in gratitude, “Thank you.”

His face relaxed minimally and he held the scroll aloft like a trophy, “It is my duty.”

An involuntary laugh bubbled past Grace’s lips, “I suppose so.”

Casys’s eyes met hers, they were filled with mirth which did not touch the other features of his face. Then his gazed flickered over her head to the dirt road from which the carriage had come, “There are more on their way.”

“More?” Grace asked, following his gaze, “How many ambassadors are there?”

“Only one by my knowledge but we should not take any chances.” Casys replied. He knelt into the grass and held out a hand in her direction, “If we hurry, we can reach the safe confines of Cair Paravel before the Ambassador arrives.”

Grace stared at him, unblinkingly, “I don’t think I can run that quickly.”

Casys didn’t move, “You won’t be running.”

Grace balked when she comprehended what he was getting at, “That’s very kind, but no thank you.”

Casys looked at her scathingly, “It is not often that anyone is given this privilege and I assure you it is only in this dire hour of need that I offer this to you.”

“How is it a dire hour of need? Surely we can find some trees to hide in until all the people have passed.”

“We cannot assume the forests are safe. All reinforcements and watches have been redirected to the Cair to oversee the Ambassador of Calormen’s arrival.”

“But-”

“Climb on my back, Grace,” He said firmly, “Or I will pick you up and take you anyway.”

She hesitated, torn between her morals and the necessity that Casys portrayed. Surely it was wrong to ride on the back of a conscious being, even if he was offering.

It wasn’t as if she had much choice in the matter, he was far larger and quicker than her. Any attempts at running or stubborn refusal would end with her carried in some humiliating way back to Cair Paravel. After the interactions she had already had with some of the Kings and Queens, she didn’t want to add another uncomfortable moment to the list.

With a heavy sigh of acquiescence, Grace took the offered hand and slid smoothly onto Casys’s back.

Chapter Text

VII

EDMUND

Edmund was suffocating. Stuffed in some tightly woven suit made of the least breathable fabric his sister could find. Susan was fussing over him, straightening his collar and smoothing his errant hair. All the while muttering that he looked dashing and to stop fidgeting. Lucy had agreed laughingly from his right. Peter watched the exchange from behind Susan and they shared a grimace of mutual discomfort over her shoulder.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been dressed up before – Narnia had many ceremonies, banquets and balls to commemorate many holidays and events. However, it had never been to this level nor on such a hot day. He felt like a trussed chicken which had been thrown into the oven for Christmas dinner. All his complaints were made on deaf ears and were overshadowed by Susans insistence that they look their best.

All four siblings were dressed in rich velvets and beaded cuffs; clothes which Susan had seen to design personally for their torment. They had been primped, pressed and polished until they gleamed and – under the watchful eye of the eldest sister – were on their best behaviour.

Well, he amended mentally, most of them were on their best behaviour. Lucy jittered impatiently to his right, her foot tapping as she glared up the cobbled road. He needn’t guess at the source of her aggravation. There was a meeting of the Healers Guild this morning, a meeting which Lucy was sore to miss.

Susan stopped fussing for a moment to scold her, “Stop that, Lucy.”

“I can’t,” Lucy complained sullenly, “I’m missing a very important meeting.”

“Tough luck, it’s your job to be here. I’m sure the Guild can fill you in on the meeting minutes later,” The ‘later’ was punctuated with a harsh tug to Edmunds collar.

He jerked backwards and choked out, “Argh! Not so hard, Susan!”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Susan scoffed but after dusting off his shoulders one last time, she let him be and focused on Peter instead.

Edmund ghosted a hand over his throat, hoping that the friction had not left a mark. He didn’t want to have to explain to his men how he had gotten it. There was no battle wound more mortifying than one inflicted by one’s sister.

Lucy continued her nervous fidgeting which had now progressed to fingernail chewing. Susan wasn’t going to like that one.

Gently, Edmund lowered her fingers. Lucy’s eyes snapped to him, her blue irises wide and full of nervous energy.

“Relax,” He said soothingly, “Once we’ve been introduced to the ambassador, I’ll help you make an escape.”

Lucy sighed but her shoulders relaxed minimally, “I don’t understand why we must all be here. This is an ambassadors visit, not a royal one.”

“That is true,” Edmund acknowledged and he scanned the tree line boredly, “but the ambassador is a noble and the people of Calormen are quite proud. Anything less than a royal address could be seen as a slight.”

“It still seems like a lot of effort.”

Edmund smiled playfully and nudged her with his shoulder, “You only think that because you have somewhere to be.”

Lucy hummed absentmindedly; her eyes fixed in the distance. Edmund followed them to their left, where a line of Cair Paravel’s staff stood vigil. They stood in a row on the edge of the stairs and were clearly uncomfortable under the waves of heat.

“Maybe it is a little overkill,” Edmund amended.

Lucy smiled, “So, how do you plan to free us?”

Edmund thought for a moment, his eyes still trained on the line of staff. He honestly had no idea how to get around Susan without causing damage to her campaign for peace with Calormen. She would never forgive him if he did, not after the past year she spent working on it.

He needed something subtle, that would not offend the ambassador. Something that Susan would not expect nor blame him for.

Before he could think too much of it, a glint caught his eyesight. Something was moving in the woods, just before the tree line.

“Edmund?” Lucy pressed.

Edmund didn’t say anything as he gawked across the cobblestone, struck by an unexpected image he couldn’t have conceived.

A Centaur had emerged from the throng of thick trees, his back as straight and proud as the woods he stood beside. His figure was misshapen, however, for he was carrying something on his back. Something which was holding on for dear life with both arms and legs.

Not something. Someone.

It was clear it was a person when a beam of sunlight caught their figure. The length of their arms and legs were definitely human, though the size in comparison to the Centaurs body seemed like a child’s.

They stopped just before the end of the tree cover and the rider clumsily dismounted, falling onto the grass in a heap.

“What in Aslans name are they doing?” Edmund muttered. His eyes scrunched as he tried to focus on the figures faces.

“What’s going on?” Susan asked from Edmund’s left. She was also squinting at the figures in the shade.

Peter joined them, relieved at no longer being the centre of Susan’s attention, “Is that a Daughter of Eve riding a centaur?”

The rider stumbled up from the grass, politely declining the Centaur’s offered hand. Edmund deduced from the height and figure that his brother was right; it was a woman. She stood steady at last, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. Her head bobbed between Cair Paravel and the Centaur, clearly deciding whether to stay out of sight and – most likely – out of trouble. But it was too late for her, the sun reached between the leaves to graze her hair which responded with a familiar bronze gleam. He knew exactly who she was.

Edmund gritted his teeth, “It is.”

“It’s Grace,” Lucy whispered.

Before Edmund could think twice, he was marching down the steps and across the cobblestone road. Shoes scraping in time with the mismatched rhythm pounding inside his skull. His back burned with the stares of siblings and castle staff. He didn’t care.

Word had reached him that morning of her escape attempt. At the time, he chose to let it go, narrowing it down to a lapse in judgement due to poor sleep and stress. But now it was clear to Edmund that her actions were premeditated.

What was the saying? You give someone an inch and they take a mile.

When he reached the trees, Grace caught sight of his rapidly approaching form. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she had the correct idea of looking afraid of him.

Casys bowed to her right, arm pressed across his torso solemnly.

Edmund nodded to him stiffly, only slightly relieved that Grace had not slipped her guard amongst her other rule breakings.

At that thought, his eyes returned to rest heavily on hers. Grace stared back evenly; she was not trembling in fear but he was certain she had been caught unaware by his presence; she was stuck like a deer in arrow sight.

It was a slow minute of coy innocence against blazing fury – before Grace realised what he was waiting for. Her cheeks coloured sheepishly and she instinctively dropped into a misshapen curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” She whispered.

Edmunds skin prickled with barely concealed rage, “Rise.”

Grace arose but her eyes remained steadfastly on the dirt. An action which met with his approval.

“What were you doing?” He asked.

Casys tried to intervene, “Your Majesty, please-”

Edmund held a silent hand to Casys, “I was asking Grace.”

At the mention of her name, Grace looked up. Her eyes were still wide and fearful, but there was a determination within them.

“It was hot in the kitchens, sir. Casys and I were getting some fresh air,” She answered.

“How far did you go from Cair Paravel?” Edmund questioned.

Grace looked between he and Casys helplessly, “I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess, how many miles?”

“Miles?”

Edmund huffed, “The unit of measurement used for distance.”

Her eyebrow quirked, “I prefer to use kilometres.”

He mirrored her stubborn expression, “Then how far, in kilometres.”

“At least three, don’t you think Casys?” She turned to him questioningly, her tone was far too light for the situation.

The Centaur was staring at her with disapproving eyes, “I think we strayed too far,” he said resolutely before returning to Edmund, “It is my fault, sire. The Daughter of Eve saw I was uneasy-”

“No,” Grace cut across him, “You aren’t going to take the blame for me Casys; it was my idea to get some fresh air and it was not entirely unselfish either.”

“Let him speak,” Edmund sharply admonished her.

Grace froze, her mouth stuck between her next words and the indignation of being silenced.

“We’d strayed to the meadows beyond the end of the grounds, on the way to Beruna,” Casys explained.

Edmund hummed noncommittally, his eyes bearing heavily upon Graces when he asked, “Such a distance from the castle. It’s a wonder you came back.”

Grace bristled under his look. Her eyes beheld the ground and she refused to look anywhere else. “It wasn’t by choice,” She muttered.

“Pardon?”

Casys cut between them again, “There were travellers on the road; The Calormene ambassador and his entourage.”

The ambassador! Edmund thought alarmingly. His head flicked back to the castle in panic. When his eyes adjusted to the light he heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of his siblings. They were still lined up in a pristine row, the only difference was that Lucy had moved to stand beside Susan in his absence.

If Casys and Grace had seen the ambassador within the last hour then it wouldn’t be long before his arrival. Edmund was running out of time before Susan skinned and wore him as a coat.

The image horrified him. He shook it off, turning back to Grace with a severe expression, “Whatever the reason, in future you are not to leave the grounds of Cair Paravel under any circumstances.”

Grace opened her mouth but Edmund cut her off with a pointed finger, “Under any circumstances or I will confine you to your room and place you under 24-hour watch.”

Her clear blue eyes turned skyward in disbelief, “Please, the theatrics don’t suit you. We both know Lucy wouldn’t allow that.”

“Queen Lucy,” Edmund corrected thornily, “Will listen to the advice of her advisors as necessary. As it happens, however, you are not under Queen Lucy’s jurisdiction, you are under mine.”

Grace stopped short, “What?”

Thrilled that he’d seemingly pulled the rug from under her, Edmund began to drill further, “One of my duties is to oversee the safety of the castle and all within it. That includes assigning guards, organising watches and if necessary detaining threats.”

Grace scoffed, “What kind of a threat am I? I’m not tall, I’m not strong, I’m clearly not heavy either as the only reason I am here is because Casys threatened to throw me over his shoulder if I refused to hop on.”

Casys made a disgruntled noise to her left but Grace ignored him.

Edmund supposed he agreed with her. She was right, she posed no physical threat. She barely came to his nose in height and while her figure was a little fuller than usual, she wouldn’t be hard to carry. However, it wasn’t a physical threat he was worried about.

Since he and his siblings had ascended their thrones near-on thirteen years ago, he had spent a significant amount of time scouring the histories of Narnia - or rather, what was left of them – for information on the White Witch. A quest which came to very little results due to Jadis’s censorship throughout her reign. What material was left was biased but Edmund didn’t mind. He found it easy to read between the lines of idolisation and determine the truth beneath.

Jadis had used her beauty and charm to wrangle countless Narnians into her clutches and cleave the country into two. Some had gone along with her willingly, believing her words to be truth and her rule to be just. Many others, including himself, had been bewitched with false promises and held under her power by force. Whatever method was used, the results were the same and he knew that there was something to be learned from the experience.

Namely, that beautiful women who dropped into Narnia with no explanation were not to be trusted.

The thought snapped him to the present. Casys had steadfastly defended Grace’s actions under the premise she was acting out of care for him. This would have made him wary of her allure if it were not for what Grace had said just a moment ago.

“The only reason I am back is because Casys threatened to throw me over his shoulder if I refused to hop on.”

Edmund eyed the Centaur in his peripherals thoughtfully. Anyone bewitched would not be quick to force such a thing. He supposed then, that was a point in favour of Grace not being a witch.

Then again he had taken Grace onto his back and let her ride him. This was frowned upon by centaurs; they were proud beasts, worthy in nature and noble by presence. For them, to take any creature upon their back was considered degrading, except in the gravest circumstances.

If Casys was in his right mind then there must have been something about the ambassador and the entourage that he deemed unsafe enough to remove Grace from the situation.

When he had told Casys to fulfill his duties at any cost, he hadn’t realised how seriously the Centaur would take it. Perhaps another conversation about boundaries was in order. The last thing he and his siblings needed was a petition from the centaurs about humans riding them.

But Grace didn’t need to know that. In fact, it would probably be better if she continued to think that she could be whisked away the moment she disobeyed his orders.

Grace was staring at him pointedly, eyebrows raised and arms crossed in an unimpressed manner, “Well?"

Edmund leaned forward, undeterred by the pristine glare she was giving him and extremely displeased with her self-assured behaviour. Regardless of the reasoning in her statements, her stubborn nature and disrespect for authority was proving to be a problem. A problem that Edmund was quickly getting tired of.  

“I don’t think I can make this plainer than I am about to,” He spoke severely, “From your entrance into Narnia but a day ago you have shown nothing but obstinance and disrespect for the kindness that we have shown you.”

“Do you think it normal for an outsider to reside in the guest wing? Or for a complete stranger to be trusted to handle our food?” He didn’t wait for her response, “It is not. Queen Lucy has fought for you every step of the way. Is this how you repay her?”

Edmund shook his head, “If you continue to behave in this manner, I cannot speak to the consequences.”

When Edmund finished his speech, his fists were clenched and he was slightly out of breath. He took a moment to gather himself.

When his gaze returned to Grace, he was hit with a gut-wrenching sight. Grace’s eyes were wide, bottom rim welling with tears as she bit her lower lip. She stared ahead unseeingly, the guilt-ridden blues childlike and helpless in the wake of his outburst.

Edmund knew the words were true but he was beginning to regret the harshness of his tone. When he moved to apologize, however, Edmund was cut off by the soft crunch of footsteps behind him.

Edmund turned, expecting Lucy or Peter had been sent to retrieve him, only to meet the cross countenance of Queen Susan herself.

Susan stood with her hands folded across her waist, her skirts draped over an arm to keep them from dragging in the dirt. Somehow she managed to look regal amidst the overgrown forest, she even might have been called serene if it weren’t for the way her eyebrows dimpled angrily in the middle.

“I’ve been calling you for over 5 minutes,” Susan said in a sugar-coated voice, though it was betrayed by her irritated smile. She paused to nod friendlily to Grace who by now had dropped into a low curtsy.

“I’m a bit busy here, Su,” Edmund whispered back, “I’m sure the three of you can handle the ambassador on your own.”

Susan acted as if he hadn’t spoken. She instructed Casys to take Grace inside and waited until the two had passed before linking her arm through his, “The watch tower has sighted the carriage. You must return to the steps now.”

Edmund eyed Grace’s retreating form remorsefully as Susan began pulling him back towards Cair Paravel, “That was a very important conversation that you interrupted.”

Edmund could hear Susan’s internal sigh. “If you’re looking for answers, I don’t think bullying the girl is the way to get them,” She admonished.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Susan pulled them to a stop at the tree line, dropping her skirts and dusting them off as she spoke, “Ed, I’m serious. I’ve not been in Grace’s company long but from what I have seen she seems scared. I don’t believe that making her more so will yield the results you’re after.”

“Then what will?” Edmund asked.

“You need to ask her the right questions, in the right way.”

He shook his head in disbelief, “Oh, is that all?”

Susan hummed thoughtfully, “You all remember so little of that other world. What did Lucy say Grace called it? Earth?”

She was pulling him again, across the cobblestone road in faster strides. When Edmund heard the dull roar of carriage wheels on the road, he matched her pace. If they didn’t cross quickly they would be crushed.

“Does it matter what she called it?” He grumbled, pulling Susan across the road urgently. The rotating crunch of wheels were getting louder but he could not yet see the carriage.

“My point is,” Susan sighed, “That I hold more memories of that other place. If you are truly concerned about the legitimacy of her story, I am more than happy to conduct my own questioning.”

Edmund perked up at the idea. If his sister held the knowledge he desired and she could correlate Grace’s story, he would feel more comfortable about letting Grace return to Spare Oom – should they find it.

His original thought was to write to Mr Tumnus for any information on the land of Spare Oom and the mysterious wardrobe which transported them to Narnia. If anyone would know anything about it, it would be the Faun who had first discovered Lucy in the Western Woods.

But if his sister recalled the exact place this ‘wardrobe’ was located, it would make matters much easier for them.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me all you know and then I can continue the questioning myself?” He asked.

Susan shook her head subtly, “It doesn’t work like that. I often remember things when I see or hear something that reminds me of that place and my mind doesn’t retain the memory for long.”

Edmund frowned in annoyance and his feet planted against each stone step a little louder than necessary, “What use could it be then?”

Susan didn’t entertain the remark, “I will organise a tea with her over the coming week and we’ll see what becomes of it.”

“Between your duties and your plans for the Calormene Ambassador, I don’t see how you’ll have the time,” Edmund quipped.

“Your duties alone provide you with even less time to interrogate her,” Susan returned, “Yet somehow, you manage.”

She lodged him in line next to Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a familiar smile.

Edmund stewed on the point thoughtfully and Susan began fussing over him again until - at last – the ambassador’s carriage rounded the corner and into sight. He shrugged her off, “I have a counter agreement. You conduct your interrogations and I’ll conduct mine.”

Beside him, her smile held in stoic pleasantness as if she had been carved from marble, but it was not the smile he was watching. Her stormy blue eyes crinkled slightly at the corners and their depths gave way to the waves of her frustration beneath. The appearance was odd and contradictory, as if the finest craftsman had chiselled water from an unyielding stone.

“And if I disagree?” Susan asked.

Edmund took her arm smoothly in his. His easy smile contrasted against the heavy stubborn look of his bark-coloured eyes. They mirrored each other in steady, quiet determination as if they were crafted from the very same stone.

 “I signed the decree; therefore I am responsible for her,” Edmund said resolutely, “We will conduct our assessments throughout the next fortnight and reconvene to discuss our findings.”

Susan hid a sigh behind her greeting wave as the plump ambassador wobbled from the carriage, “I’m sure the plan would work a lot better if you stopped viewing it like a battle strategy.”

Edmund scoffed and began to lead them down the stairs, “Keep telling yourself that.”

Chapter Text

VIII

GRACE

Experience – Ludovico Einaudi, Daniel Hope, I Virtuosi Italiani

Days passed in a whirlwind and somewhere after her fourth day in Narnia, Grace had stopped counting the rise and fall of the sun.

Every day brought the same routine. Wake, work, eat, sleep, wake, work, eat, sleep and on and on it went. It was hard to know where one day ended and the other began.

She longed for the feel of the gentle sun on her skin and fresh air in her lungs. Things she had been bereft of due to the state of her home, however, Casys would not take her outside of the Cair’s walls.

Whatever King Edmund had said to him had ceased any thoughts of strolling the grounds in Casys’s mind and Grace watched mournfully as the Centaur grew more agitated.

The lack of event in her life allowed her sadness and frustration to bubble at the brims of her self-control. The only peace Grace found was through her work in the kitchens, and even that was not enough to keep her occupied all day.

When they were free, Casys toured her around Cair Paravel. It was surprisingly big considering its name meant “lesser court” - A fun fact which Mrs Badger had let her in on. She wasn’t quite sure what the court was lesser than, but the information was amusing just the same.

While they traipsed the spiralling corridors, Casys told her stories of Narnia. There was something about his smooth voice as it wove around the words. If he wanted to, Casys could have described the most boring plot and characters and Grace would have hung on to every word. It was a trait that she both envied and admired.

Over the span of three days she listened to his words, growing used to the gravelly tones of the Centaur. Her favorite story had been the of the minor god, Bacchus who had found a woman marooned by her husband on an island.

As time went on, however, their adventures became fewer and fewer. The areas to which Grace was allowed did not leave much to explore, nor did they offer anything worthwhile to pass the time.

The guest wing held many rooms but none were prepared except for the Ambassador’s and her own. The Calormene Ambassador offered no conversation and preferred to stay in the company of the Kings and Queens. So much the better, Grace knew if she had to maintain a conversation with the pompous man sneering at her below his nose, she might just smack him.

The staff of Cair Paravel had begun to give her a wide berth, with all but the Kitchen staff looking at her warily as she passed them. Grace couldn’t fathom the reason for this change and worse yet, she found it isolating and lonely. Only Casys and Mrs Badger truly spoke to her and even then it was limited.

In her tours of the Cair, She hoped to find a library but was disappointed to find that Cair Paravel did not hold one of any substantial value. Casys had told her that any books would be held in the Crown’s personal studies. The production of books had been a slow since the Great Peace began. Many of the trees were sentient or tied to dryad spirits and so were protected by law.

Although Grace was disappointed with the lack of written stories to sink her teeth into, she was pleased to hear of a world that valued and saw to the protection of life in all forms. It was a refreshing point of view compared to the productive consumeristic views she was raised in.

Apart from the kitchens and the guest wing, there was not much else to be seen from the allowance King Edmund had provided her. The spiralling halls lead to many rooms meant for socialising and relaxing between appointments and events, neither of which Grace had lined up on her calendar.

Grace had sworn she heard music softly wafting through the hallways one morning on her way to the kitchens, but by the time she had finished work, the music was nowhere to be heard. She had not heard the music since.

Eventually, Grace grew tired of exploring the maze of castle walls and began to retire straight to her room from the kitchens. She felt guilty watching Casys shift uncomfortably on his hooves in the hallway and had to do something to get him outside. She figured if she didn’t leave her room, the guards posted in the guest wing could watch her. This way, Casys was relieved of his duties for most of the day.

The problem with her room was there was too much space to think. It was finely decorated with furniture made of dark cherry wood, carved with endlessly beautiful images of Narnian scenery and its inhabitants. Grace had traced the images so many times that she could picture them in her mind in clear detail and if someone had asked her to redraw them, they would have thought she had been the original artist.

At some point, Grace had braved sleeping in the bed again. The bedsheets were soft, too soft. Since her escape attempt, someone had come and changed her sheets to something lighter. The colour and texture reminded her of the clouds that floated amidst the blue sky and hey were lined with silver silk ribbon at the edges which surprisingly didn’t catch on Grace’s body when she moved. There was no need for a doona as the room retained the pleasant warmth from the days sun.

All this comfort amounted to nothing when Grace realised she could not sleep the time away – or at least, not willingly. She tossed and turned for hours but found no rest. It was as if someone had imbued her bones with the energy she’d been long missing. In Grace’s eyes, it was a sick joke.

She was awake and had nothing else to think about except for her situation which turned out to be a curse.

If Grace thought she had come to terms with what had happened to her, she was wrong. It was like her mind had put her thoughts and emotions in a box at first and taped it over fifty times with packing tape, but the longer the box was kept closed, the more it rattled. And it had begun rattling hard.

The more time passed, the less the rise and fall of the sun meant anything to her. She had begun to track time by her emotions. When she awoke and her cheeks were wet and salty it was morning. When she stared unseeingly at the canopy above and did not see her glowing sticker stars it was night.

Eventually she began to wonder if she was sleeping at all. Every time she caught her reflection, her eyes looked as though they had sunken further into her face.

Lucy had told her to play her part; Let her brothers see that she could be trusted and then she could go home. But how long did trust take; especially where King Edmund was concerned? She would be well past sleep deprivation by the time he came around. Seeing as she’d yet to meet King Peter; He was not a likely avenue to freedom, either.  

Grace thought sullenly as she perched on her window in the mid-afternoon sun. If someone who went missing was not found within a few days, the chances of finding them dwindled. She was sure it had been almost a week, if not more. When she’d asked Casys what day it was that morning he had spoken a word in a language she had never heard so there was no hope of calculating time.

Three sharp raps tore Grace’s eyes from the painted window frame. Still, she didn’t move an inch.

Many days had passed with nothing to disturb her solitude. Why should now be any different?

She was convinced that she had imagined the noise until it repeated, only this time the noise was hollower, as if someone was pounding the wood with their fist.

“Come in,” She croaked.

The door opened and Queen Lucy emerged from the shadowed hall. She shut it behind her with a quiet click and crossed the room; her simple dress of rich fabrics softly trailing behind her.

At the sight of her friend, Grace nearly sobbed.

“Oh, Grace,” Lucy whispered when she reached her side.

Grace couldn’t speak, her throat was too thick.  

“Casys told me that you’ve been staying in here,” Lucy continued, “I’m so sorry. I would have come sooner if I could.”

Grace shook her head and closed her burning eyes.

Lucy sighed, “It’s not right to hold it in, you know?”

Grace nodded; eyes still shut so tightly that her skin crinkled in uneven lines.

Lucy did not press her and Grace was grateful for a moment of silence to collect herself.

Beside her, Lucy had focused on retying one of Grace’s sleeves, Grace had hardly noticed how loose the ties at her elbow had gotten, the clothes were tight enough that they stayed put without tying them properly.

“If you’re feeling up to it, my sister and I would like to invite you to tea?” Lucy proposed.

“I don’t know,” Grace mumbled thickly.

Lucy sat down beside her, the wooden windowsill creaking faintly under the added weight, “It might be a good distraction.”

“It might be,” Grace allowed, “But I’m not worried about that.”

“What are you worried about?”

“If I step out of line again, Casys would get into trouble and your brother would make good on his threat to lock me in here permanently,” Grace said sullenly.

“Casys won’t get into trouble, you’ll be with me,” Lucy smiled as she assessed Grace with knowing eyes, “As for the latter, how is that different from your current course of action?”

Grace stilled, “I guess it isn’t.”

“I wouldn’t worry so much about Edmund. He seems stern and unforgiving but he is kind and understanding. The first is only his outer shell.”

“I’m not questioning your brothers character,” Grace grizzled, “I’m just acknowledging that a threat is just that. They should be taken seriously.”

Lucy leaned back suddenly, her eyes darting around the room in search of something, then she stopped and smiled at Grace humorously, “I’m sorry, I thought my brother had entered the room.”

Grace laughed, shortly at first like she hadn’t expected the sound, then heartily when Lucy joined her. It felt good to laugh, although it was somewhat foreign after a week in silence. When the feeling died down and she could breathe again she said, “I must be taking this too seriously.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Lucy grinned.

Grace returned a smile, but it slipped slightly the longer she thought, “But I do need to take it seriously on some level, Lucy. I can’t continue to sit in this room for hours with nothing to do. If I’m idle, there’s too much space to think.”

“What’s wrong with thinking?” Lucy asked.

“Everything.”

Lucy regarded her cautiously but Grace did not elaborate, “It is easy for us, I suppose. As Kings and Queens there is always something to fill our time. I’ve never thought of it from the perspective of a guest before.”

Grace caught the way Lucy tiptoed around the idea that she was a hostage. If she were a simple guest and allowed to explore Cair Paravel, Grace was sure that she would be occupied for a long time. As it stands, a hostage cannot be allowed to wander freely for fear that they may intercept confidential information.

“We’ve reached out to all our good friends. I’m sure something of interest will show it’s face soon,” Lucy reasoned.

“We?” Grace asked, doubtful that anyone was putting more effort into this than Lucy.

“Susan and I have written some letters.”

“Oh.”

Grace was touched. She was sure that Queen Susan would have wanted to keep her distance, considering that she and Grace had not hit it off the way that Grace and Lucy had. Not to mention Grace’s dismal address towards her when they first met. She really needed someone to teach her how to curtsy.

Grace took Lucy’s hand and squeezed it gently, “Thank you.”

She was rewarded with another easy smile.

“You should come and thank Susan too,” Lucy quipped, “At tea.”

Grace sighed, “I suppose.”

Lucy took her hand as she began to lead her away from the window frame, “Good. I think I’ll send for some sandwiches too. When was the last time you ate?”

Chapter Text

IX

GRACE

“I am sorry to pull you from your daily schedule,” Queen Susan apologized, a cup of tea cradled gingerly in her fingertips, “I know you must be busy.”

Lucy shifted in her seat; eyes trained purposefully on her cucumber sandwich. Clearly, no one had told Queen Susan of her predicament.

“Not at all,” Grace replied politely, “You caught me during a break.”

Queen Susan smiled and gently replaced her cup on its saucer, “I’m glad. I want to commend your efforts in the kitchen. My royal siblings and I have not had such superb bread since Mrs Beaver left our service.”

Lucy nodded fervently beside her. Somehow, she was still the picture of decorum with her mouth stuffed with sandwich.

Grace hesitated; she wasn’t sure what the protocol was when one was complimented. On their walk to the terrace, Grace had pestered Lucy on suitable manners at court. Most of her questions had been waved off as unimportant, but Lucy did advise her of the three major rules.

“The first time you address a King or Queen, you must call them “Your Majesty” and curtsy appropriately.”

She’d still not managed to perfect her curtsy, but Queen Susan seemed pleased with her show of respect. One point for Grace.

“You must speak only when spoken to and always speak politely.”

If one must speak politely, she was sure that she’d disrespected King Edmund a significant amount of times by this point.

“Lastly, don’t turn your back when speaking to royalty. It’s considered disrespectful.”

Easily done, as long as she did not run into anything while exiting a room.

In the end, she decided that it would do no good to accept unwarranted compliments. Grace kept her tone light and humble in an attempt not to offend the Queen, “Thank you for the compliment, your Majesty but I’m sure my work is not worthy of such praise.”

Queen Susan looked up from her tea, “Oh?” she exclaimed, her expression mildly affronted.

Grace’s stomach fell in an uncomfortable woosh. The panic of the moment knocked the wind out of her lungs.

“Is my knowledge of bread so unvaried? Or are you questioning my knowledge of household chores?” Queen Susan asked severely.

Grace spluttered, lost for words to dig herself out of this hole, “Oh, I am so sorry, your Majesty. I didn’t mean-”

She was cut off when Queen Susan’s serious face dissolved into a lively smile. Beside her, Lucy was smiling into her cup. She locked eyes with Grace and gave her a sly wink.

It seemed the mischievous streak ran in the family.

Grace let out a sigh of relief and Queen Susan took her hands comfortingly.

“Do not trouble yourself,” She said, “I’m sure the compliment might feel forced, but I assure you it was meant with the utmost sincerity.”

Grace let herself be comforted and the nerves buzzing in her fingertips dissipated at the touch. “Thank you,” She whispered.

“You are welcome, Grace.” Queen Susan replied, patting her hand gently.

A moment of silence passed where a gentle salty breeze grazed their faces and ruffled their skirts. Queen Susan and Lucy sipped their tea slowly, in no rush to finish. Grace took the opportunity to stuff a sandwich into her mouth, she had not eaten since breakfast and was starving.

Lucy replaced her cup on its saucer delicately, “It’s good to know that the funds in the kitchen are being put to good use. Don’t you think, Susan?”

Queen Susan agreed, “Yes it is, there was some concern when Mrs Badger took over the kitchens but it all seems to have worked itself out.”

She turned to Grace with a contemplative expression, “You’ve been working in there for over a week, if I’m correct, Grace?”

Grace sipped her tea thoughtfully before responding, “I’m not sure, actually. The days have been blurring together.”

Lucy gave her a discreet sympathetic look over her cup of tea.

“I’m sure that you arrived on Dies Veneris, just six days ago.” Queen Susan said, her eyes glassed over in memory.

Dies Veneris? Grace looked to Lucy for help, who just stared back innocently. Clearly whatever this term meant; it should have been obvious to Grace. Was it some kind of holiday? Had the Narnians named the day she had washed into the world already?

“Of course, if you’ve been here for almost a week then our housekeeper will need to see you to organise your pay.” Queen Susan added.

“I’m paid?” Grace asked.

“Of course!” Lucy exclaimed, “All staff at Cair Paravel are paid for their work. We hold no slaves here.”

I’m to be paid, Grace noted. Though she wasn’t sure what she would use the money for. She supposed it was a comfort to know that her work was not for free - however little she was actually doing.

“If I may speak, your Majesties?” Grace began.

Queen Susan gestured for her to continue.

“My work only takes up half of my day,” Grace explained, “I would not feel right in taking a full days wage from the Castle. Is this something I should notify the housekeeper of?”

Queen Susan looked up from her cup of tea, taken aback at the news, “Your work does not take up the whole day?”

Grace shook her head, “Cair Paravel uses approximately 20 loafs of bread per day. I’m usually finished with the prep work by lunch time. After that, Mrs Badger sees to their baking in between preparation of other meals.”

“Only half of the day,” Queen Susan mused, “What do you do with the rest of your time?”

Grace opened her mouth to speak but faltered.

“I found her in her room this afternoon,” Lucy stated, “Sir Casys has been dismissed promptly at lunch every day since the ambassadors arrival.”

Queen Susan sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose, “No doubt, this is Edmunds doing.”

“No,” Grace interjected, completely forgetting herself, “Please, I chose to stay in my rooms. Casys is troubled with small spaces and we’d already exhausted all the areas I was allowed to explore. It didn’t seem right to detain him.”

Lucy stared at her with wide blue eyes, a warning clear within them. However, Queen Susan did not seem bothered by the lack of respect; she merely grimaced at Grace and said, “I won’t blame you for this.”

Grace’s brow furrowed. Who else was there to blame for her own decision?

“I apologize for the lack of communication you have suffered during this time,” She continued sombrely, “As a ward of Narnia you are afforded the right to know your situation in its entirety.”

“A ward?” Grace asked.

“It means you are under Our care.” Lucy explained, gesturing between herself and her sister.

Queen Susan placed her empty cup and saucer on the table; behind her, a faun leapt to attention and began to fill the cup, “With the arrival of the ambassador, my Siblings and I have been unable to make a formal decision based on your evidence. Thus, as head of security, the decisions have been left to our brother, King Edmund.”

Her evidence? The Queen must be speaking of her conversation with Lucy aboard the Splendour Hyaline.

“However, as head of the household, it is my duty to oversee your comfort. I’m sorry to hear that we have neglected your entertainment,” Queen Susan said, her blue eyes shining with genuine apology.

Grace shook her head, “Please, don’t trouble yourself. Casys has kept me entertained with exploring the guest wing and with his stories. I have only kept to my rooms for half the week.”

Queen Susan eyed her knowingly, but did not press her, “Very well. If we are to remedy the issue then I will need some information from you.”

Grace nodded obediently.

“Good,” Queen Susan’s face relaxed into a kind smile, “We understand that you come from Spare Oom.”

Grace foggily recalled Lucy saying the same aboard the Splendour Hyaline when they had first met, “Yes.”

“How about we begin with where you come from?”

“Australia,” Grace answered without hesitation.

“Australia,” Queen Susan repeated the name slowly, testing it on her tongue. Her eyes glazed over in thought as she focused on the word, “It sounds familiar. Though, I am unsure if I am as familiar with it as you are.”

“How do you mean?” Lucy asked, blue eyes curious and clearly not having the same remembrance that her sister did.

Queen Susan looked to Lucy, “We’ve never been there but I believe I read about it once. It’s an island country, is that right?” She returned to Grace in askance.

Grace nodded, “We’re known for our humidly hot weather and deadly animals.”

“Deadly animals?” Lucy asked.

“Mostly spiders and snakes,” Grace waved her hand dismissively, “You won’t see them often unless you go looking for them.”

Queen Susan looked pale at the thought of insects, Lucy however, was fascinated, “Do they speak in your world? Here the talking beasts mostly consist of animals, the insects are dumb.”

“Talking beasts don’t exist in that other place, Lu,” Queen Susan reminded her.

Grace shook her head, in agreeance with Queen Susan, “The only beings that talk are humans, and maybe a few birds.”

Lucy’s eyes widened in wonder, “Birds can speak in Spare Oom?”

Grace paused in thought, “Well, not speak per se. Rather, they can be taught to mimic words.”

“How interesting!” Lucy exclaimed.

Beside her, Queen Susan’s skin had regained some colour, now that the talk of insects had dissipated. There was something more behind her eyes, however, a spark of memory that lit a lantern of thought.

“Yes, I remember those,” Queen Susan reminisced, “They were called Parrots, I believe?”

Grace smiled, remembering the colourful little birds, “Yes. There are others, like the Cockatoo and the Macaw. When I was little, my Aunt would take me to nurseries to look at the plants, places like that always have a bird to talk to.”

“What would they say?” Lucy asked.

“Mostly things like, ‘hello’ and ‘food’. Kids would come up to their cage to talk and feed them.”

Lucy visually deflated with disappointment, “Oh.”

Grace grimaced, “It’s a bit sad, to cage an animal like that. Especially one that was meant to fly.”

Queen Susan agreed, “Yes. Thank Aslan that beasts roam free in Narnia, talking or otherwise.”

Lucy did not release her anger as easily, “If I ever see a caged beast…” She began angrily.

Queen Susan calmed her with a gentle pat on the arm, “You won’t,” She assured Lucy, “Not in this lifetime.”

Grace looked to Lucy in honest reassurance, “I’ve yet to see a caged beast while staying here. Your subjects are kind and caring. I doubt I will see anything close to it until I leave.”

Queen Susan straightened then, returning to Grace with a questioning look, “That is truly your wish then, to leave?” She asked.

Grace nodded earnestly, “Yes.”

Lucy expression grew sad and Grace regretted her blunt answer immediately.

“It’s nothing against yourselves or your beautiful kingdom,” Grace added hastily, “but I have some unfinished business and.. well, this isn’t my home.”

Queen Susan nodded sympathetically, “We understand.”

She paused for a moment, her cool blue eyes holding Grace’s with a knowing that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. “It might not be my place,” Queen Susan began humbly, her hands clasped diplomatically in her lap, “But could I offer you some advice?”

“Yes?” Grace consented.

“I know it is difficult to accept the situation for what it is,” She started softly, her voice gaining strength as she spoke her mind, “However, it does no good to wallow in pain and forget to live your life.”

Queen Susan continued gently, “We will do what we can to make your stay here comfortable. It would help if you could point us in the right direction. Especially if you are feeling at a loss at what to do.”

Grace’s eyes were stinging; she didn’t know when it had begun, but there were tears welling at their corners. She rubbed at them hurriedly with the heel of her palm and said in soft blubbers, “I will.”

How embarrassing, at twenty-two years old she was crying at being scolded. Queen Susan hadn’t even been that harsh.

Grace knew she should have spoken to someone sooner about her confinement but underneath all the layers of grief and longing she found it difficult to even begin leaving the room.

She looked up and her eyes met the two Queens concerned gazes. There was the great similarity between the two, apart from their fair skin and face shape, their eyes were the same multilayered blue.

“I’m ok,” Grace sniffled while continuing to rub her eyes.

Lucy came to sit beside Grace and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Queen Susan consoled her, “I only meant that it might be good for you to enjoy yourself whilst you’re here.”

“I know,” Grace replied, “I understood you.”

Queen Susan continued to look concerned as Lucy smoothed small comforting circles into her back.

“My royal siblings and I will do our best to get you home,” Queen Susan promised, “And while you remain here, We hope that you will come to Us or an appropriate staff member of Cair Paravel if ever you need anything.”

Grace stopped rubbing her itchy eyelids and nodded to the Queen dutifully. It was a simple enough request and Grace was determined to take the advice to heart.

If she couldn’t go home, she wouldn’t wallow in grief forever. She knew grief was an important part of life, but she also knew that if you lived in it for too long, it would slowly eat away at your life until there was nothing left.

The Elder Queen seated herself at Grace’s other side, her warmth radiating as her hand joined Lucy’s upon Grace’s back, “It’s been a long week. No one would blame you for feeling unhappy in the current circumstances.”

Grace nodded as she breathed deeply, feeling slightly comforted between the two but also a little awkward.

There was a beat silence before Queen Susan tactfully added, “Perhaps Lucy might show you the bath’s in the lower level of the Cair. The hot water should soothe you.”

Grace realised she’d never wanted anything more.

Chapter Text

X

EDMUND

The sun was blaringly hot on his skin when he finally demounted Phillip. Truthfully, he hadn’t meant to ride as long as he had, but with the arrival of the ambassador from Calormen and his entourage, Edmund had found himself spending increasingly less time in Cair Paravel.

Phillip nudged the King gently, “Will we ride out again tomorrow, Sire?”

“Most likely,” Edmund replied, taking a paddled brush and grazing it over the talking horses mane. He caught Phillip’s sidelong gaze and upon the concern held there, Edmund placed a comforting hand on Phillip’s neck.

The talking horse was clearly reminiscing Edmund’s first years in Cair Paravel when the Great Peace had begun. Edmund had taken to riding with Phillip in the mornings when he found he could bear the claustrophobic walls no longer. After years of sleeping under the stars, endless skirmishes and peace treaties to bring their land to order, Edmund found sitting still in the castle unsettling.

It was one such morning that Phillip saw Edmund trudging past the stable. He must have looked quite pitiful for Phillip offered to join him on his walk and at Edmund’s request, offered him some council on his worries. Over time the two fell into a steady rhythm whilst the King became used to this new era in his reign. On days where Edmund was especially troubled, however, Phillip offered him a ride through the woods. For, according to the talking horse, “Nothing clears the mind better than the fresh morning air across your face”.

It had taken the better part of a month to convince Edmund as he knew that a Talking Horse was not to be ridden except in times of great need and didn’t want to dishonour his friend. Phillip, however, was stubborn and determined to get his way; in the end he had offered that the King can ride him upon invitation and in return the King must groom him personally. This, Edmund agreed to.

Eventually, when Edmund was able to fill his time with matters of state and council meetings, the morning rides lessened to once every few days. Nowadays he had even more on his plate with the threat of the Ettins invasion.

The attacks had stopped for the moment, and Peter had taken the opportunity to send the cartographic parties to the Northern Marshes to begin working on a map of the region. It was a sound plan and if everything ran smoothly, the parties would return in two or three months with detailed maps. Edmund offered a silent prayer to Aslan that the peace would continue to hold.

He would have taken a party to the border himself but with the Ambassador in residence and the unexpected arrival of Grace; it would be impossible for Edmund to leave Cair Paravel with a clear conscience.

So, he had begun riding daily again. If Phillip disliked the amount of riding they undertook, he did not protest.

With the silence in the North and the understandable yet complex nature of Susan’s marriage contract to negotiate, he would normally have been fine. What bothered him most about the current predicament was that he had been unable to determine an appropriate job for Grace. It was such a simple task and the answer dangled at the tip of his tongue frustratingly.

To be clear, he had thought of over a dozen things she could do for work but knew that Lucy would immediately decline them all. He may be Grace’s warden for the time being, but there was no need to tempt Lucy’s fury by disgracing her friend.

Edmund patted the Talking Horses neck encouragingly, "Same time tomorrow then, old chap?"

Phillip whinnied in indignation, "Who are you calling old? I can see grey streaks in your mane, old chap."

"It's all the stress from seeing you every morning," Edmund quipped.

Phillip dipped his head into an oat bucket nearby, using his muzzle to launch it into the sky. Effectively covering the King in rolled oats. Phillip chortled humorously.

"Tomorrow then," Edmund laughed.

He hurried out of the stable, less anything else be thrown at him and began shaking the oats from his head as began the trek to the Cair. There was to be a council meeting today, and Susan would have his head if he was anything less than 'regal'.

Honestly, he'd been King for thirteen years and he didn't even know what that meant. He supposed it meant clean to begin with and if Susan was involved there would be an unnecessary amount of velvet and jewellery. She always was interested in matters of fashion which he didn't wholly understand.

As he was thinking and shaking his hair, he ran straight into someone. Her frame was small and barely reached his shoulder and he caught a whiff of jasmine as a flurry of dark hair swept away from the impact.

"Oof-" Susan muttered amongst the sound of fabric hitting each other. Then, she looked up and sighed, "Honestly, Edmund, why weren't you watching where you were going?"

Speak of the devil and the devil shalt appear, Edmund thought.

He looked down at her with a lopsided smile, "If I had then I would not be able to do this, dear sister."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her into the air, spinning them for a few short seconds while she protested in soft whispers.

"Edmund stop, let me down," Susan batted his head with her hands.

He dropped her obediently with a light thud, "My apologies. It seems I'm still a little overexcited from my ride."

Susan eyed his dark hair sceptically, "Is that why you have oats in your hair?"

Edmund smiled sheepishly and tousled it to expel the excess oats, "Yes."

Susan hummed knowingly.

"Theres a council meeting today," She began as she took his arm.

"Yes, yes," Edmund said impatiently, "I am going to bathe now. You needn't pester me."

"Good," Susan quipped, "It wouldn't do for you to lead a council meeting smelling like a horse."

Edmund automatically corrected her, "A talking horse. There is a difference in smell."

"Whatever the smell is, it isn't pleasant," She replied shortly.

Edmund raised his hands simply, "And so, I will take a bath. Relax Su."

Susan looked up at him sternly, her blue eyes stern, "You'd better."

They walked in peaceful silence after that, crossing the castle with mild haste. The council meeting was not for an hour or so if Edmund judged the sun correctly.

"Why am I leading the meeting today?" Edmund asked thoughtfully, "I'd thought Peter might have liked handle the talks of your marriage contract."

"Peter is running a small meeting separately with the Generals regarding the Ettinsmoor situation," Susan replied simply.

Edmund paused, incidentally yanking Susan to a halt also, "That doesn't make any sense."

Susan tugged him forward with increasing urgency. He really must smell bad if she was in such a hurry to get him in a bath.

"It makes the most sense, logically," She grunted a little from hauling his weight, "You are our best negotiator and will provide the best outcome for the marriage contract."

"I am also one of the best strategists," Edmund argued, "I should be in that meeting room. We will have to postpone the negotiations.”

Susan eyes turned scalding, "No. It's already been a week. Any longer and the ambassador may think that we are hiding something."

Edmund rolled his eyes, "If the Prince comes to Narnia - which may I remind you, is something you requested - He is going to gather the situation anyway."

Susan hushed him, "By that point the contract will be drawn up and agreed to."

Edmund huffed and repeated, "I should be in that meeting.

"I hardly think Peter is going to leave you out," She reasoned, "If it bothers you so much you can meet with him later to go over details."

Edmund nodded, "I will."

"You'll need to fit it in amongst managing the trade affairs and correspondence," Susan added mildly.

Edmunds looked to her in surprise, "I thought you were handling that for me?"

Susan shuffled uncomfortably, it was a very un-Susan like action, "With keeping the ambassador busy and my correspondence with Rabadash, I'm no longer able to assist you."

Edmund sighed in annoyance, "Su, I can barely handle my workload as it is."

"I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Susan reasoned, “It is your work, no one would know how better to manage it than you.”

“But I don’t have the time,” Edmund protested, “Between your marriage negotiations, the situation with Ettinsmoor and my current work, I am run completely off my feet.”

Susan rubbed the arm hooked betwixt hers comfortingly, her eyes filled with sympathetic waves of blue, “I understand your plight, brother, but I am honest when I say I can no longer handle this matter for you. If the circumstances were different I wouldn’t bother you but they are as is and cannot be ignored much longer. If I move to Calormen, there is no chance of this arrangement continuing…”

Susan continued on, rambling in a manner unlike herself. She was fidgeting with his sleeve subtly, as she did when her mind was preoccupied with unhappy thoughts. Edmund distinctly recalled it beginning when the initial declarations were sent to Calormen six months ago.

Susan had first concocted the idea of a marriage treaty with Calormen a year before; after she had received many offers of marriage but still had not found her match. It was at this point that Edmund recognised a resignation in her, as if she had been waiting and waiting, but the right person didn’t appear.

He knew that she wasn’t only looking for a husband, she was looking for a love-match. He commended her for it, knowing that finding a suitable partner for marriage that one felt strongly for would be a difficult feat. Lately, her hopes for this had begun to dissipate and Edmund could see that her mind had begun to shift to the logical.

It was then she began to look into prospects with nations Narnia had not yet allied with for as she’d said, “What is the point of claiming gentleness and beauty if it does not help my country.”

Edmund was inclined to disagree with her, she was so much more than gentle and beautiful. These were her defining traits, it was true; one would not look at his sister and think differently. To Edmund, however, they were nothing compared to her true self. She was smart, efficient and a brilliant diplomat in the areas where he fell short.

Where Edmund focused and honed matters that were important to the Kingdom, Susan filled the empty spaces with the natural joy that she brought to everything. This joy came in many forms: parties, conversation, art, or ideas to name a few. Furthermore, if one were to enter a negotiation, Susan would be the voice of reason they would want at their side.

It pained him to see her whittle herself down to two simple words: gentle and beautiful. He supposed that for the sake of humble appearances, it served her well. That which is great is seen in a better light when it does not know it is so.

With the choice to join hands with Prince Rabadash in Calormen came one specific clause, she would move to Calormen permanently. It was a decision that Susan had mulled over for a long time and if Edmund thought honestly, he knew that she still had not decided.

Edmund patted her hand in reassurance, “I don’t blame you, Su. Although I do wish you weren’t going so far away.”

Susan looked up at him, eyes welling with big tears, “Should you all be alright, do you think? If I decided to go.”

“I’m sure we would be fine,” He hushed her softly.

They stopped together at the foot of the western stairs and Edmund took the opportunity to pull her into an embrace and whisper, “We’re all of age now, you can stop worrying about us.”

Susan pulled away, nose wrinkled in disgust, “Clearly not, if you need to be reminded to bathe,” She pushed him forcefully towards the stairs, “Go, before I throw a bucket on you.”

Edmund laughed.  

Chapter Text

XI

EDMUND

The council meeting had proved fruitful by an hour past. Between Edmund and Susan, matters were settled peacefully and - he hoped – fairly in the eyes of the lords and court.

It was now that the meeting had begun to pass sluggishly. They had reached the Ambassador of Calormenes turn and Edmund found that the balding man owned a tendency to drone on.

Susan eyed him warningly as he narrowly stifled a yawn. Edmund shrugged in response. He didn't know what she had expected, the Ambassador had used the word imperative at least three times in the last two minutes which was a feat in amongst itself.

His eyes drew to the woven tapestries behind the bumbling Ambassador, who was looking more ridiculous each moment. It was an intricately woven depiction of the Battle of Beruna, Susan had commissioned it for the 10th anniversary of the battle.

The tapestry was a sea of green grass with crevices of dirt brown to show the steep cliffs and tunnels which had littered the area. Edmund recalled those short drops with the utmost clarity. The bodies littered within the crevices even more so. It was not a true depiction as neither the artist nor his sister were at the battle in the beginning but there was one piece amidst the artwork which could not be understated.

Atop the highest cliff, with gold woollen threads encircling was the great lion himself, Aslan. His head was tossed back in the mighty roar which struck emotion in all of the hearts that heard it.

"Is there a particular talent your Majesty would like to offer to the court of Calormen?" The Ambassador addressed Susan directly.

Susan seemed befuddled by the question, "No more than the skills I have already displayed as a Queen of Narnia."

"No doubt, no doubt," The Ambassador said dismissively, “What of your skills in the household?"

"The household?" Susan asked, "Cair Paravel has flourished under High King Peter and I's care."

The Ambassador shook his head, "I'm afraid that is not my meaning."

Edmund looked between the two, sharing in his sisters confusion, "If the country of Calormen is concerned of my Royal Sisters abilities as matron, they will be pleased to find that she has taken great care in raising both my royal sister and I. I wouldn't consider her an expert in the field but she does not come without knowledge of how to be a Queen and raise children simultaneously."

The Ambassador noted this with a hum of approval. As he scribbled on a piece of parchment, Edmund wondered whether it's contents spoke of his sister favourably, "And... she is a woman, yes?"

Susan gave a slightly undignified noise, "Yes, I am a woman."

"Begging your pardon, your Majesty but I was not addressing you," The Ambassador droned, eyeing Edmund expectantly.

Edmund felt his eyes bulge at the implication, "I would never assume to speak across my royal sister, sir. If Susan says she is a woman then I will not be the one to disagree with her."

The Ambassador did not waver, "No doubt, however, Calormen will not be satisfied with the word of one royal regarding their viability as a fertile marriage partner."

"Fertile marriage partner?" Edmund asked, his stomach churning a little.

"Yes."

"There are multiple members of the Cair’s staff who would be happy to correlate my cycle,” Susan answered simply.

The Ambassador harrumphed slightly, as if put out about something, "The word of servants mean nothing to the Tisroc, forever may he reign."

"They would be prepared to swear it on the goodness of Aslan," Susan offered.

"With all due respect, swearing on the barbaric, lion's name would mean even less."

Edmund jolted at the blatant lack of respect of the Ambassador, and several councilmen seated at the table gave audible gasps. But before anything was said, Susan silenced them with a raised palm.

"You would do well to remember where you are, Sir. Aslan is the true King of Narnia above all others, it would do Calormen no favours to dismiss him in this court."

The Ambassador shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "I beg your pardon, your Majesty. I was only stating the facts-"

"I understand that Calormen is under the jurisdiction of Tash. Would your countrymen be forgiving if my royal brother and I were to speak of him so dismissively in your land."

The Ambassador had the sense to be slightly ashamed, but mumbled defiantly, "Tash the Terrifying would not suffer-"

"Would your countrymen be forgiving?" Susan pressed.

The Ambassador stilled, Susan's question hanging in the air atop the smooth wooden table. He fumbled with his hands nervously before conceding, "They would not."

Susan nodded appreciatively, "Then I'm sure that just as we would take care to be respective to your country's beliefs; you will take care to speak respectively of Aslan in Our presence."

"Yes, your Majesty," The Ambassador agreed, head bowed respectfully.

Edmund was impressed at his sisters use of diplomacy. It was not surprising of course; Susan had managed to put many in their place through good reasoning and a present mind. Edmund would have reached the same reasoning eventually, but first he would have enjoyed a little intimidation.

The Ambassador looked between the two siblings worriedly before speaking up again, "For the matter of the monthly cycle..."

"I will attest that my sister is a woman," Edmund only had a vague idea of what exactly that meant, and he honestly didn't want to know more than that. But whatever he did know would have to be enough to ensure that the marriage contract proceeded, "We hope that the Tisroc, forever may he reign, is satisfied with this."

The Ambassador nodded solemnly, scribbling with furious speed on the parchment. Edmund pondered how he would get access to the sheet; perhaps he would send Shese after night fall.

"Does the Tisroc, forever may he reign, and the people of Calormen have any other conditions or concerns for the marriage contract?" Susan asked.

The Ambassador folded the sheet with a snap, "There is nothing else," He trailed, looking at the Queen imperiously over his nose, "For now."

Edmund gestured to the door with as little contempt as he could muster and said, "Then we thank you for your time, friend of Calormen."

The Ambassador nodded in respect before turning to leave the room. With all matters being conducted for the day, the council slowly began to rise as well until a voice rose from the crowd.

"Please your Majesties, could I have a moment of your time?

Sharing curious looks, the councilmen sat again in their chairs and the voice revealed themselves from behind Lord Peridian.

Margrove was a little taller than the usual faun, with waves of dark hair furled atop his head like rolling ocean waves. He bowed solemnly to Edmund and Susan, "I am sorry to interrupt the proceedings but I did make my petition to her majesty. I do hope that my matter has been included on the list."

Edmund peeked at the list of matters beneath the trade agreements with Galma sparingly, truthfully Susan had already spoken to him and they had decided to settle the matter privately as it pertained to the household rather than the governance of Narnia. But Margrove had already spoken up and so Edmund waved him forward.

"Of course, friend. My Royal Sister and I were hoping to discuss the matter with you privately, but we welcome your voice at this council, if that is what you would prefer?"

"It is," Margrove said earnestly, coal black eyes shining as he bowed in respect, "Thank you, your Majesties."

"What has happened Margrove?" Lord Peridian said jovially, "Has a harp string broken again?"

Margrove laughed good naturedly, "No, Sir but I would like to address the issue of the Orchestra before all as I believe it is our duty in the Court of Aslan to preserve the music of Narnia."

"So it is, friend," Susan agreed, "Please continue."

Margrove nodded his head gratefully to the Queen, "It has been my pleasure to work with our fair orchestra for the past 5 years of your Majesties reign and within that time we have conducted many instrumental works of note."

"You have done a wonderful job," Susan acknowledged happily, "Just a few months ago - at our thirteenth jubilee - you all played wonderfully."

Margrove nodded again, "My thanks, your Majesty," He took a steadying breath before continuing, "It is my wish to extend the orchestra."

"How would you wish to extend it?" Edmund asked, financial concerns in mind. Instruments could be expensive, especially instruments for court affairs if Susan was involved. She always said that we must look our best in every aspect and he had to admit, she was right.

The Faun waved his hands wildly, "Nothing to grand I assure you. We have enough instruments between us to carry a tune. No, no, what I am asking for is voices."

Susan looked perplexed, "Voices?"

"Yes, voices," Margrove affirmed.

"There are many fauna and dryads in the orchestra, have they trouble finding their voices?" Susan asked.

"Not at all, your Majesty. They all sing beautifully."

A few beats passed where all just looked at each other, clearly not sure where Margrove was going with this.

"Then what is missing?" Edmund asked sceptically.

"The voices of the dryads and the fauna's are beautiful, however, there are little fauna who are willing to work with the orchestra full time with their duties to the castle and of course, their families," Margrove explained, "And as for the dryads, they have beautiful voices, but there are only so many octaves that a dryads voice may comfortably sing. Their voices have a beautiful whistly tone which means that the lower notes tend to fall out of their reach."

Susan nodded slowly, "I see. What, then, are you suggesting?"

"I would request the presence of a human voice in the orchestra," Margrove suggested.

This made Edmund sit up straight, "A human voice?" He asked curiously. Humans were a scarce presence in Narnia. If it weren’t for the foreign dignitaries and ambassadors that resided in Cair Paravel, the sole human occupants of Narnia would be limited to Lord Peridian and his family, his royal siblings, himself and now, Grace.

To his left, Susan caught Edmunds eye with a look of shared understanding.

"I understand that your royal majesties are busy,” Margrove twitched nervously as he continued, “But if one could spare their voice for a few minutes a week, it is my hope that we may see some improvement in the musical facilities available here at Cair Paravel."

Susan smiled at the Faun kindly, "I am sure that We would be honoured to assist you, however, it would be difficult atop the current commitments we have."

Margrove nodded dejectedly but his kind eyes held understanding, "Of course. I do not mean to put you in a difficult position, your Majesties."

"That is not to say we do not have a candidate for the position," Edmund added, "We would offer a human for the position - assuming they are agreeable to the idea."

Margrove’s eyes lit like fired coals.

“We will discuss it with her and return to you once a decision is made,” Susan continued.

 “Thank you, your Majesties,” Margrove bowed reverently.

Edmund nodded to the Faun, “If that is all then I believe this meeting is concluded. Thank you for your time, Councilmen.”

The Lords chorused in approval at the dismissal, standing from their chairs and bowing low in practiced synchronicity.

Edmund watched as they all filed out of the room; the slow chatter growing more silent as the air was vacated.

He supposed it was a reasonable answer to the question of Grace’s employment.  Music was not directly involved with his siblings or the governance of Narnia, therefore there was little chance she could glean any worthwhile information worth ferrying to their enemies. It was an agreeable solution and one that Edmund was willing to administer.

When the room had vacated enough; Susan turned to him expectantly, “As Grace is directly under your care, I trust that you will make the proposal?”

Edmund – who was still staring unseeingly at the door – stirred, “What?” He asked.

She gave him a disapproving look and corrected him, “I beg your pardon.”

Edmund fought the urge to roll his eyes, “I beg your pardon, sister. I did not hear what you said.”

Susan repeated her question.

“I suppose so,” Edmund said thoughtfully, “Although I don’t know how she will react to my presence considering her disdain.”

“Do I sense a little remorse, brother?” Susan jibed.

“No,” Edmund muttered obstinately, “With the information we had available to us, my actions were perfectly reasonable. If I were transported into two weeks ago knowing what I do now, I still would have done the same.”

Susan hummed, clearly unconvinced, “In any case I suppose it does no good to dwell on the past. I do, however, look forward to your improved treatment of our friend.”

Edmund picked up his goblet and glared at the contents annoyedly, “I believe I have treated her quite amicably considering the circumstances.”

“You scared her to the point she confined herself in her room,” Susan countered, “I was notified today.”

“A regrettable outcome, but it was not my intention,” Edmund said, taking a sip of his wine.

“If your intention was not to scare her, then what was it?”

Edmund gave no response, for he knew she was right. He was not proud scaring the woman, it was not a common habit of his, however, he did not entirely regret it.

His family could be so trusting - Lucy especially - and he knew that someone had to act with their mind present, instead of relying on their heart. Any unknown entity was a danger to Narnia and should be treated with caution, regardless of their sex or situation. But no matter how much he justified his actions; he couldn’t help but subconsciously question them.

He hadn’t meant to make Grace so terrified of his repercussions that she confined herself to her room. In fact, he hadn’t thought such a reaction would be possible. She was cleared to explore the castle under the watch of Casys. Wasn’t that enough for her?

He wondered now whether perhaps he’d been mistaken in the choice of guard. In ensuring that Grace could be swiftly removed from a situation or retrieved if she were to run, Edmund had stumbled upon an unthought of issue; centaurs were uncomfortable in enclosed spaces. It shamed him that he’d been so careless.

A small part of Edmund was grateful that Grace was sympathetic to the Centaur’s plight – or at least she was sympathetic enough to quarantine herself to allow for his comfort. The other side of Edmund was cautious of her true intentions.

There was something in Grace’s grey-blue eyes - a sense of spirit. It was similar to Lucy’s valiant glow, but somehow they sparkled differently. He had never struggled so when trying to decipher a person’s character and it infuriated him.

Edmund’s frustration paired with Grace’s need to question any authority she came against constantly placed them in a nuclear situation. Edmund believed that all authority should be respected and followed. Grace seemed to think that authority was a guideline, not the rule.

Susan sighed amidst Edmund’s silence, “In light of our conversations with her and her clear obeyance of orders from the Crown I don’t see why we need to keep her under such strict watch.”

Edmunds eyes closed and he sighed, “You’re petitioning for her release.”

“Not her release, per se,” Susan drawled, shifting in her seat to face him, “Perhaps some looser guidelines could be discussed. Especially if she is to work with the Orchestra.”

“Casys can see her to the Music Room,” Edmund said.

Susan’s eyebrows raised, “Casys will not be comfortable in such an enclosed space.”

“He might be,” Edmund edged, “The Music Room boasts a higher ceiling than that of the Kitchens and Guest Wing-”

“An adjustment to your orders will need to be made to allow for her to travel to the Music Room, what harm is there in adjusting a few more sanctions?” Susan asked.

Edmunds stomach sickened at the images of what exactly could go wrong, “It could be very harmful if we make this decision too soon.”

“I’ve spoken to her and determined Grace is not a danger and Lucy agrees with me,” Susan pressed, “She is clearly only focused on getting back to the land of Spare Oom.”

“You have had one conversation with her over an afternoon tea,” Edmund said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “It is not enough.”

Susan looked affronted, “I trust my judgement.”

Edmund caught himself, giving her an apologetic look. “As do I,” He reasoned, “It is Grace I do not trust.”

“Is my word not enough?” Susan questioned, “Or that of our sister? Do we need to bring Peter into it and make it a third vote in Grace’s favour.”

“No,” Edmund spoke resolutely, “Because I will not change my mind.”

Susan stopped short at the hard look in Edmunds eyes, “Why?” She whispered.

Edmund breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself, “All of you trust your instincts. It is an admirable trait but it is not always reliable.”

Susan opened her mouth to protest but Edmund continued, “I cannot trust mine. For the last time I did, I made a mistake which almost cost all of us our lives.”

Susan sobered at his words; words that had not been spoken since Aslan had forbade them all those years ago. “It was not wholly your fault,” Susan said soothingly.

“But I have had to live with it, turning every detail over in my mind for thirteen years. I can’t even close my eyes without remembering who I was. It is for that reason I will not rely on my instincts as that boy did. I will have the whole matter in my hands and make an informed decision from there.”

Susan looked at him, her blue eyes crinkled in sympathy, “What will you do when the whole of a matter cannot be known?”

“Then I follow the path I am currently on. Holding steadfast in the protection of my family until everything is revealed,” There was an empty tone in Edmunds voice, the voice of cold reason that often tempered his more idealistic thoughts.

Susan approached him delicately, “I will tell you what I told Grace,” She began, kneeling at the side of his wooden chair, “It does no good to wallow in pain and forget to live your life.”

Edmund looked at her strangely, “What book did you ascertain that from?”

Susan smacked his arm and shushed him, “I’m making a point. It’s been thirteen years and none of us blame you, Ed. Maybe it’s time you learn to forgive yourself.”

“Sounds like a difficult endeavour,” He quipped.

“But not an impossible one,” Susan persisted.

When Edmund did not reply, she continued, “Peter is the High King, he signs the paperwork and is the face of all decisions. Our decisions, Edmund. We four are a working team built to rule Narnia in a way that is just and true to the heart of the nation.”

Edmund nodded; eyes fixed on his goblet of wine. He knew that Susan spoke the truth and he could feel what she was getting at, which is why he remained unsurprised when she spoke the next words.

“Lucy and I believe that Grace is not a threat. Perhaps it’s time you gave her some space to show you the same.”

The idea had merit, and if Edmund was honest, it was a thought that had crossed his mind. However, it was difficult to listen over that overcautious version of himself that screamed against sense and overrode his rational thought.

“And what happens if the space allows her to hurt us?” Edmund breathed.

“Then we will face that outcome together.”

Edmund looked at his elder sister, her eyes shining with that surety that all of his siblings held. Her hand was warm and comforting atop his arm, reminding him of times in his youth when he’d woken during the night and needed comfort. Susan was always there to console him as she did now; welcoming him with a warm embrace and muffled soothing words.

He sighed in defeat; it was always difficult to resist the calm that Susan exuded. It only made it more difficult when she coupled it with sense, “I will see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

XII

GRACE

When Grace awoke the next morning there was a new spring in her step. Granted, it was slightly forced but Grace had taken Queen Susan’s words to heart; there was no point sitting around crying all day, if she was going to be stuck here, she was going to make the most of it.

After all, what did she have back home that she couldn’t have here? Apart from fast food, internet, and decent plumbing.

So when Casys had suggested that she meet with the Housekeeper, Grace had readily agreed to the trek. According to him, some sanctions had been altered by Queen Susan to allow her to the Eastern Gate. When Grace had asked why the Housekeeper could not come to see her directly, Casys had said, “She doesn’t leave her tree too often, if she can help it.”

She doesn’t leave her… what? Grace had stared at him for a full minute before the Centaur pushed her in the direction of a new hallway. They walked in silence, which was unhelpful as it allowed Grace’s curiosity to bubble beneath her skin.

There was a person who didn’t leave a tree? Not only that but they didn’t leave their tree. Did people own trees now? Given what she had seen so far of Narnia and their thoughts on things like slavery and the rights of beings, Grace thought this was a strange direction.

As Casys led their path, her eyes glossed over the tapestries on the walls. If she was allowed to traverse these halls again she would need to need to take some time and examine them closely. She’d never seen a tapestry before… or at least, the ones she had were made of simple printed linen.

These ones were plush works of art. Thick embroidery enveloped every square inch of material in meticulous loops of various colours. They passed pictures of woods, flowers, depictions of great parties and furious battles. Any golden thread in the tapestries was few and far between, and as Grace continued sighting more works of art, she noticed they were reserved for the same individual.

At least, she assumed it was the same individual. Judging by the shape and colour of the beast, it was a lion. The golden threads were woven amidst threads of sandy brown and bright blonde. At the head of the lion, the gold took on a life of its own in the shape of a circle around it’s mane.

Grace vaguely recalled the shape and the meaning. She had seen something similar around the head of Christ in a church back home. Whomever the beast was, they were clearly revered by the Narnians. If she and Casys returned this way, she would ask him.

There was no time to stop and appreciate the art; Casys was moving at a steadfast pace ahead of her. Every so often he would turn back and huff as if to say, ‘Move faster human’, usually slowing a little to ensure she was keeping pace. She didn’t fight him. The last thing either of them needed was a talking to from King Edmund.

When they breached the Eastern exit of the castle, Grace had to block the bright beams of morning sunlight with scrunched eyes. Her ears were coated in the sound of waves and bird songs.

Grace sighed happily, eyes opening to a sprawling garden of overgrown flowers and trees. Her lungs filled with the first traces of crisp, fresh air she’d breathed in weeks. She trailed behind Casys on the narrow grey path which cut through the foliage in cracked, uneven cobblestones.

It was beautiful – no, beautiful was not quite the word for it. It was breathtaking. Everything in this garden moved, sang and breathed beauty like none ever experienced. Even the dirt seemed to shimmer in the sunlight.

Grace continued to follow the Centaur’s sure stride down the narrow sunlit path. Her light eyes flickering haphazardly at the colourful scenery around her. The foliage was a mirage of blues, pinks, whites and greens. Some flowers big and bright juxtaposed to the bushels of small wildflowers which grew persistently in the spaces.

Time seemed to slow down in a gold hue haze and Grace found herself wishing she could stay in that garden forever, gazing at the flowers and inhaling their honey like scent. She thought she had seen her fill of beauty, until she and Casys rounded the corner.

All thoughts left her mind as her feet stumbled from cobblestone to soft grass and she stared openly at the sight of a large sprawling oak tree. It stood steadily from its thick trunk all the way to the tips of its branches which formed in a dome of beautiful green. The sun tipped flowers were merely breathtaking in comparison to it.

The bark was cracked and mossed over in various shapes; some startlingly looked like faces which had been etched into the bark of the thick trunk. Grace followed the bark lines from the sprawling roots, up the trunk base and into the great oak’s highest branches. Eyes flitting between the thousands of face like shapes that was held in the chipping, mossy wood. She thought this tree must be very old to have seen and remembered thousands of faces.

Her eyes traced the branches above; how did one tell if a tree was old? Weren’t there rings within the base of the trunk which told you? Grace couldn’t imagine cutting the it down to ascertain such a thing. Surely someone would know.

“It’s beautiful,” Grace breathed, her voice catching on the subtle wind, “How long has it stood here?”

Casys didn’t answer. He only looked solemnly towards the branches as they waved in the breeze.

Grace followed his sight, staring unseeingly into the darkness of the shade…

Until the shade moved.

A figure was descending towards them in a graceful dance, their movements looking similar to the branches that bent in languidly in the wind. As the figure got lower and lower and their skin was hit by the golden hue of the morning sun, Grace found that she had difficulty in telling the figure apart from the bark of the tree. Their skin was the same warm brown and if Grace squinted, she could see the sunlight hit it’s uneven wrinkled texture.

When at last the creature landed on the grass with a soft thump, Grace realised it wasn’t wrinkles at all; it was the very same colour and texture as the bark from the tree. It was as if it and the oak tree were one being; an extension of soul that was both fixed in place and free to roam.

Their hair tumbled in tresses of soft green moss that were filled with the flowers Grace had gazed upon just moments ago. The creatures body was covered in a harder moss, trailing over most of the bark from their elbows to their knees. Grace supposed it was a form of clothing, yet it did not look as civilised as Lucy’s old dress which constricted her own skin.

At the thought, she decided a dress would make the most prudent first purchase. As soon as she obtained her pay for the weeks work, of course.

The creature braced itself against the stable trunk of the oak tree before turning to Casys and Grace. The latter of whom attempted not to stare openly at their face.

Rather than the smooth human skin that Grace was accustomed to, it seemed that the bark continued across her cheeks and face. The tiles were as small as snake scales but they were unmistakably the brown jagged shape of Oak bark.  

Grace assumed the smaller increments of bark allowed for expression in their face; this was confirmed when upon discreet further inspection, she noticed that there were faint creases in the texture where a human may have smile lines.

The creature and Casys conversed mildly, his baritone voice meeting their deep whistly tune in slight bitonality. They spoke briefly of the weather and a birds nest which was apparently nestled high in the branches of the tree.

Grace squinted at the shaded branches but could not see anything of the sort in the darkness.

“This is Grace,” Casys introduced her, snapping Grace’s mind from her search, “She is from the land of Spare Oom.”

“Oh!” The bark creature whistled. Their eyes widened and eyes of shimmering brown stared at Grace in interest, “The land of Spare Oom, you say? How intriguing.”

Grace tried to smile; but was sure it presented as a grimace. She wasn’t sure if intriguing was the precise word. Infuriating? Definitely. Unlucky? Most likely. She gave a sidelong look to Casys who caught on.

“Grace, this is Hellabora,” He said, gesturing with a slight bow to the bark skinned creature, “She is the Dryad of this tree and the keeper of Cair Paravel.”

Oh! A dryad, of course! After seeing centaurs, talking beasts and fauns, Grace was surprised it had taken her this long to put two-and-two together.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Grace said with a pleasant smile.  

“Pleasures all mine,” Hellabora returned, reaching into a nook of the oak tree with a long, cracked arm, “I’d venture that you’re here for your pay?”

Grace nodded expectantly; her eyes drawn to the hole in the tree. The Dryad was now up to her shoulder in it. It was quite comical and reminded Grace of an old movie where a woman produced oversized items from a small carpet bag.

“Here we are,” Hellabora said, producing three small gold coins. She held out her fist expectantly and deposited them into Grace’s eager hands.

Grace inspected the coins; they were round in shape but a little misshapen at the edges like a wax seal. It made sense, she supposed, machines to perfect duplicable shapes were unheard of in medieval times. She examined the sides, running her finger over the stamped face of a proud lion.

A lion? Grace wondered if it was the same lion that was outlined in gold thread or perhaps if Narnian culture just had an appreciation for lions in general. She’d have to ask Lucy later.

“That is three Lions,” Hellabora noted, “Normally staff would receive four, however, with the cost of keeping your rooms in Cair Paravel…”

Grace nodded appreciatively, “I understand.”

Hellabora’s kind eyes looked relieved, “Three Lions should be sufficient to see to your personal needs apart from lodging and food. There is a market just south of the Gate Bridge with good people and fair bargains to assist you.”

If only three coins would cover so much, then Grace imagined that the economy in Narnia was doing astoundingly well.

“How does the money work here?” She asked.

“Each ‘Lion’ is equal to 25 silver ‘Trees’,” Hellabora explained patiently.

“I see,” Grace said thoughtfully whilst turning over the coins in her fingertips, “And how much might a dress cost?”

Hellabora paused, “I cannot say for sure. Queen Susan generally handles the accounts for clothing as my experience is,” She stopped to gesture to her moss-covered body, “Limited.”

Grace felt herself flush, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

The Dryad waved off her apology, “Don’t be. I handle all other matters of Cair Paravel; the assumption is understandable.”

Grace’s face brightened appreciative smile.

“Hellabora has been the caretaker of the Cair and grounds for nearly 200 years,” Casys added, “Not a soul knows the land better.”

200 years looking after a castle. An empty castle at that – unless others had resided in it before.

“I thought the Kings and Queens had reigned for just over thirteen years?” Grace asked curiously, “Was there a predecessor?”

“Not in Cair Paravel,” The Dryad edged, “I have maintained it while awaiting the arrival of our Kings and Queens.”

Grace was confused, “But how did you know they would arrive?”

“It was foretold,” Casys boomed in that story-telling voice of his, “The stars promised an end to an eternal winter. They promised a new era of peace and prosperity under the reign of our Kings and Queens.”

“And that promise was delivered upon,” Hellabora agreed, “For there has never been such an era of peace than that under the rule of High King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund and Queen Lucy.”

Grace paused thoughtfully, “I suppose all I hear about is this ‘Great Peace’ the country is in.”

Hellabora nodded solemnly, “By the will of Aslan, the Great Peace will remain until the stars fall from the heavens.”

“A night which we hope is far away,” A new voice entered.

The three whipped around to the shining face of Queen Lucy, who was smiling at them from the end of the pathway.

Grace stared dumbly for a second as Casys and Hellabora bowed lowly behind her, “Your majesty,” They chorused respectfully.

She attempted to follow their lead but almost tripped when a stem of grass tangled around her ankle.

Lucy laughed, picking up her friend at the elbow and sliding her arm through it companionably, “Good morning. I came to see how the wood rot is faring, Hellabora,” She chirped; her overcast eyes surveying the old tree closely.

Hellabora patted the trunk fondly, “It’s healing steadily, your majesty. Cair Paravel may have to put up with us for years yet.”

“I would hope so,” Lucy beamed, also patting the coarse bark, “Cair Paravel would be quite destitute without your stewardship. I imagine Susan would collapse under the stress within a week.”

Hellabora bowed deeply, thanking Lucy for the compliment.

Lucy shot Grace a conspiratorial smile, “If your transaction is complete, I will steal Grace’s company.”

Hellabora only smiled in acquiescence, waving cheerfully as Lucy tugged Grace away.

Chapter Text

XIII

GRACE

Lucy walked with a light speed, tugging Grace along by the elbow as they passed through the shadow of the wide oak tree. Even in the absence of the morning sun, the flowers glowed in beautiful hues against the shadowy grass.

Grace stared at the plush greenery longingly, wishing that she could simply lie on the bed of green and sleep but Lucy refused to slow down until they were clear of the garden gate and their steps left the echoed cobblestone pathway.

Hooved steps echoed behind them at a distant pace- Casys, Grace realised. He was following them at a safe distance; close enough to grab Grace if she tried to run, far away enough not to overhear their conversation.

Grace looked nervously to the tall trees surrounding them. They had left the safe greenery of the gardens and entered the thin line of a wood. She wasn’t sure how far King Edmund’s sanctions allowed her to move and did not wish to disobey them.

Grace tried to voice her concerns but Lucy hushed her.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” She said brightly, “I was planning on seeing you today.”

“You were?” Grace asked.

“Of course. I have good news!” Lucy grinned, there was a slight spring in her step that jostled Grace as they walked, “But first, tell me. How are you faring?”

“I’m well, I think,” Grace said, a little taken aback by the turn in conversation, “The talk with Queen Susan has given me some perspective.”

Lucy beamed in approval, “Good. I was hoping it would. Susan is so practical that it’s hard to disagree with her when she lays out the facts.”

“I was thinking of using some these funds to obtain a new dress,” Grace proposed, showing Lucy the golden Lions held in her free hand, “Not that the one you’ve lent me isn’t sufficient,” She added hastily.

Lucy surveyed Grace’s appearance; testing the give in her sleeve with a tug, “I suppose my clothes are a little small for you,” She admitted sheepishly, “I’d imagine that chemise is in need of a wash too.”

Discreetly, Grace sniffed herself. She herself was clean, grateful for the bath Queen Susan had ordered her into the day before. Apart from that, she didn’t smell anything particularly pungent but since she’d been living in the chemise for a week, she was probably used to it if it did.

“It probably does,” Grace agreed.

“We could go now?” Lucy suggested, “The markets over Gate Bridge are good for sturdy materials and the court dressmaker would have it finished in no time.”

Grace grimaced, “I’m not sure his majesty, King Edmund would be okay with that.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, “He can have nothing to say when I am here to escort you. Besides, I told you, I have good news.”

Grace stared at her friend blankly, waiting for her to continue, but Lucy only grinned and pulled a scroll of paper from her dress pocket.

“For you,” She offered pleasantly.

Grace took the scroll from her fingertips and gingerly unravelled it from its coil. She read the contents slowly, half focused on walking as Lucy continued to lead her in an unseen pathway between the trees. Most of the document was the same, except for one alteration halfway down the page:

‘Grace, formerly of the land of Spare Oom may roam freely between the Guest Wing, Kitchens and Music Room as necessary. Any motion outside of these areas must be accompanied by a suitable guard.’

“King Edmund is reducing some of the sanctions?” Grace asked slowly, half astounded at the written words.

Lucy nodded ecstatically, “He is! Didn’t I tell you he would come around?”

Grace smiled at her friend. Really, she thought that the King still had some coming around to do, considering the sanctions had not been lifted entirely. But she kept those thoughts to herself, for who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Where is the Music Room?” Grace asked, thinking back to when she had heard faint music in the hallways. It must have been close by but just out of reach.

“It is two hallways from the Guest Wing,” Lucy confirmed, leading them further into the woods.

Grace hummed in acknowledgement. She was sure that Casys would be able to show her the way once. After which she would only need his company outside the named areas. She looked back to the Centaur; he was comfortably walking behind them, still maintaining that safe distance.

Grace called out to him, halting Lucy mid step.

“I have new sanctions,” Grace filled him in once he had caught up, “I don’t know if you need to keep them on you?”

Casys accepted the scroll with interested eyes and a short nod.

“I would recommend you read them, friend,” Lucy advised, “We hope that these new sanctions will suit you as well.”

Casys bowed lowly to his Queen and Grace watched him unravel the scroll as Lucy began to tug her away.

They continued down a slight decline, side stepping and assisting each other over the numerous roots in their path. The curious sound of metal on dirt and the chatter of talking animals gradually came to their ears, and Lucy’s energy overflowed against her skin. Grace was beginning to wonder what Lucy was leading them towards.

The trees and consequential roots felt endless and what little sunlight there was filtered lightly through the patches of leaves. Grace inspected the oak trees as she and Lucy leaned on them for support when they passed by. None of these oak trees were as old as the one in the Eastern Garden. Nor did they hold faces within the cracks of their bark. Still, Grace wondered if these trees had a dryad of their own.

Finally, Lucy and Grace breached the tree line. Grace squinting at the blaring sun as she attempted to shield her eyes in the crook of her elbow. The sun had no effect on Lucy; she had immediately released her friends hand and bounded towards a small group of Talking Beasts.

Grace followed, ears picking up pieces of the conversation as she got closer. Upon closer inspection, she realised they were all crouched around a hole of dug dirt. There were five beasts all together, all Moles with beautiful earth coloured fur, long snouts and large pink paws.

“I’m sure they will be marvellous, Lilygloves!” Lucy exclaimed, “Just picture it; this slope will be covered in apple saplings by the years end!”

The mole to her left lifted it’s snout into the air and sniffed cheerfully, “Oh yes! We will fill the hillside with hundreds of them. A fitting and useful orchard for Cair Paravel, indeed.”

Lucy grinned, greeting the other moles in her usual cheery tone.

Lilygloves, the mole continued sniffing the air. His small round spectacles perched upon his snout, wobbled haphazardly with the motion. He seemed to smell her, the new curious scent leading the mole from the hole and at Grace’s feet.

“Have you come to assist in the preparations?” Lilygloves asked her pertly, “We must finish planting the seeds before the evening chill sets in.”

Grace looked around her, wide eyed and unsure how to address the question, “Oh, I-”

“I’m sure that Miss Grace has more pressing matters on her agenda today.”

Grace whipped around, breath caught in her throat and fear in her eyes. The fear dissipated almost instantly, however, when she realised it was not King Edmund who had said the words, but a man very much like him.

When she had heard the phrase ‘Same person, different font’ she had never truly understood it’s meaning, until now. Everything about this man mirrored King Edmund; from the gentle arch of the eyebrow to the veins that protruded from his hand, which was gripping a shovel with the same surety that King Edmund had held his sword. The differences there were between them was glaring against the similarities, but they could not be dismissed as small.

Where High King Peter’s hair was golden like the threads of tapestries, his younger brothers was a rich dark brown and where King Edmund’s eyes were pools of onyx, his older brothers were a clear, crisp blue. Where King Edmund wore a crisp white shirt, his brother…

Oh god.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Pete!” Lucy cheered, her footsteps crunching past Grace as she launched herself into her brothers arms.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in council?” Lucy asked, her shoes thudding upon their return to the dirt.

“I let Edmund lead the proceedings today,” High King Peter said lightly, “It was the least I could do.”

His eyes remained on Grace’s face as Lucy mused, “I rather think Edmund thought so to.”

Grace shook herself from her thoughts – and her gaping. She held her eyes resolutely on the ground when she dipped into a wobbly curtsy.

Lucy continued prattling about Lilygloves and apple trees until she followed her brothers eyes.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, returning to Grace’s side in a flurry of skirts, “I see you’ve finally met Grace.”

“Or something of the sort,” High King Peter quipped, nodding his head regally towards Grace, “You may rise.”

Grace followed the invitation, offering a small smile in thanks. Lucy had said this was the softer brother of the two – and she was sure that may be true for Lucy, being his younger sister – but the man in front of her was nothing short than great and terrifying. A being of power, tightly controlled and coiled to strike.

Convincing this King may be harder than convincing his younger brother, and she even thought that feat was impossible.

“I’ve heard much about you, Grace,” He said with a warm smile, “My Royal Sister, Lucy, has spoken of little else since your arrival.”

“That is simply not true,” Lucy protested, linking her arm through Grace’s once again, “Just this morning, we were speaking of Hellabora and her tree. I believe that is a different topic of conversation.”

High King Peter smiled fondly, “I suppose it is.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Grace nodded courteously, Lucy’s rules of royal conversation in mind. Grace had managed to bungle every introduction to a monarch of Narnia thus far and was disinterested in having the entire tetrarchy dislike her before sundown.

High King Peter returned the sentiments, ducking forward to graze his lips against Grace’s knuckles chivalrously.

Grace felt her cheeks go hot, but desperately attempted to avoid acknowledging the involuntary reaction. If the High King noticed he did not comment either, simply smiling warmly as Lucy talked at him about one thing or another. Grace wasn’t truly listening to the conversation.

There was no pretence to that smile or the way he spoke to Lucy and Grace. On all accounts, he held an honest and open charm about him. A trait Grace was sure worked in his favour as High King.

“Lilygloves was just instructing us on where to dig the holes,” High King Peter gestured towards the slope. It was littered with dozens of pits, roughly 20 centimetres deep and wide. He looked back towards the group, a look of question in his eyes, “Perhaps, you ladies may be able to lend your expert opinion on where to plant more?”

Lucy peered over his shoulder, eyes travelling over the clean grassy slope, “I’m not sure I’d be the best person to ask. What do you think, Grace?”

Grace shrugged unhelpfully, “I’m not sure either, maybe it would be best to leave it to the professionals.”

Lilygloves smiled encouragingly, “Oh, there’s no harm in picking just two holes!” He said, plopping two fist sized roots into their hands.

Grace tried not to grimace at the clump of dirt and twisting roots in her palms. “Alright,” She agreed.

It wasn’t like Grace had never gardened before. The home she’d grown up in had an affinity for its garden and the children were encouraged to get as dirty as possible whilst helping weed and pot various plants. It was an affinity which she did not wholly share, however. More of a chore than a hobby in her mind.

She followed Lucy down the slope at a glacial space. Lucy moved as she always did, with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips, not minding whatsoever that she held a clump of tangled life in her hands.

To Grace’s left, High King Peter had fallen into step; mindfully keeping an eye on his younger sister whilst he attempted to maintain a polite conversation. He didn’t venture far into many topics; mainly asked how she was faring and her opinion on Cair Paravel.

Grace was grateful at his bland attempt at conversation but her replies came off slightly monotonous as she tried not trip on the slope. An effort which went unrewarded when her right foot fell clean into one such hole.

The action elicited an embarrassingly high squeal from her throat which halted suddenly when her foot made contact with the soft dirt at the bottom.

High King Peter eyed her humorously, clearly fighting a laugh at her trip. “Are you alright?” He asked, extending his hand in assistance.

“Yes,” Grace grunted, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground as she attempted to pry her ankle from it. “It’s stuck!” She whined.

The High King took her hand and began to pull on it but nothing gave, her ankle was stuck fast in the dirt like a stubborn weed.

“Here,” He said; quickly wrapping a large arm around her waist and almost making her squeak at the unexpected contact. The High King counted down, “Three… two… one…”

Then with a quick and rough jerk he plucked her ankle from the ground.

They stumbled for a moment, but High King Peter proved to be sturdy and quickly righted them both. Grace dusted herself off and inspected the traitorous ankle. It was a little sore but not enough to keep her from walking. Grace sighed in relief; at least she would not need to be carried back to the castle.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Grace’s mouth tilted into a grateful smile.

The High King waved it off, “There is no need. I’m sure you would have done the same in my position,” There was a hint of something in his eyes, a jest? Or perhaps a test?

Grace’s eyebrows raised as she continued to dust herself off, “What? Pulled you out of an ankle-deep hole with nothing but my right arm?”

High King Peter shrugged but the glint in his eyes remained steadfastly.

“I supposed I would have tried, your majesty,” Grace conceded.

She was telling the truth. If the High King had fallen she would have tried to pry his foot from the hole. Whether she would be successful is another matter entirely.

The glint was appeased and the High King’s eyes warmed like steam, “There is no need to be so formal in such informal quarters, King Peter is fine or ‘sire’ if you wish it.”

Grace nodded and thanked him. Her mind in part trying to determine whether he was giving her the general rule of speaking to royalty or if he was making an allowance for her lack of knowledge.

“Are you two going to plant your trees or not?” Lucy called; skirts lifted in her hands as she forded the slope.

“Careful, Lu!” King Peter called as he sidestepped the hole Grace’s ankle had been acquainted with, “You’ll catch your foot in a hole.”

“Oh, I’m not that silly!” Lucy said with a huff, dropping her skirts and walking in any case.

Grace’s face burned, “I think I’ll plant mine here,” she called, “May the tree be a reminder to watch where I’m walking.”

King Peter chuckled and Lucy looked between the two questioningly, “What did I miss?” She asked.

“Just me being silly,” Grace smiled at her. She swept her skirts aside and kneeled by the – now misshapen – hole. The root ball had luckily not fallen far from it and was easy enough to pluck from the grass and place in the dirt hole. “What do we do now, Lilygloves?” Grace asked.

The mole in question wandered over, a slight waddle in his step due to the distance between his legs. “Have you picked a suitable hole?” He asked, peering up at her as he reached the group.

“I believe so, although it did get a little roughed up in the process,” Grace said apologetically.

The mole merely waved it’s hands, “No matter, no matter. Dirt is dirt my dear and we shall find you some more to cover it with,” With that, Lilygloves whistled to the small group, huddled over a hole on the cliff line she assumed to be Lucy’s.

Grace looked at her fingertips and cringed at the thought of getting dirt stuck under her fingernails. At this rate, she would need another bath before going to bed tonight.

However, she needn’t have worried about it at all. As Lucy pulled her out of the way of the feverish band of moles she watched them cover the root ball in soil.

Lucy grinned at her, plucking a green ribbon from the sleeve of her dress and handed it to Lilygloves to mark the spot.

Grace stared at the spot on her shoulder where the ribbon was now missing.

“Don’t worry, we’re getting you a new dress anyway,” Lucy grinned.

“A perfect spot!” Lilygloves cheered, “There is not a time in the day where this tree will not get sunlight. It is the most perfect conditions for the sweetest apples.”

“I’ll need to come back and try them in five years,” Grace said wryly.

Lilygloves practically beamed from his snout, “That you will, my dear. Thank you both for bestowing us with such a gift.”

Lucy grinned, shaking the hand of the Mole politely, “The pleasure is ours, Lilygloves. If that is all you need, Grace and I will be going now.”

“Are you off to the Music room?” King Peter asked.

“Oh yes!” Grace said joyfully, “After I explore all of the new corridors, of course!”

The High King’s brow crunched in confusion, “I should have thought the Music room would be your first stop?”

Grace mirrored his expression, “Why would that be?”

A beat passed where the two stared at each other in equal minded confusion and Lucy looked between them.

Then suddenly, Lucy gripped Grace’s arm and looked up at her with wide eyes, “I clean forgot! We’ve found you a position in the household.”

“You’ve what?” Grace asked, mind reeling at the fast pace with which the Queen spoke.

“We’d like to invite you to join Our private orchestra,” Peter explained, “The Orchestrator, Margrove, is looking to extend the group and needs assistance. Will you take on the role?”

Grace thought on it, ‘extend the group’ could mean many things and by the look on the faces of the royal siblings, they hadn’t a clue what she was in for. Grace had no reason to complain, however. Had she not asked for more work? Had she not practically begged Lucy for it? And of all the things King Edmund could have put her to work on – she shuddered at the image of herself mucking out a stable – wasn’t this the tamest?

“I suppose I could see what this ‘Margrove’ wants me for,” Grace agreed.

“That’s the spirit!” Lucy grinned.

King Peter clapped his hands together soundly, “Brilliant. Then we won’t keep you.”

He turned to the huddle of moles and lifted his voice to theatrical valiant tones, “Come friends! Let us scatter these roots before lunch time. My Royal Sister has prepared a broad meal as a reward for our efforts.”

Lucy laughed as the High King lead his band of furry friends down the slope and began tugging Grace once more into the safe shade of the tree line. “Don’t mind him,” She whispered conspiratorially, “He always has food on his mind.”

Grace returned the smile shyly but did not respond. It was one thing for a sister to make jokes about her brother and it was another entirely to mock a King.

They continued their walk in a comfortable silence, only broken in brief intervals when Lucy pointed out small landmarks in their path. She claimed it was to help Grace find her way back to the Cair, Grace thought that Lucy just wanted to fill the still air.

A thought crossed her mind as a pitch of tents came into view from between the thick trunks of trees. Between the heavy branches weaved lively music and the clear chatter of voices in the sunlit market. It sounded heavenly.

Over the boisterous noise they were heading towards, Grace turned and asked her friend, “Do you think they have paint at these things?”

“I suppose so,” Lucy mused, “It would depend on what kind of paint you’re looking for.”

“It might seem strange,” She began, “But I’m looking for a paint that glows in the dark.”

Lucy stopped and Grace to a halt at her side. “A paint that glows in the dark?” She asked incredulously, “Like magic?”

Grace shrugged, “I suppose, although where I come from. We call it science.”

When Lucy did not speak Grace explained further, “I want to be able to see it after I’ve blown out the candles.”

“Well, there might be such a thing. We can certainly ask,” Lucy agreed, eyes alight with bright curiosity, “But what would you ever need something like that for?”

“I think I’d like to paint some stars.”

Chapter Text

XIV

GRACE

As the morning sun rose higher, Grace caught herself thinking more about the wonders awaiting in the music room and less of the beautiful fabrics Lucy was enthusiastically tossing in her face.

They were all beautiful. There were brilliant velvets ranging from the orange of a sunset to greens that were deeper than the moss on Hellabora’s bark covered skin. Aside them sat simple cloths of linen that had woven silver fibres which chimed in the wind. Every corner of the market was saturated in colour and distraction. However, if anything Grace found herself distracted from it, her thoughts never straying far from the Music Room three hallways from her prison.

Lucy bid her pick five lengths to be taken to the Cair dressmaker. Grace grumbled that five was too many but picked two simple sheets of a deep green hue. For the remainder, she dubbed Lucy as the best judge. Lucy had clearly not been expecting this and beamed with delight.

When the cloths were chosen and directed to the Cair, Lucy had agreed to let Grace return with Casys. The Centaur in question had stood at the edge of the market for the entire trip; his stubborn stare never leaving Graces form even when she disappeared behind a tent or stall. Grace could feel his eyes burning into her back and when she turned, Casys was always in her sight.

He relaxed slightly when she joined him at the edge of the field but did not leave her alone until she was safely deposited at her desired destination.

It was here she stood, three hallways from the Guest wing. Her fingers picking at themselves in nervousness and the buzzing in her mind louder than any other thought except one; What did they want her for?

Grace held barely any knowledge of music apart from how to listen to it. She didn’t even know what instruments they used here. They were probably some foreign instruments that she had never heard of.

Weren’t women in this time supposed to be well versed in music and song? Would this Orchestrator turn her away if they found her knowledge lacking? And if they did turn her away… what would she do then?

Grace shuddered at the thought of another week in her room. Of silence.

She missed music. She missed the sound of souls moving in sync with the melody, the poetry a crescendo could inspire, the feeling of the beat in her fingertips.

It was those same buzzing fingers which knocked on the door of their own accord. Grace pulled her hand back, mind still fuzzy with memories of a world away.

There was a scuffle from behind the door, shortly followed by the sound of toppling heavy objects and the discordant noise of strings hit without purpose. Grace cringed at the unwelcomed noise.  

The door handle rattled and the wood flung open to reveal a dishevelled and frantic looking faun. He looked down at her with coal black eyes of slight disinterest as he leaned in the frame of the door, his hand poised on the wood as if ready to shut it at any moment.

“Yes?” He asked.

Grace started. She had not been expecting such an indifferent welcome, “Are you Margrove?”

“I am,” The Faun edged. He waited a beat for her to speak and when she didn’t he continued, “I’m also quite busy, so if you wouldn’t mind,” He gestured for her to continue, his other hand tapping against the wood of the door. It was an odd beat; one Grace had never heard before but somehow there was sense and rhythm in the noise.

“I’m Grace,” She said, frowning slightly at the Fauns attitude, “Her majesty, Queen Lucy, sent me.”

The rhythmic tapping stopped and Margrove looked at her, his coal irises widening. “You’re the Daughter of Eve from Spare Oom?” He asked.

Grace nodded uncertainly, not because she did not know who she was – of that she was painfully aware – but because the look he was giving her was somewhere between slight fear and curiosity.

Margrove gulped, his hand tightening on the door frame as he leaned in closer to her face. He stopped but 6 inches from it as it was as far as his arms would allow. His eyes were searching her face for something but Grace couldn’t determine what it was.

“I don’t know what they were talking about,” He murmured, “You don’t have any fangs at all.”

“I’m sorry?” Grace asked, leaning away from the Faun’s proximity.

Margrove stayed in place, eyes transfixed on hers. He was still searching for something.

Probably the devil in my eyes, Grace thought mirthlessly.

Then in a dizzyingly quick movement, the Faun snapped back inside the door frame.

“I’m glad. Fangs can cause difficulties with pronunciation and whilst that is ok, it may make our job difficult,” Margrove chattered as he flicked back into the Music room and out of sight, leaving the door ajar in invitation.

Grace just stared widely after him, the switch in attitude had given her whiplash.

“Of course, it might be interesting,” Margrove continued distantly, “A singer who puts their own spin on the Narnian language – Oh, I like that! We’d be the talk of the country.”

That caught her attention. “Singer?” Grace asked nervously. She edged towards the doorway, barely dipping her toes over the threshold as she watched the Faun scamper about the room.

The floor was so littered with various sheets of paper that the thick carpet was indescribable beneath it. Spotted throughout were seats of plush velvet, much like the furniture she had seen in the Guest Wing.

As the Faun flittered about the room, he picked up various painted instruments and ink blotched sheets. The remaining sheets of music flying about like leaves in the wind.

“Yes, are you slow? That is why you’re here,” Margrove claimed, face peering over the piles of scrolls he held.

Grace lifted a brow; the Faun was being terribly direct, even by her standards. She couldn’t imagine how the four Kings and Queens managed him. “I’m not slow,” She sniffed, “No body told me anything about the job.”

Margrove stayed put, his expression comical over the pile of paper, “But you decided to come anyway?”

Grace shrugged.

He still didn’t move. His eyes once again assessing her from top to toe. Grace didn’t like those eyes, she felt like they saw entirely too much. “You must be bored to tears to take a job with no foresight,” He deadpanned.

“I-” Grace’s jaw fell open, lost for an excuse against the accusation Margrove had laid at her door, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

The scrolls dropped and the comical look expanded to one of pure humour. Grace heard the guffaw before it registered mockingly in her ears. He was laughing at her.

“I don’t see how this is funny,” Grace fumed.

“It’s not, it’s not,” Margrove wheezed, “But to see the look on your face.”

Grace scowled at the Faun, arms crossed in a very unimpressed manner, “I can see this is a mistake.”

She made to turn and storm away but before she could get a foot out of the door, Margrove lurched forward and latched on to her forearm, “Come in, come in! You’re hired if for nothing else but to amuse me.”

The room spun as she was yanked through the threshold and onto a paper stacked chaise.

“We’ve have much to cover and not much time in which to do so.”

-

It had been an hour.

Grace had been pushed and stretched through an hour of endless vocal and breathing exercises that left her feeling exhaustedly dry. Margrove proved to be a passionate teacher, although Grace could see it was the music he was truly passionate about.

His skilled fingers twinkled over the keys of the pianoforte in perfect tempo; never missing a note or skipping a beat in their progress. Grace watched them in awe, barely focusing on her own voice in the chaotic scales.

“No, you’re doing it again,” Margrove said, cutting the movement of his fingertips to point one at her, “Stop watching my hands. You’re predicting the next note before I can play it.”

“I can’t help it,” Grace caught her breath, “If I don’t look then I’m too late to catch it properly.”

“It’s better that than pre-emptively getting it wrong,” Margrove insisted. He looked up from the sheet music; eyes warm in the light of the afternoon sun as he implored, “There is no rush to get this right, you know?”

Grace frowned and stared stubbornly at the sheet music instead of his face, “It feels like there should be,” She grumbled.

Margrove sighed and rubbed tiredly at his eyes, “Perhaps we should break? I’ve not yet had lunch.”

“No,” Grace said adamantly, “If we take a break now, I will forget everything. Let’s go again.”

“You can’t forget what you have not learned,” Margrove chided, the lid of the piano had been shut and he rested his elbows upon its surface, “You cannot rush the mind, either. It is better when progress comes slowly, it helps the understanding stick to the mind.”

“I don’t have time for ‘slowly’,” Grace insisted, “I will need to learn quickly if I am to return home.”

Margrove sniffed and plucked his head from his long fingers. His eyebrows were raised sarcastically, “And how will this lesson help you return to Spare Oom? Do you plan to sing your way there?”

Grace gave him a withering look, “I need to obtain the Kings and Queens trust.”

“Again, I ask. By singing?”

“By being compliant,” Grace explained, “If I show them I mean no harm, then they may let me out of the Cair. Perhaps, they will even let me find my own way home.”

Margrove stood thoughtfully, cloved hoofs clacking against the marble podium on which the pianoforte sat.

“Is that the truth?” He asked, “Do you mean them no harm? Or are you simply compliant in order to slip past their guard and act on your ulterior motives? I’ll have you know that if you mean to hurt any Narnian, I will not simply sit by and watch.”

Grace blanched at the implication, “I don’t have the foresight to be that manipulative and I couldn’t hurt anyone even if I wanted too. I like Lucy too much,” Grace grumbled the last part, slightly embarrassed at the admittance, “There is no ulterior motive behind my compliance other than getting home.”

Margrove leaned easily against the piano next to her, as if the conversation was much lighter and didn’t hint at treason. “Good,” He praised, “What is your plan, then? Surely you’ve thought farther than simple compliance?”

Grace took a deep steadying breath, “I haven’t gotten that far. I just know that I must convince them. Queen Lucy believes that High King Peter is the best route to success but I am not so sure.”

Grace paused, thinking of the powerful, shirtless blonde on the steep slope. He did seem good natured and sympathetic, something which he shared with his sisters. But there was something at the edge of his eyes that glinted differently to them.

He had tested her, out in the forest today. For what she did not know but she had the niggling suspicion that this was the side which he shared with his brother, King Edmund.

“High King Peter seems to rely on the council of his brother and King Edmund seems unwilling to give me any room to breathe.”

Margrove agreed, “The Kings are quite close. The entirety of the Royal Family is, really. It is why they work so well together.”

Grace nodded in agreement for she had also come to that conclusion.

“It seems to me,” Margrove noted thoughtfully, “That you must convince King Edmund if you’re to make it out of here alive. The other King and Queens rely on him for sound judgement. He is not called ‘The Just’ for nothing.”

Grace stared at the Faun; stuck with despair at the thought of appearing amenable to King Edmund – A man who would only find her non-threatening when she was dead. “How on earth would I do that?” She asked, “I’m certain he has a right mind to keep me – and whatever information he thinks I possess – here forever.”

Margrove shrugged, “You’re the mind behind the plot; I am simply here to ask the right questions.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Grace muttered, sliding next to the Faun on the piano.

“I never said I would be,” Margrove quipped, weaving his arms across his chest.

Grace sighed, “Even if I make it out of Cair Paravel, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Lucy spoke of a wardrobe she entered through as a child but no one seems to remember where it is.”

“Ah yes, the city of War Drobe. A well-known and loved fable of the West.”

“Fable?” Grace asked.

Margrove smiled fondly, “From the Lantern Waste to the edge of the Western Woods there are all sorts of fables. Strange occurrences and comings and goings of the unknown. The most recent is the arrival of our Kings and Queens from the city of War Drobe in the land of Spare Oom.”

Grace’s breath hitched, “The wardrobe is somewhere in the Western Woods?”

“It is believed so. No one apart from the Kings and Queens have ever seen exactly where it lies but there are a few that came across them on the first hours of their journey. I may be persuaded to write to my uncle and ask what he knows.”

Grace latched on to the Fauns arm, “Would you?” She asked, “I’d be so grateful.”

Margrove eyed her slowly, as if he was weighing the decision in his mind. “I might,” He allowed, “But only if you do something for me.”

Grace nodded eagerly, foresight completely out the window. She didn’t care what she was asked to do; if it brought her one step closer to home, then it was worth it.

He smiled, placing a hand over hers and hunching over until they were face to face in equal height, “Let me go eat lunch.”

Chapter Text

XV

EDMUND

Paperwork sprawled over the walnut desk in the organised chaos of Edmund’s mind. He’d been working on the finer details of the new trade agreement with Archenland for hours – Focusing solely on the introductions a treaty with Calormen would create.

He had supposed that safe passage would need to be allowed for trade between the two nations and if King Lune was amenable, perhaps a further treaty could be founded between Calormen and Archenland to facilitate this.

Edmund began to feel cross eyed from the listless amount of words he had viewed in the morning. He slumped back into his padded chair with a huff. The trade agreement with Archenland was already 100 pages long and with the changes he made alone would add another 20. The thought made his dry eyes water, he closed them. When was the last time he blinked?

It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy the work. On the contrary, Edmund could only find peace and solitude in the pages of sense that running a country provided. There was no emotion to be found in a trade agreement, only simple facts. The needs of one country in turn for the needs of another. It was refreshing against the constant tug and pull of the world outside of his office in his wild country which was so often run by instinct and emotion.

The soft sound of paw against wood stirred him. He looked up at the intrusion, noting the thick body of shadow in the crack under the door.

“Enter,” Edmund commanded.

The handle clicked downwards and a sleek black panther pushed through the opening. It’s wings trailing behind it smoothly on the marble floor. Shese, Edmunds most trusted member of his household trailed across the room in slow precise movements and deposited upon the desk a sheet of parchment which she had held gingerly between her lips.

“The Ambassador’s list, sire,” She explained, perching herself languidly upon a chaise.

“Thank you,” Edmund said as he picked up the thin parchment and let his eyes shift over the scribbled words. He gave a frustrated sigh; they were in written in the Calormene language, which he was not well-versed in. He would ask Susan, if she wouldn’t admonish him for stealing the parchment in the first place. A talking to from his elder sister was the last thing he needed.

“Shese, is there anyone in Aslan’s Army who speaks Calormene?” He asked whilst attempting to copy the markings on a scrap piece of parchment.

Shese stretched on the chaise, her claws extending against the velvet, “None that I know of Sire.”

Edmund scowled; he could make out a few words, but none were of any value. He’d have to find a way to have Susan translate without tipping her off to its contents.

Shese continued to lie still, eyes closed peacefully against the noisy ruffle of parchment until a muffled knock stirred her.

Edmund glanced up at the door warily. He had diarised no appointments this morning, nor was he expecting any of his siblings this early; Peter would be tied up in his own work, Lucy would be busy with her medical research and Susan would still be in her rooms preparing herself for the day.

In a hurried motion, he copied the remaining scribbles on the scrap parchment, held the sheet aloft over the hardwood desk and whispered, “Take this and hide behind the door. Once it is open, you can slink out.”

The Winged Panther pounced from the seat with a low grunt, lopping across the floor to gingerly take the parchment in her mouth.

Edmund watched Shese’s black fur melt away into a shadowy corner. He whispered an order into the black emptiness, “Ensure you put it back in the exact place you found it, Shese.”

The Winged Panther rasped a muffled laugh in response.

Another knock rebounded against the empty air. Edmund scowled at the door, there was little he liked less than impatience. In a flash of spite, he almost didn’t respond. Staring resolutely at the door in defiance but he had been raised better than that.

With a rustle of parchment he stuffed the copied piece out of sight and called, “Enter.”

The handle clicked and the curly head of a familiar faun poked its way through the crevice, “I’m sorry to bother you, Sire. I have some correspondence from my uncle I thought you may be interested in.”

Edmund squinted at the shadow of the door. It was too dark to make out the Faun’s face.

The Faun teetered nervously from his position in the crevice, “If this isn’t a good time, I’m sure it can wait until later?”

“Now is fine,” Edmund said, still squinting at the shadows. He gestured for the Faun to enter, careful not to draw his eyes to Shese as she slipped through the crevice before the door clicked to a close.

The familiar form of Margrove became clearer as he crossed the room, his cloven hoofs clicking against the marble floor in a soft rhythm. He stopped before the desk, coal black eyes blinking warily at the expression on his King’s face.

Edmund became vaguely aware that he still wore the flustered annoyance he’d felt moments ago and attempted to school his features. His eyes travelled to the Faun’s hands which held a neatly folded letter sealed in wax.

A wax seal with the image of the Lamp Post.

Edmund looked at Margrove, eyes alight with curiosity, “Is that for me?” He asked.

“Yes,” Margrove admitted, holding the folded square aloft, “I wrote to my Uncle a week ago. I received a reply today and sealed inside of it, was this,” He tilted the parchment to the unsealed side to reveal a neatly penned, ‘King Edmund’.

Edmund plucked the letter from the Faun’s fingertips. It was thick, even if it wasn’t folded, and seemed to be comprised of four pages. If Edmund knew Mr Tumnus at all, each page would be double sided.

“I wasn’t aware that Mr Tumnus had a nephew,” Edmund mused while leaning back in his desk chair.

Margrove grimaced, “Her Majesty, Queen Susan, was aware when I made my application… but agreed when I asked to keep that information a secret. I wanted to step into my work outside of my uncles shadow.”

“And that you did,” Edmund said mildly. He could remember Margrove’s entrance into the household of Cair Paravel quite clearly. The vibrant and outspoken Faun had made quite the impression.

A beat passed where no one said anything and Edmund flipped the folded square over in his hand. Margrove did not leave, nor did he show any signs of wishing to. He just simply stared, eyes flickering between the letter and Edmund’s eyes. He wanted something.

Edmund levelled a questioning look at the Faun, “It seems curious that your Uncle would not just send this to me directly.”

Margrove shuffled uncomfortably under the King’s gaze, “When I wrote to my Uncle, I asked him about some of the fables in the West. His response gave none of the answers I was looking for.”

Edmund’s thick eyebrows furrowed, “Do you not hail from the West? I’m surprised you do not know the stories yourself.”

“I know the whispers,” Margrove admitted, “But none of the fine detail.”

He didn’t continue, but Edmund had the feeling there was more he could say. That there was something the Faun wasn’t telling him, “Why do you need the fables from the West?”

“Does one need a reason to ask questions about their home?” Margrove asked.

Edmund did not grace the question with a response, his eyes turning colder on his shadowed face.

Margrove caught the hint and relented, “The Daughter of Eve was asking about the city of War Drobe.”

Edmunds brows furrowed further; he could easily guess to which Daughter of Eve the Faun referred to. “Grace?” He asked stonily.

Margrove’s eyes widened a fraction. He seemed to weigh the pros and cons of lying to a King in his mind before finally replying, “Yes.”

Edmund felt an unpleasant feeling bubble under his skin. It was not uncommon when Grace was mentioned and really, how could it be helped when she insisted on doing something like this.

Edmund had told her not to go looking for the Wardrobe when they had first met; he thought it had been made very clear that she was to stay put until further notice. Not only had she disobeyed yet another clear rule, but she had sent someone else to do her dirty work. The lack of respect was astounding.

When Edmund did not speak, Margrove attempted to calm the crackling tension, “I believe she doesn’t mean any harm. She just wants to go home.”

“Yes,” Edmund gritted, “That’s all anyone ever tells me.”

Margrove linked his fingers tentatively and leaned forward as if he was telling the King a great secret, “Do you think, perhaps, that may be because it is true.”

The Faun immediately recoiled from Edmunds glare.

“I am aware she wants to leave,” Edmund said, “And Grace is aware of the terms of her stay. It was not right of her to ask such a thing of you.”

His eyes returned to the letter in his hands and in one short crack he broke the seal of the Lantern in two.

“I offered,” Margrove stated firmly, defiant in the defence of his friend. Edmund ignored him.

The flowing script of Mr Tumnus was recognisable from the first word to the last. Edmund had been correct in his assumptions – each page was double sided and more descriptive than he could have thought.

“Your Uncle is very thorough,” He noted, eyes skimming the inked words.

“Thank you, Sire,” Margrove said as he edged closer to the desk in anticipation, “Does the letter state why he concealed a letter to you in his reply?”

“It does not need to,” Edmund explained, “For I wrote to your uncle a few weeks ago. He must have thought this safer to ensure a reply to both.”

Margrove made a noise of understanding.

The letter was folded and stuffed in a desk drawer haphazardly. Once it was stored and out of his sight, Edmund levelled a hard look at the Faun, the letter opener in his hand pointed across the desk in warning.

“Speak of this to no one,” Edmund ordered, “Even Grace.”

Margrove hesitated, coal eyes transfixed on the small but sharp blade, “But your majesty, wouldn’t it be better if Grace knew you were acting in her best interests? She thinks her cause has been abandoned.”

Edmund leaned forward as he set a stern gaze on the Faun, “It would be better if Grace was not given false hope. I am doing my best to find a solution but I cannot guarantee success.”

Margrove nodded in understanding, his eyes slightly lowered in shame.

“You can tell her one thing, however,” Edmund said thoughtfully, absentmindedly fiddling with the letter opener in his hand.  

The Faun looked up with interested eyes.

“You can tell her that every day that she disobeys my orders is a days delay on the solution.”

Chapter Text

XVI

GRACE

Living her life in Narnia had grown less difficult as more time passed. With two jobs and more space to explore, it was easier for Grace to distract herself from the harsh reality she had been feeling but weeks ago.

The lessons with Margrove progressed steadily with the Faun regularly praised her vocal skills and passion. Grace didn’t let it go to her head. She knew she was no great singer but would be damned if she did not give it her all. There were only two jobs at her disposal and her mental health couldn’t afford to lose either.

In just a week she had progressed to singing in tune to folk songs from the West that Margrove had gone to the trouble of teaching her. Beautiful melodies of rich lyrics that told enchanting tales of Narnia and its inhabitants.

Grace noted that many songs seemed to originate from the Western Woods. The very same place that Margrove had said the Kings and Queens had appeared thirteen years ago. Upon asking the Faun about the strange happenings in the West, he admitted that it had always been that way.

He told her of the story of Narnia’s creation; of the great lion who had sung the country into existence and the first humans who had witnessed it. These humans who became the first King and Queen to rear the country into prosperity. Apparently, this had all happened in or near to the Western Woods; specifically within a place called the Lantern Waste.

Margrove theorised that all the strange happenings had come from the land of Spare Oom through the Lantern Waste, the same way King Frank and Queen Helen had nearly a thousand years ago.

The stories interested her to no end, and she found herself as entranced listening to Margrove as she had when she and Casys had spoken of the stories of the stars. There must be something in the Narnian way which inspired such love of their history. She’d never met a person on earth whose eyes burned as brightly when they spoke of their home. It made her want to learn it all, to embed herself in the culture which bundled her in blankets and sent her into the sweetest dreams of dancing fauns and centaurs galloping fast under the starlight.

But she couldn’t. If she became too attached to this place and its people, the opportunity might arise for her to leave and she would hesitate. That was not an option.

So Grace viewed the stories with a distant heart, acknowledging their structure and beauty. In some cases, she even learned a lesson but she did not let them into her heart.

Every morning Grace would stare at the painted stars on her ceiling and remind herself of her mission – to make it home as soon as possible. She only hoped by the time she made it back; it would not be too late.

In an effort to keep sane, Grace had begun humming to herself. An action which she was sure only made sense to herself – she had caught Casys side eyeing her warily a few times now. She didn’t mind, the constant smooth vibration in her throat calmed her.

Sometimes it was complete nonsense, a mix of tones and testing to see what she could comfortably hit. Occasionally it was the tunes Margrove had taught her, although she tried to avoid them for the feeling of longing they left. Most of the time, however, they were songs from Earth.

There was something gratifying about finally being able to sing the songs you had loved. To bring them to life in your own voice. Grace missed her music dearly, if she was on Earth, she would be plugged in and listening to a playlist, dancing around her room in a beat a Narnian could not dream of. But she was not on Earth and this would have to do.

Margrove had noticed this habit, eyes trailing after her as she attempted to organise the Music Room after their sessions. He often asked what she was singing, but Grace simply said it was music from her world and did not divulge more. It wasn’t until Margrove began adapting her music that she relented slightly.

“You’ve got the key wrong, it’s supposed to be in C Major,” Grace chastised over a bundle of sheets.

Margrove shook his head but continued to play with the correction, “Like this?”

“Yes,” Grace agreed, “But your tempo is completely off.”

Margrove huffed, “This would be easier if you would just lay out the song for me directly.”

Grace shrugged defeatedly, “What would be the point of that? It’s not like any of it could be used.”

“Why ever not?” Margrove asked, angling himself so that he was comfortably facing her from atop the piano stool.

“The type of music that I know isn’t made for an era like this. It has a different sound, it’s made with different instruments and a lot of it is quite vulgar,” Grace’s nose scrunched at the thought of any of the Kings and Queens hearing it.

“Words can be substituted. As for the instruments, we can work with what we have,” Margrove insisted, “Narnia has had the same songs for near-on a millennium and new music is few and far between. This could be how we leave our mark on history.”

“I’m not interested in making a name for myself,” Grace grumbled.

Margrove waived his hand in dismissal, “Yes, yes, you’ve made it very clear that your only intention is to get home… but what harm is there in sharing your music? I can’t expect you to sing tales of talking beasts forever.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, considering Narnia is a land of talking beasts,” She returned snidely.

“And humans,” Margrove added, punctuating his point with the tap of a piano key, “People often forget that whilst rare, humans do live amongst us. They rule over us, keeping the country safe and in order but so often don’t have time to tell their own stories.”

Grace did not respond, instead turning stubbornly to the sheet of papers in her hand. She was trying to number the pages so they did not fall out of order.

“You’re the first human I have ever seen with absolutely nothing to do with their time,” He added, “Surely you’re up for the task.”

“I have things to do,” Grace bit back, wounded by the truth. Realising she had acted quite rudely, she looked up at the Faun to apologise but stopped when he caught his sympathetic but stubborn eyes.

He spoke softly, “What is the harm in sharing your world with us? It isn’t as if no one is interested in Spare Oom; a compendium from the West is dedicated to everything we already know.”

Grace sighed, dropping the stack of papers next to her as she admitted “The music isn’t mine. It wouldn’t feel right.”

Margrove laughed lightly, as if her thoughts were trivial, “We can give the artist’s credit. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we borrowed their work for performances.”

Maybe it was something in the Faun’s eyes which convinced her, they were bright and sparkling as if they had been lit from within. Margrove was stubborn in the face of her denial; it reminded her of another look she’d seen six months ago. She understood the feeling of determination and knew that even if she continued to deny his request, Margrove would follow her every movement for months until he had what he needed in any case.

Perhaps she was worried about nothing. It wasn’t as if those artists were coming to claim their songs. In any case, had she not begun humming music to remind herself of home? How was sharing the songs going to change that? If anything, it would probably help.

But the nagging feeling remained uncomfortably under her skin and Grace knew there was more to it. If she let people in and left an imprint of herself on the soul of Narnia, there was a chance that when she was gone, she would be missed. Was it cruel to integrate herself in such a way, only to leave later?

Margrove had held his befuddled expression for a long time when her mind returned to the room. It was Grace’s turn to laugh at his perplexed brow, “Perhaps you’re right. It wouldn’t have to be a big deal. It’s not like any of the artists would ever know unless they came to Narnia, anyways.”

Margrove nodded with a wide grin, “Now you understand me.”

Grace smiled back, feeling a sort of camaraderie with the brunette Faun.

“Now, how is it supposed to sound?” Margrove turned back to the keys expectantly.

Grace stood, mindlessly rubbing her hands together as she thought, “I’m not sure about keys or chords, you’ve yet to teach me anything about instruments.”

Margrove waived a hand impatiently, “Don’t think too much into it. Can you hum the melody?”

“I suppose,” Grace wondered to the side of the grand piano and laid a hand upon it, “It’s quite fast paced,” She warned.

Margrove cracked his knuckles fearlessly, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Chapter Text

XVII

GRACE

For a week, Grace and Margrove worked on the song in their spare time.

Grace would attempt to convey the song through humming and singing whilst Margrove sat at the piano, processing her instructions at a headlong sprint.

To his credit, Margrove did not falter once. He was an avid supporter of feedback and took it on with a tenacity that Grace knew she could never replicate.

To show for their work, the song had not only been pieced together, but somehow Margrove had made it better. The beat remained the same but there was something, some string of notes that he harmonised with the melody. It made Grace’s hair stand on end.

He attributed his talents to another song whose name he struggled to remember. It was similar to the song they were constructing; known in the West for its tricky nature and fast beat. It wasn’t until the song was completed that the name finally came to him.

“Ah!” Margrove said, head lifting unexpectedly from his arm cradle, “I remember it now. The Long Trot!”

“The what?” Grace asked.

“The Long Trot! It’s a favourite in the West, rarely played due to its difficulty,” Margrove explained, hands moving in a flurry as he spoke, “Only the best musicians and dancers attempt it. The Long Trot has only been performed thrice at court since the Great Peace began. It is reserved for very special occasions.”

Grace smiled mischievously, “I wonder then, if this song will be too difficult for the orchestra.”

Margrove stood up, nearly choking on his excitement, “It may very well be! However, we are at court and have only the best musicians and dancers at our disposal, I don’t see how it can’t be managed.”

He flitted to a desk and scrambled through the sheets of music.

Grace watched him with a furrowed brow, “How what can be managed?”

Margrove shouted in triumph, holding a small empty scroll into the air, “Why, our performance for Queen Susan’s birthday ball! It is but a few days away.”

Grace’s eyes bulged, “A few days? I don’t know if that’s enough time to-”

“It’ll be fine,” Margrove waived her off, “You will lead the voice, there are other singers in the orchestra who can accompany you. The dancers already know The Long Trot and need only a little practice.”

“You expect me to perform?” Grace blanched, “I can barely project my voice as it is.”

“You project well, there is nothing for you to be afraid of.”

Grace spluttered, “Yes, there is! I’ve never sung in front of anyone but you and I don’t intend to change that soon.”

Margrove halted his actions, feather quill midair as he looked at her meaningfully over his shoulder, “Really? Grace, what do you think we have been doing here.”

Grace shrugged helplessly, “I thought I was only here to assist you.”

The Faun only raised his eyebrows in reply and continued to scribble on the paper. Once he was done he folded it into his palm and said, “You are here to offer a new voice to the music of Narnia.”

“Which I have done by teaching you this song,” Grace said resolutely.

Margrove shook his head, a small smile on his face, “It is not enough to teach it, you must present it!” To accentuate his point he thrust his fists into the air. His eyes alight with encouragement as he added, “I think you’ll find it very rewarding.”

Grace shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.

Margrove lifted a finger towards her, “Fear not my friend. If it is a case of nerves you are nursing then I have the remedy,” Then he shuffled forward, hooves pattering on the ground as he moved closer to her hunched form on the chaise, “You must simply imagine the audience furless.”

It had somewhat of the desired effect for Grace couldn’t help but smile, “I don’t think that will work for the Kings and Queens.”

The Faun leaned back at this revelation. “Oh, will it not? I suppose they do not bear any fur apart from that upon their head, and a bald person is simply not scary.”

He paused in thought, tapping his chin like a scholar before snapping his fingers and asking, “Perhaps you may simply imagine them in their underclothes?”

An image immediately burned into her retinas. Grace rubbed at them against the image as she chastised the Faun, “Margrove!”

His face dropped, “Is something the matter?”

She looked at him as though he had grown a second head, “I’m not sure that thinking of the Kings and Queens in such a way is proper.”

“It isn’t?” Margrove continued to stare at her blankly before shaking it off with a dismissive, “You humans are so peculiar about nakedness. Why, if you think about it. Besides my fur, I am naked right now.”

It took every ounce of Grace’s self-control not to look down.

“Nakedness is a natural part of life, Grace,” Margrove chided, “You are in a country of talking beasts and you will find hardly a stitch on them. Why, my own uncle spends the winter with only a scarf for company. There is no need to be embarrassed.”

“And yet, I am,” Grace kept her eyes steadfastly on the ceiling.

Margrove snapped the folded paper on her forehead, “Stop that. It’s not as if you can see anything with all of the fur.”

“You’re the one who insisted I imagine it gone,” Grace gritted, cheeks flushed uncomfortably.

Margrove chuckled as he gave her a knowing look, “Does performing really scare you, or is it something else?”

Grace’s eyes lowered to her fingers as they fiddled nervously, “I am afraid of laying myself bare and being ridiculed for it.”

Margrove dropped unceremoniously upon the chaise next to her, “I don’t think I single person in this court will have one negative thing to say about it,” He resolved before adding, “If they do, then they will answer to me.”

Grace looked up at her friend, slightly teary in gratitude and jest, “Are you going to scare away the entire court then?”

Margrove shrugged lightly, “If they truly refuse to see good music, then yes.”

Her face cracked in a small brief smile, “Even with that assurance, I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.”

“Then we will find another solution,” Margrove compromised, “But you will be performing in some form at Queen Susan’s ball.”

The Faun stood resolutely, fiddling with the square of paper as he made his way to the doorway. It had been shut during their lessons, at Grace’s request since she knew a guard was posted in the hallway. It was to this guard, Margrove spoke to; he deposited the small square into their awaiting hands as he instructed on where to deliver the note before closing the door again.

Grace returned her eyes to her hands, realising that she had unknowingly returned to picking at them again, “What was that?”

“A summons for the rest of the Orchestra. We will need to begin rehearsals straight away,” Margrove had begun picking up the sheets strewn across the room.

Grace did not understand how it always ended up like this, endless litters of sheets covered the floors no matter how much they cleaned it. It was not as if they threw the sheets about as they worked, nor did they leave sheets on the floor purposefully. Yet, every time she left this room in a somewhat orderly state and every time she returned it was like this again. Grace was starting to think Margrove may have been the issue.

“Now, I have a list of our most promising singers,” He hurriedly deposited a sheet of paper atop her hands, “If you will not sing, you will need to pick a protegee.”

Grace’s eyes scanned the page, hoping for a name she at least recognised, alas there was none. She looked up at Margrove helplessly, “I don’t know any of these people.”

He was busy righting some instruments in their stands and did not hear her. Grace sighed; she supposed if the Orchestra would be here then she could conduct auditions on her own. Perhaps she would have them each perform The Lullaby of the River to determine the best voice.

Margrove was still flying about the room in a flurry. Grace noted with slight displeasure that he was leaving more mess than he was cleaning.

“Leave it,” She sighed as she pulled herself from the chaise, “I’ll clean the room. You work out who goes where and does what.”

Margrove had frozen at her words, arms and mouth full of scrolls which he unceremoniously dropped, “If you insist.”

He returned to the piano stool, one sheet of paper set upon it’s top as he began fiddling with the keys, “I think adding some strings and woodwind will be beneficial alongside the piano and of course, the drums.”

Grace hummed in approval as she set about cleaning the sheets from the floor. She had organised a neat little pile upon the wooden desk.

Margrove continued playing as she went and sometimes, Grace caught his eyes trailing her as she moved. She thought it was odd but did not comment on the behaviour. Knowing Margrove, he was likely to say something that made her uncomfortable again. Her mind flashed to the furless incident from earlier and she shook her head against the images once again.

“Don’t stop,” Margrove said from atop the stool.

Grace looked up from the sheet of The Ballad of the Diamond Miner, slightly apprehensive of asking her next question, “Why?”

Margrove said nothing, only stared as he motioned for her to continue. Grace’s brows furrowed but she did as she was told, tucking the sheet away into her pile as she stood.

As she returned to the desk, Margrove continued testing the song on the piano only stopping again to say, “There!”

Grace turned; eyes focused on the Faun in a questioning stare.

“Did you know that you have a dance in your walk?”

“I’m sorry?” Grace blinked.

Margrove stood from the piano stool, quill feather still in hand, “A dance in your walk,” he explained, “It’s like a skip in your step, in beat to the music.”

Grace continued to stare, “No.”

“You do,” Margrove flourished the feather at her, “Its slight but it’s there.”

Grace did not know how to respond, “Thank you?”

Margrove grinned at her, “I think I’ve found a way for you to participate in the performance.”

“You have?” Grace could see his mind moving a kilometre a second, way too fast for her to catch up. She placed the papers haphazardly on her previous pile on the desk, “What would that be?”

The Faun’s head tilted slightly as he finished surveying her, clearly a decision made in his mind, “Have you thought about dancing before?”

Before she could respond a flurry of air rushed through the open window and the neat pile of papers exploded across the room again.

“I suppose that answers that question,” Grace muttered.

Chapter Text

XVIII

GRACE

The sharp knock was hard to sleep through. It continued pounding in Grace’s ears as she opened her eyes, so much so that she wondered whether the sound had really stopped.

Her eyes opened to the bleary image of her room; bare apart from the sheets of paper and ink spread across the floor.

As her ears stopped ringing and her mind shifted into focus, she wondered if she’d imagined the sound. It wouldn’t be the first time her dreams had played tricks on her. Her hands fisted the soft cotton sheets to test their corporeality, they were real - the cruellest dream yet.

She jumped as another persistent knock echoed against her eardrums. The startle settling into an irritable bubble. Grace had never been a morning person.

“Go away,” She groaned, turning over and tangling herself in the sheets. It was hardly sunrise yet; Surely Casys had not come to fetch her for her shift in the kitchens?

“It’s me,” A soft voice wafted through the doorway, “May I enter?”

“No,” Grace covered her face with the pillow.

There was silence then; a blissful peace of a moment until it was interrupted with the slight scuffle of the door handle and Lucy announcing herself, “I’m coming in.”

Grace shut her eyes tightly beneath the pillow, hoping that if she didn’t move, Lucy would assume that she’d have suffocated. She needn’t have bothered, for the youngest Queen had somehow silently crossed the room and pried the pillow from her hands. Grace immediately rolled over and buried herself in another one.

“I’d have hoped for a warmer welcome than that,” Lucy said, eyes narrowed in mock disappointment.

“The sun isn’t even up fully and nor shall I be,” Grace said, briefly pausing in thought to look the Queen over with crusted eyes, “How are you dressed already?”

“It’s a special occasion,” Lucy grunted delicately as she pulled the blankets from atop Grace’s body.

Grace hunched into a foetal position, shivering as the cold morning air stinged against her nearly bare skin.

Lucy grimaced, “Sorry, I forgot how cold it was.”

Once again, Grace’s ear was met with the soft slide of the door opening. She looked up warily at the next visitor, only to lock eyes on the graceful form of Queen Susan, sliding through the thin opening. She was barely dressed, a thick embroidered robe draped over her shoulders.

The older Queen stopped, hand frozen on the handle as the door clicked to a close and she assessed the situation with observant blue eyes.

“Lucy,” Queen Susan admonished, crossing the marble gracefully, “This is not how you wake a guest.”

Lucy had frozen with her hands still gripping the thick doona. Her eyes were wide, like she had been caught doing something she was not supposed to.

Grace eyed the blanket longingly as she attempted to cover herself, only managing a nod and a small greeting. She wasn’t going to attempt a curtsy in a see-through shift, she’d already been through enough this morning.

Lucy caught on, lifting the doona and replacing it over her shivering body.

“I apologise, Grace,” Queen Susan sighed, “I had asked my sister to wake you, but I hadn’t realised she would take her job so seriously.”

“It’s fine,” Grace said, voice still cracked with sleep, “I wasn’t exactly obliging.”

The elder Queen smiled warmly, “No one would expect you to be at this hour.”

Queen Susan’s eyes lingered on her hunched form; Grace was still against the mattress and clearly shivering. The eldest Queen continued to scan the room, her hands pulling the thin dressing gown further over her skin until her dark eyes finally zeroed in on the fireplace.

“You don’t have a fire?” Queen Susan asked, eyes flickering warily to the fireplace.

“Haven’t needed it, your majesty,” Grace’s teeth chattered.

The eldest Queen fixed her with a pointed look, “Really?” She asked, then relented, depositing herself at the edge of the bed to cover Grace in the blanket again, “I suppose it has been unseasonably warm. I’ll ensure a man is sent to your rooms to light the fire each night.”

“Thank you,” Grace said, tugging the blanket over herself.

Lucy eyed her friend dryly and commented, “Don’t thank her yet,” as Queen Susan called in the direction of the doorway.

The double doors flew inwards and a troupe of Narnians entered with much more gusto than was necessary for the hour. Their arms were overflowing with various tools, ribbons and materials which they dutifully carried, lining themselves across the wall.

Trailing behind the troupe, was a flowing image of a woman. Her skin was near translucent with a slight bluish tinge and was covered in clear risen bumps which caught the light as she passed. They were like raindrops on a windowpane, frozen in time. Upon her head, sat waves of a greenish blue colour that Grace had never seen before, they tumbled and flowed down her back, trailing off in wisps like steam.

Queen Susan smiled knowingly at the expression on Grace’s face, “This is Alsira, Naiad of the sweet pond and the Cair’s tailor.”

The Naiad nodded her head respectfully.

Grace responded in kind, mentally noting that she was still staring.

Lucy grinned, “She’s here to take your measurements.”

This pulled Grace from her stupor, “Pardon?”

“Your clothes, she’s here to take your measurements for them,” Lucy explained.

“We understand that it is quite early,” Queen Susan supposed, situating herself comfortably on the edge of the bed, “However, with the ball in two days there was hardly any time left.”

“The ball?” Grace was really not good with mornings.

Lucy looked at her expectantly, “You are performing with the Orchestra… right?”

“Margrove and I have compromised on a dance,” Grace explained, sitting up and rubbing her face.

“Well, it is a ball; you would be expected to dance,” Lucy mused cheekily.

Grace rolled her eyes, “What I mean is; I’ve been asked to lead one of the dances alongside the dancing troupe.”

Lucy’s brows raised in interest, “Oh? Which one?”

“The Long Trot,” Queen Susan answered, smoothing the sleeves of her robe.

Lucy’s eyes widened, “I didn’t know we commissioned the Long Trot?” she whispered to her sister.

“Margrove raised it a few days ago. I didn’t see why not, as he was adamant the troupe would be ready in time,” Queen Susan explained, her eyes curious when they returned to Grace, “He said you have provided new music for the ball?”

“Just one song,” Grace amended, “Margrove thought it would be a good fit for the dance.”

Lucys eyes blazed in wonder, “It must have a fast beat, then.”

“It starts off slow but it gets a little faster as it goes,” Grace shrugged.

“Sounds like the perfect fit,” Queen Susan mused. A beat passed, where she glanced briefly to the troupe of Narnians along the wall, “Well, if you are only performing the one song, there is no reason you should not attend the rest of the ball formally.”

Grace began to protest, “I’m not sure about-”

Queen Susan silenced her, “I will not hear any complaints, protests or pleading.”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, your majesty, however, I’m quite certain that King Edmund wouldn’t approve.”

“Let me deal with my brother,” The Eldest Queen sniffed, sharing a knowing glance with Lucy, “You are a ward of the Crown. It would not look good if you were not to attend.”

Grace thought back to Margrove’s first greeting a few weeks ago and grimaced, “Are there rumours?”

Queen Susan shook her head and rose from the bed regally, “If there is, they will be stamped out by your very presence.”

From the other edge of the bed, Lucy grinned animalistically, “At the very least, they will when we’re done with you.”

The Elder Queen swept across the room, ordering the line about in this way and that as Lucy gently pried Grace from the comforting warmth of blankets.

Grace stifled her groans; the movement caused her muscles to ache intensely. The past three days had been full of constant movement and she’d hardly had a chance to breathe between dancing, singing and teaching.

When Grace had agreed to learn the Long Trot, she had thought that it would be simple. She’d been in mandatory dance lessons since she was young and was well adept at memorizing combinations. What she hadn’t been prepared for, was the fast-paced erratic movements the dance demanded. When Margrove had said the Long Trot was difficult, he wasn’t kidding.

When she couldn’t dance any longer, Grace sat with Lilis – an enthusiastic Dryad with the fickle attitude of a human. They got along swimmingly, which greatly helped with her task of teaching the Dryad.

She was fascinated by Lilis’ voice which came out in beautiful tones accompanied by a slight whistly edge. It was as if there were holes in her lungs that spread to her bark-like skin and constantly breathed, they would both exude the soft notes and take in extra air so that the Dryad could sing for longer.

Lucy was pulling her atop a pedestal. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Grace wondered when such a thing had gotten there.

The Naiad, Alsira, began picking up pieces of fabric and laying them across Grace’s shoulder. Her eyes sparkling like sunlight on the sea as she assessed each one. “Green is most definitely her colour,” She finally noted, lifting the leafy fabric and wrapping it around her waist expertly.

Grace eyed the fabric; it was one of the few she’d chosen with Lucy at the market. As the Dryad shifted it this way and that, the droplets on her hands seeped into the material and left small round stains. No matter how many droplets were lost on the fabric, however, it seemed that the Naiad was never in short supply for her skin simply replaced it.

For the next hour, Grace was stock still as the Naiad poked and prodded the material into place with both of the Queens expert direction.

“It will need less skirt if she is not to trip over it during the Long Trot,” Queen Susan mused from her seat near the wall.

“The sleeves will also have to be tightened,” Lucy noted, dutifully holding Grace’s arm aloft.

The Elder Queen agreed, wincing delicately as one of the Dryads tugged her hair into style, “Three quarter fitted sleeves will do nicely, Alsira.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” The Naiad assented, hurriedly pinning before Grace’s arm dropped.

Lucy released the arm, skipping towards a faun in line with an armful of ribbons, “I’m thinking silver trim.”

Grace eyed the ribbons warily, “Please, nothing too fancy.”

“Don’t you worry Miss Grace,” Alsira muttered through the pins in her mouth, “The dress will be ready in time.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Grace whispered.

Queen Susan settled comfortably in the chair, hair now twisted into an elaborate braid, “Do not worry about the cost. I will cover it. Think of your compliance as a gift to me for my birthday.”

Grace’s brows raised, “You’re going to cover my dress for your birthday ball?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Every girl ought to have at least one pretty dress. I would give you an old one of mine or Lucy’s but you seem to fall between us in size.”

“Still,” Grace persisted, “I’m not sure if I would feel right with accepting such a gift.”

“Would it help if we were to give it to you as a thank you for your music?” Lucy asked, a glittering silver ribbon in her hands, “It has been far too long since The Long Trot was last performed, and your music is a little easier for the musicians.”

She crossed the room to Grace who held still as the Queen and The Naiad measured the ribbon across the dresses square neckline, “You’ve given us a gift, let us return the favour.”

Grace had known the feeling of charity from birth and felt something squirm inside at the thought of accepting such a gift, “I don’t know.”

She felt the weight of Queen Susan’s eyes upon her, the Eldest Queens uncanny knowing gaze not lifting as they offered an ultimatum, “Then you must accept it as payment for your future endeavours. I would expect more music to come from the Orchestra now that you’ve shown to be quite the accomplice to Margrove.”

This, Grace could agree with.

“Good,” Queen Susan’s eyes warmed to a simmer, “Then the matter is settled.”

“Don’t make yourself too uneasy about it,” Lucy whispered conspiratorially, “It isn’t Susan’s birthday until after Christmas in any case.”

Queen Susan rolled her eyes good naturedly as a Dryad carefully helped her into a gown, “That’s enough, Lu. Don’t go giving away all of my secrets.”

Lucy giggled.

At last, Alsira stepped back to admire her handiwork, “Is there anything else you would like made, Miss Grace? I have taken your measurements for future dresses and her majesty, Queen Lucy, has requested I prepare another chemise.”

Grace stopped in thought, arms awkwardly spread in the air less she prick herself on the pinned sleeves. She didn’t know what to ask for, other than new dresses and underclothes, what else did people wear in this time?

Then an idea came to her in a moment of mischievous madness, and if she was honest, Grace knew better than to voice it. That didn’t stop her, “I would like a cloak.”

Chapter Text

XIX

EDMUND

“I don’t know why this is so important to you that it demanded you be in my office at first light, Su,” Edmund said, hand clasped on his half-suspended quill as it haphazardly dripped ink.

Susan narrowed her eyes, “The ball is the day after tomorrow, I would say the matter is paramount.”

Edmund shook his head stubbornly, “She’s not of the court, it’s not an expectation that she attends.”

“She is a ward of the Crown; it is an expectation that we take care of her needs.”

“And this extends to parties?” Edmund sarcastically muttered, “Of course, how could I be remiss. Please, let us give her the perfect opportunity to escape.”

Susan sighed, “You know that will be nearly impossible, not with you watching her every move.”

“I will be far too busy for that,” Edmund grunted and returned to his work.

“She’s going to be there in any case, Edmund,” Susan reasoned, “She is leading the Long Trot with the dancing troupe.”

Edmunds mind filled with the humorous image of Grace tripping over her own skirts, “I’m sure she is,” he said dismissively.

When Susan didn’t reply, he looked up to her poised face.

“You’re serious?” He asked.

Susan eyed him with a look that always made him feel stupid, “Grace is a member of the Orchestra, brother, did you think this would mean that she didn’t perform at functions?”

“I didn’t-”

“Think that far? How rare of you,” Susan cut him off, “Though I suppose it is understandable considering that when it comes to Grace you seem to be blinded by some negative emotion.”

“I am not,” Edmund protested, frustration boiling under his skin. Had he not already proven to her that he was rational? He let out a huff of exasperation, followed by dropping the quill in it’s well with a little more force than necessary, “I did as you asked Su, I lessened her sanctions. The fact that I did proves that my mind is as clear as it has always been.”

Susan merely raised her brow, “Clearly not if you’re reacting this way to a simple ball.”

“No ball is simple when you are involved,” Edmund said slyly, “As for my reaction, I have my reasons.”

Arms crossed; Susan awaited further explanation.

Edmund only held out for a few seconds before he admitted defeat, “I caught a letter from Margrove asking about the Lantern.”

 “I think the Faun has a right to ask his uncle about such things,” Susan said mildly.

“I believe that he did it at Grace’s behest,” Edmund reasoned.

His older sister closed her eyes and rubbed them wearily, “I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“Susan-”

“No, that’s enough, I will not have you continue to slander Grace in such a way when you haven’t even taken the time to get to know her.”

“I know her well enough,” Edmund grumbled.

“You don’t,” Susan countered, “By all accounts you have spoken to her twice.”

“And heard of her far more times than necessary. All I hear from you, Lucy and whomever else frequents her company is that she ‘just wants to go home’,” Edmund spat, rubbing a tired palm across his forehead, “That’s great, I am well aware of the fact that she wants to return to Spare Oom, however, the current situation requires caution on our part before we allow her to do so.”

“What other caution is necessary at this point?” Susan asked, “Grace has been here for nearly a month and her time in the Kitchens and with the Orchestra are sufficient evidence that she means us no harm.”

“She still went behind our backs in having Margrove send the letter. She’s trying to obtain intel on the portal in the woods.”

Susan instinctively shook her head, “I refuse to believe that is what was intended.”

“It does not matter, in any case,” Edmund muttered sourly, “Tumnus’s letter gives me more questions than answers on the subject.”

Susan’s lips pursed thoughtfully, “Still no result on that front?”

“Not yet,” Edmund muttered, “I fear I will need to investigate myself.”

His sister looked up, eyes wide in alarm, “You are planning to go West by yourself?”

Edmund waved her off, “Do not fear, I have no plans to enter the portal. Merely to ascertain its location.”

“I don’t know if that is a good idea, Edmund.”

“What choice is there? It is not as if any of you could go; Lucy would absolutely enter it on accident, Peter is far too busy and you need to be here for the organisation of your upcoming nuptials,” Edmund’s hand had progressed to rubbing his eyes, his sight only catching bleary visions of light between his fingertips.  

When he’d finished, he caught Susan’s watchful gaze. Clearly, his sister had not had the time between her heartfelt pleas for Grace to assess him properly, something that Edmund realised he was strangely grateful for… until that moment.

“Did you sleep last night?” Susan asked softly.

Edmund sat straighter in his chair and grunted, “I had too much work to do.”

She shook her head, eyes turned with guilt, “If this is the consequences of my resignation, I am sorry.”

Edmund scoffed, “That work is inconsequential. I haven’t touched it since we spoke.” He gestured vaguely to the parchment strewn about on the desk, “I am working on your marriage contract. As it turns out, the Calormene Ambassador has a lot of requests.”

“He left them with you?” Susan asked, warily picking up a sheet from the edge of the desk, “I asked him to deliver these for my personal review.”

“It seems he did not get the message.” Or ignored it, Edmund thought sardonically.

“I’ll take them,” Susan said as she began deftly collecting the sheets. 

Edmund stopped her, palm planting on the sheet he had copied from the Ambassador’s list, “They were left with me.”

“And you have made a wonderful beginning, brother, but I will take it from here,” Susan persisted, lifting the parchment from under his palm and tucking it away in her arms, “You will go directly to bed from this place.”

He shook his head fervently, still eyeing the sheet in her arms, “I can’t, I have training with the knights this morning.”

 “Then I will advise them you are not to attend,” Susan replied.

“That is not happening.”

“Then choose; you can either go to sleep now and be well rested for this afternoon, or you will go to bed early tonight. I will not have you snoring through my birthday ball.”

“I have too much work to do for either,” Edmunds voice heaved slightly as he attempted to swipe the sheets of parchment from Susan’s arms.

She merely stepped further back, her normally serene face stern in the soft sunlight, “I will take the work off your hands, no matter what you choose.  If you continue to protest I will commit you to both options.”

Edmund’s arms dropped atop the desk, giving up on the direct route of retrieving the list. He would either need to send Shese to retrieve it or find a way to delicately tell his sister that he had broken about a dozen laws retrieving it.

“What a generous amount of sleep you are offering, Sister,” He noted mockingly.

“What an extraordinary amount of sleep you need to catch up on, Brother,” Susan countered, “If you continue to refuse then I will involve Lucy.”

Edmund visibly paled at the mention of their younger sister; Lucy was the Mistress of the Healers Guild and took her position very seriously. The moment it was revealed that he felt the least bit poorly she would commit him to a full examination.

“I will go to bed early tonight,” Edmund relented, knowing that ‘early’ was a general term and could be pushed.

“As soon as dinner is completed,” Susan decided, taking a moment to adjust the stack of parchment in her arms before adding, “And not a moment later.”

“Fine,” Edmund begrudgingly agreed.

She smiled warmly at his acquiescence as a streak of sunlight caught the glint in her eye, “You may also include Grace’s attendance to the ball in that agreement.”

Edmund looked up, mouth agape in surprise, “Are you blackmailing me?”

Susan’s warm smile grew to a cheeky grin, “Indeed I am.”

Edmund could only watch, slack jawed, as his sister waltzed towards the doorway.

At the handle, she turned back; the mischievous glint in her eyes rivalling Lucy’s as she claimed, “I trust that you’ll make an effort to help Grace feel welcome.”

His scoff was covered by the creak of the door sliding to a close.

Chapter Text

XX

GRACE

Out Of The Woods – Taylor Swift

As she lounged against one of the marble columns of the ballroom, Grace was beginning to question why she was here.

She had done as asked; dressed in a green gown which Queen Lucy had adorned with some borrowed jewels. At Lilis’s insistence, Grace had let her play with her hair, twisting and piling it until it was swept into a robust updo which the Dryad had claimed would not move for the earth – something that Grace hoped was true when she thought of the vigorous movement it was about to bear.

Her sight was full of happy beings, both human and creature alike, bobbing and swerving amongst each other in perfect synchronicity. The Lyre’s Retreat roared across the large room at full volume and met the ears of all as they watched the dance.

Everything was perfect, exactly as she imagined a medieval ball would be. Men walking with swords at her side and beautiful ladies perched on their arms. She was surprised to find there were more humans at court than Casys or Margrove had originally let on, however, she supposed in comparison to the number of beasts, their number was inconsequential.

It was a land of beasts indeed, the hall was packed with Narnians as many of them sat, wandered, talked and danced in the hall that night. All apart from one; Casys remained stoically at her side.

If he was displeased that he was stuck on ‘Grace Duty’ he didn’t state as such and when Grace braved a look at his indifferent face, he would give her a stiff and encouraging nod. She supposed it was his way of stating that he was fine.

Her eyes wandered the flurry of skirts and fur, moving past the crowds of talking animals to the balcony across the room. She stared at it longingly but did not move herself an inch from the pole. Grace knew there were more eyes than just Casys on her tonight, and no matter how she might have entertained the daydreams of taking her new cloak and escaping into the night, she knew that was all they were.

Even if she managed to escape, Grace had no means of making it to the West and no knowledge of the Wardrobe. It was a fruitless quest and she would most likely die of starvation, if she wasn’t eaten first.

A vision of red spun into the edge of her vision and Grace couldn’t help but smile at the infectious laughter of Lucy. She was dancing with a tall, blonde Faun with a matching wide grin. He spun her in faster circles than the rest of the party, but she clearly enjoyed it, head spinning in stride to keep her from dizziness.

A pit settled in Grace’s stomach. Even if she could leave, how could she without saying goodbye to Lucy? The younger Queen had wormed her way into her heart with her vivid soul and true spirit. Lucy had been the first to believe her and had stuck steadfast by her side despite her families misconceptions. Or one member’s misconceptions, Grace amended sourly.

The dark-haired King was somewhere in the hall, probably watching her just as closely as Casys was.  At least he had the grace not to do it brazenly this time, Grace didn’t know how she would react to having his shadowed eyes glaring at her. She was already on edge, the nervousness for her performance venting through her picked fingers.

To her right, her Centaurian guard straightened stiffly. Grace eyed Casys warily, half expecting him to order her out of the room before the dance had even begun. Had King Edmund guessed her thoughts from across the room? She stood from the marble pillar, searching for that familiarly tousled head of dark hair.

To her surprise, it was dark hair she did not find, but golden. Gleaming in the torchlight with an equally glimmering crown upon it sat the head of High King Peter. He regarded her with a slight incline of his head and a swift kiss on the back of her hand.

Grace had grown used to this behaviour – as several other men had greeted her similarly that night – and took less time to recover than she had on the hillside. She swept into a short curtsy and greeted him.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” King Peter asked politely, joining her slight lean against the marble pillar.

“It’s beautiful,” Grace smiled as she surveyed the room; torches had been lit on every pillar and had filled it with a luscious golden glow. The light caught on everything in the room as every being reflected it tenfold onto the other. It made everything sparkle. “I’ve never been to a ball before. Are they always this grand?” Grace asked.

“Always,” King Peter smiled sentimentally, his eyes catching on Queen Susan as he pointed her out, amongst the crowd of dancers, “Especially where my Royal Sister is involved.”

Grace’s smile grew as she watched the Queen spin under the Faun’s arm gracefully, her hair trailing behind in an intricate plait. “I’d imagine with 13 years on the throne, it would entail a lot of parties,” Grace wondered, “How do you never bore of all this?”

King Peter shrugged easily, “We’ve been attending and organizing such functions for many years, but our sister always seems to find a way to make it interesting.”

“Oh?” Grace’s interest peaked, “And what makes this ball interesting?”

“Well,” The High King began, leaning towards Grace like he would tell her some great secret, “I hear that the Long Trot might be making an appearance tonight.”

Grace’s mind returned to the unsettled feeling in her stomach, “Yes, I’ve heard that too.”

“I also hear,” He added, whispered voice barely carrying above the music, “That you are leading the dance.”

Grace looked up at the High King, his eyes were filled with mirth. She couldn’t mirror it and was sure that her nervousness was written all over her face.

King Peter patted her arm comfortingly, “Never fear, I’m sure you’ve had enough practice and with the right motivation you will see it through with nary a scrape.”

Grace didn’t say anything, the sick bubbling feeling in her stomach was growing unbearable.

The High King continued talking – blissfully unaware of the turmoil of his companion and the fact that his words grazed through one ear and out the other. Grace rested against the pillar and let it take her weight in full, the cool marble refreshing against her flushed skin.

King Peters face entered her darkened vision, “Are you well, Grace?” He asked worriedly, arms poised to catch her should she fall. Grace recoiled from them, the last thing she needed was to be seen carried out of the hall.

“I’m fine,” Grace waved him off haphazardly.

His eyebrows raised, “You look green.”

Grace shook her head fervently but it did little to deter him, “I can get Lucy, she’ll probably know-”

“No, please,” Grace stopped him, “There’s nothing Lucy can do to help me, I’m just a little nervous.”

King Peter eyed her warily, “You take ill when you’re nervous?”

Somehow, through her nauseous state, Grace had the energy to look affronted, “It’s quite a common affliction.”

The High King smiled half-heartedly, “If you say so.”

He offered her his arm which Grace took gently as he led her further from the party. When they reached a wall he delicately let her down in one of the armchairs.

“Thank you,” Grace sighed, grateful for the distance from the warm torches and dancing bodies.

The look on the High King’s face almost made her laugh; he was watching Grace warily as if he expected her to throw up at any moment.

“I’m feeling better,” Grace assured him. It was half true, her illness had lessened now that she was not staring at the point of her nervousness – the dance floor.

“I’m more concerned about what will happen when the Long Trot is called. Will you make it onto the floor without spilling onto it?” King Peter asked warily.

Grace’s stomach lurched at the thought, and she took a deep breath against the feeling as her clammy hand gripped the armrest, “I hope so.”

The High King looked at her thoughtfully, “What worries you so much? Is it not just a dance?”

“I think it’s the thought of falling flat on my face in front of your entire court.”

King Peter eyed her; his face set in innocent optimism, “Then do not fall?”

Grace laughed breathlessly, “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“It can be,” He insisted, “Anything can be done with the correct training and motivation. You just need to want it enough.”

Grace raised an eyebrow at his optimism, if she squinted in the torchlight she knew she would have seen Lucy in his place, smiling as she pushed her towards the dance floor. The look comforted her.

“You have been taught the dance, yes?” The face snapped back to the form of the High Kings, the subtle glint he had presented but a week ago was back and Grace wondered if she was being tested again.

“Of course,” She answered honestly.

“From what I hear, you’re quite good.”

The other brow joined its sisters height on her skull, “Have conversations with Margrove regularly do you?” Grace quipped.

King Peter shook his head and waved off her comment, “The dryads in the dancing troupe are of my Royal Sisters private household; but that is beside the point.”

Grace stared at him impatiently as he drew out the moment.

“Perhaps you need the right motivation.”

Grace scoffed and wiped her sweaty hands on the sides of her dress, clearly the High King had not been paying attention to the extent of her nervousness just moments ago. “How do you plan on motivating me” She asked sceptically.

The High King’s eyes gleamed as he explained, “By reminding you exactly what is at stake here.”

When his words fell flat on Grace’s confused ears he did not become disheartened, instead he prompted, “What is the one thing you want the most, Grace?”

“To not throw up on the dance floor,” Grace deadpanned.

It was fleeting, the look of repulsion on his face before it was schooled again. He eyed her obviously, “Your freedom.”

Grace raised her eyebrows, “Am I going to dance my way there?”

“No,” The High King smiled wryly, “But it is a step towards convincing my brother and I that you are not a threat. Is that not what you and Lucy have been working towards?”

Grace looked up at the King in alarm, the knowing look he was giving her chilled her to the bone. He knew? Had he known this whole time? She supposed he expected his sister might make this kind of move – Lucy didn’t seem the kind to leave her friends without help – but surely their plan had not been that obvious.

“I know what Lucy is planning,” King Peter confirmed, “and you may rest assured; I am on your side-”

“If you are on my side then why can’t you grant me my freedom?” Grace leaned across the arm of the chair toward the King, eyes blazing with desperation.

The High King silenced her with a raised finger, “However, you must understand, I value my brother’s council greatly. I will not go against him.”

Grace deflated, disappointed but unsurprised that her problems would not be solved that easily. The cloak she had hidden on the front terrace was looking more tempting by the minute. Or at least it would, if the High King was not looking at her so wisely.

“I am also aware of your other plans,” He edged, leaning forward so that his whisper carried to her ears, “You must know that such an action would be foolish, considering your previous failure.”

Grace froze, mind unhinged and unthinking in cold realisation. High King Peter stared at her seriously – it made her feel like a child chastised by her parent. The look was practiced and easily worn on his face and Grace wondered whether Lucy found herself in scrapes often.

“I won’t stop you,” He reasoned, leaning away with his arms raised in surrender, “But I will warn you. This action may cause more harm than good.”

Grace didn’t move but she felt her shocked expression loosen. He was giving her the choice to make her own decision and she was grateful for it.

“What is your advice then?” She asked tentatively, unwilling to admit to her plans to the man who had the power to behead her for them.

The warm and easy smile graced his face once again, “You will enter that dance floor with your head held high and give the performance of a lifetime.”

Grace raised her eyebrows, “I don’t know if I can.”

King Peter shook his head adamantly, “But you must try your hardest. This is a true test of character, Grace. If you can survive the Long Trot, then you may survive the journey ahead of you.”

Grace stared at the King doubtfully, but he paid her no mind. He turned to a table of food behind him and plucked a pitcher of wine and two goblets from the table. He poured two, offering her one goblet as he held his own. She took it tentatively.

The High King raised the goblet, eyeing her green face meaningfully, “To your health.”  

Grace took a sip, only thinking after the liquid passed her lips that she should have asked what it was. She supposed it did not matter now; it would probably be an offence for her to spit it out. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it was wine, the robust and sweet flavour coating her tongue like sunshine on a warm summers day.

Her eyes widened in wonder as she asked the High King, “What is this?”

“It’s wine from the South,” He grinned, “Grown and bottled under the radiant southern sun.”

“It’s delicious,” Grace exclaimed.

“They say, those who drink the wine of the south absorb the nature of those who have grown there,” King Peter whispered conspiratorially, “They are robust, hard-working people who see beauty in the smallest things. Much like my Sister, who leads them with her gentle heart.”

Grace involuntarily smiled at the show of familial love.

“This is from one of her personal wineries,” He held the goblet aloft proudly, “Only brought out on special occasions.”

Grace opened her mouth but the High King silenced her again, face pointed in alert towards the crowd forming at the edge of the ballroom, “Hush, I believe the moment is upon you.”

“A hall! A hall!” A familiar voice boomed from the centre of the ballroom. As the dancers began to disperse and Grace was ushered on the High King’s arm to the edge of the ballroom, her eyes were met with the sight of Margrove. He was dressed well for the ball, his dark hair glimmering with beads of blue which complimented the sash at his waist.

He looked around, hands moving grandly as he addressed his audience, “Your Majesties, Ladies, gentlemen and noble beasts of our fair court, it is the duty of the Royal Orchestra to hold the music of Narnia dearly to our hearts. But on this, the day of our Gentle Queen’s birthday, we ask you to embrace the old whilst stepping into the new.”

Somewhere in the hall, the Orchestra began. Grace jolted at hearing the finished product of the song, she’d heard it multiple times in rehearsal of course but never like this. It was ethereal as the piano notes echoed. They twisted in the air and danced around you with maddening lightness that could not be touched, but still you felt it waft over your skin.

Amongst the beginnings of the music and the speech of her friend, Grace realised that she no longer felt sick and the thought of dancing. Rather, she wanted to.

Margrove was still speaking at the centre of the circle, his hands rubbing together in an excited manner, “We invite you to dance under the light of the full moon, to a tune that you have not heard but will remember well. A dance that as a youngling you will have seen from the eaves of tall, winding trees as you watched your elders weave amongst each other in increasing speed.”

He paused for affect, his eyes alight at the captive audience, “My fair people, we invite you to join us… in the Long Trot.”

It had the desired effect, for there was a collective gasp and applause from the circled crowd. Members of the dance troupe began to congregate in the centre around the Faun, chattering excitedly as they took to their starting positions. Between them some members of the court had bravely stepped forward, however Grace noticed no human among them.

A rough hand entered her own and Grace looked up at her friend. She had expected Lilis would seek her out before the dance began.

The Dryad smiled at her nervously, “I’ve forgotten which comes first, is it screaming colour or black and white?”

“It’s black and white,” Grace answered, attempting to convey comfort in her smile.

From her left, the High King excused himself, muttering a short ‘I shall leave you to it’ and kissing her hand before disappearing into the crowd.

Lilis took the lead once they were free, depositing Grace in position with Margrove amongst the circle. Grace thanked her with a smile and squeeze of the hand before watching the Dryad flit off towards the Orchestra.

“Was it a worthy speech?” Margrove asked, his grin wide and face flushed – exhilarated by the attention.

Grace’s cheeks stretched to fit the wide grin she bore, “I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

The Faun eyed her cheekily, “Have a little faith in yourself.”

Grace shook her head fondly as she joined the circle in a shared bow towards the centre and then turned and bowed to her friend.

“I thought you were supposed to be minding the Orchestra,” Grace asked, perplexed at his position beside her. She knew she wouldn’t send him away, however. A dance partner that one knew was better than one they did not. Even if tonight was a spectacular failure, if Grace was dancing with Margrove, it wouldn’t matter.

“And miss the fun? Absolutely not,” Margrove linked their arms and led them in a slow spin, “My uncle would be ashamed if he heard I didn’t join the long trot. It is a rite of passage in the West.”

Grace gave him a worried look, perhaps she should not have taken place as his partner if it was so important, “What happens if you can’t successfully complete the Long Trot?”

“Exile, of course,” Margrove said, eyes mirthful as he took her other arm and spun them in the opposite direction.

Grace tried to smile in return, silently praying that he was kidding. Surely an Uncle would not do such a thing, especially an Uncle that Margrove was so close with.

She recalled their conversation about him that first day in the Music Room, “Did you ever hear back from your Uncle?”

A flash of something crossed the Faun’s eyes and he looked away, “No, I did not.”

There was no time to say anything else, for Grace was thrown into a river of weaving and turning amongst the line of the circle. There are two roles in the long trot, aptly named the feminine and the masculine, however, the title does not dictate the person who fills it. When Lilis had placed her on Margrove’s left instead of his right, she did not object. She moved between the line of marching Narnians as quickly as the dryads in her sight, keeping mind to not step on her skirts in the process – she was very grateful that Queen Susan and Lucy had not filled her skirt with tulle like theirs had been. It hung limply from her hips, swaying with movement without much need of her holding it out of the way.

When she had made her way around the circle to rejoin their friend, Margrove linked arms with her again and they spun. It seemed that was their agreed movement, as one does with their partner in the Long Trot. She was grateful it was something simple as she looked on to some of the more elaborate moves others were taking.

“I’m sorry,” Margrove said lowly as they changed directions.

“What for?” Grace asked.

“My Uncle has not written; I know you were keen for his reply.”

Grace shook her head, “You can’t be blamed, and it was a long shot anyways. I don’t blame you.”

They released in a hurried sprint again, the music picking up pace as it should with each round. Grace listened to the lilting voice of Lilis as she sang amongst the roar of musical instruments behind her. The echo of the hall made it difficult for her to pinpoint the exact location of it, it sounded like it was everywhere all at once.

A sharp sound split the air of music, but the dance did not stop. Grace weaved and moved, only slightly perturbed by the looks of slight worry being thrown around the circle. They did not last long and in their fleetingness were forgotten by the time she had made it halfway through the circle.

In her place of weaving and turning she could feel the music urging her forward, pushing her into that form of existence she sought after. Her skin tingled and her mind buzzed in that pleasant way and if she closed her eyes, Grace could believe she was somewhere else.

When Grace finally completed the circle she stopped, face to face with an unexpected set of dark eyes. She blanched at the sight of King Edmund, standing tall and comfortable amongst the line of Narnians around them. Her eyes traced the hall until they landed on the form of Margrove, doubled over in a chair as Lucy tended to his leg.

Grace couldn’t move, her lungs wouldn’t breathe as they flickered from the Faun to the King; the connection slowly forming in her mind along with the fear. King Edmund had also frozen but not in fear, instead he looked as though he was trying not to startle a wild animal he’d cornered in the woods.

They both stared in an equal stand off as everything slowed around them. Grace’s insides twisted uncomfortably and she considered walking away right then and there. Her partner was sitting off to the side with a broken leg and she could not remain in the dance without ruining the pattern….

Unless the King had taken Margrove’s place.

Her eyes flickered to the partners behind him who were performing an elaborate movement. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved that she would not ruin the remainder of the dance or horrified that King Edmund would be her partner for the remainder.

The King was still looking at her, face blank and unfeeling against the movement behind his eyes. She couldn’t tell what the wave of emotion was as they widened and fixed on a position behind her, they were running out of time – the line would be moving soon.

It was almost comical, the look of panic on his face. Grace would have laughed if she did not think he would walk away and abandon her in the line. Then, as everything around them began to return to normal speed, King Edmund did something unexpected.

He took her by the waist and spun her in the air.

Chapter Text

XXI

EDMUND

Out Of The Woods – Taylor Swift

Edmund didn’t know what he was thinking when he took Margrove’s place. When he entered the line at the exact point he dreaded most.

He had been watching amongst the crowd, unwilling to join the circle at the beginning. It had been a long time since his last Long Trot and that had been under the safe watch of treetops and starlight. Completing the Long Trot in front of the entire court was another matter entirely. Yet here he stood, in replacement of Grace’s partner.

He couldn’t pretend like he hadn’t noticed, like he hadn’t been watching her from the corner of his eye all night. He never let her out of his sight, half out fear of what she would do, half in awe in what she could do.

To attempt a Long Trot with human legs was no meagre feat, to attempt a Long Trot in a dress was something else entirely. But she managed it, easily flitting between partners in practiced step. Her warm hair bobbing gently with the beat, holding steadfastly against the rapid movements of its owner.

There was a stab of something, envy, he had not felt it for a long time and found it difficult to remember it’s green embrace. What would a King need to envy for? He held every possession he could possibly conceive, except that which another is naturally gifted with. That gift which Grace seemed to be named for.

She was graceful now, weaving towards him despite the onlookers in the circle. There is a rule in the Long Trot, unspoken but unbreakable. You do not stop for anything. This would not be the first bone the dance had claimed, and he doubted that it would be the last. If Grace had reached the end and found her partner missing, she would be ejected and whilst Edmund had no difficulties in mind with accepting that, there was a part of him that just could not stomach it.

He cursed that part as she grew closer; what was stopping her from ejecting them both from the dance when she saw him? From walking away in that annoyingly stubborn way and making him regret joining the dance to begin with. It was moments like this which were the reason why he did not rely on his gut. If one did not know the precise outcome of a situation, one should not venture into it willingly.

Grace passed a faun, her beaming smile glittering in the torchlight. A smile which dropped quickly when she laid eyes on her partner, Edmund.

She froze, brow furrowed in confusion as she searched the room for her partner. They landed on a point past his shoulder – where he was sure his sister was tending to the Faun’s wounds – and flickered back to him. Her wide blues continued to flicker back and forth dizzyingly until the connection was made.

They returned to him, but Grace did not say anything. She merely stared, caught between the moment and whatever she would choose to do next. Edmund tried to appear unthreatening, not moving on the chance that she would dart away.

Somewhere in Edmund’s mind, he wondered why he even cared. If she left, then he wouldn’t have to dance with her. Surely the fear of humiliation was not what spurred all this? At the thought something tugged at his centre, the feeling almost threw him off balance.

Movement caught the corner of his eyes; the dancers were finishing up their agreed upon movements. Panic set into his fingertips, buzzing uncomfortably under the skin, urging him into motion. But what motion could he possibly do? It was not as if they had discussed this beforehand and now that he thought on it he had no idea what she and Margrove had done to begin with.  

Grace hadn’t moved a single muscle, eyes still boring into his, face still set in an apprehensive frown. She looked like she was about to bolt, one foot half behind her ready to drop and sprint.

His fingers inched towards her, the movement slight and unnoticeable to anyone else, but him. Edmund wanted her to stay, that much was certain, but he did not know how to make it happen without scaring her off.

Behind her a Grove Dryad began moving forwards, heading towards the still frozen form of Grace at headlong speed. Edmund didn’t decide what to do next and he did not realise he had done it until she was leaning over him in the air.

Edmund’s buzzing fingertips gripped at the slippery green fabric as he lowered her. When Grace dropped unceremoniously on the other side, the dull thud knocked them both from their stupor. Her face cracked a small smile as he released her waist and she mouthed something that he couldn’t follow.

Edmund nodded politely – assuming it was some form of a thank you on her lips. Either that or he had just agreed to sell his soul. In that moment, he didn’t care.

The dance continued normally after that. Edmund found his rhythm easily, despite his initial nerves at the thought of dancing in front of the entire court. When Grace reached him the next turn, she was smiling brilliantly, a picture of wild beauty in a gown of green and hairs falling from her elaborate updo in stray auburn strands.

Edmund returned her smile genuinely, unable to defend against its contagious nature as he took her waist and spun her in a dizzying blur and sent her off again. His mind followed her as she traipsed the circle in his peripheral vision, but this time it was not for fear that she would run away, but rather in anticipation of her reaching him again.

When the music finally dulled and the circle was breathless, Grace dropped into a low curtsy and excused herself.

Edmund tried not to feel disappointed; he should have expected no different considering their limited acquaintance.

A hand slapped him on the back with a little more force than necessary. Edmund grunted as he turned to the ever clear blue eyes of his older brother.

“Where have you been?” Edmund whispered urgently, “Susan has been looking for you for the past half of an hour.”

“Here and there,” Peter said airily, “Seeing to the wellbeing of the Crown and it’s safety is no short task.”

Edmund raised a brow at the slight sarcasm, “I thought that was my job.”

Peter smiled in that unnervingly easy manner he always did, “So it is, but let’s just say I saw an opportunity and took advantage.”

This peaked Edmund’s attention; he stood to full alert as he probed his brother for more information.

Peter waved him off, “It’s nothing of consequence now. The matter has been sorted and both parties have left the situation understanding one another.”

Edmund waited for the remainder of the sentence, as Peter never visited without some ulterior motive or speech in mind. Peter, however, just looked at him calmly, eyes forever holding the challenging look he always carried with him.

“Were you in need of something, brother?” Edmund asked.

Peter’s grin grew cheeky, “I just wanted to congratulate you on your efforts, brother. Saving a damsel in distress from missing her first dance in Narnia. What a chivalrous knight you have proven to be!”

Edmund bristled under the eyes of the crowd who had turned at the High King’s outburst.

Peter did not stop, “And where is your lady? Surely you have not worn her out with a dance and not offered her refreshment afterwards?”

“Pete, stop it,” Edmund whispered.

To his credit, his brother did stop. Peter took both of Edmund’s shoulders as he led him towards the terrace where Grace had disappeared.

“Sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you,” Peter apologised, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud.”

Edmund stared at Peter in bewilderment.

“It was good of you, to step in when Margrove fell,” Peter continued.

“I had no other choice,” Edmund countered, “The Long Trot was a gift for our Sister’s birthday. Imagine the slight on her if it went awry.”

Peter shook his head, “I’m sure that Su would not have thought it so.”

“It does not matter if she did, it’s about what the court thinks,” Edmund grimaced, eyes catching a group of noblemen gathered at the edge of the hall. They were laughing loudly at some joke, goblets filled with rich southern wine. He added, “If enough of them talk, there’s a chance the troupe may never attempt it again. We’ve already had one Long Trot go amiss; a second would surely finish it.”

Peter hummed agreeably, also eyeing the group of noblemen warily. They were good men, but both Kings understood the voice of the crowd far outweighed the voice of few. If enough of the court spoke against the Long Trot, it would be difficult to change their minds.

When they reached the far wall, the elder King swiped a goblet from the table and took a sip.

“It can’t have been easy,” He edged, “To dance with someone you hate.”

“I don’t hate her,” Edmund asserted.

Peter raised his brows challengingly, “No, you just abhor her existence.”

Edmund glared at him, “I do not.”

“Oh?” Peter prodded, “Have you told her that? Because she is most definitely under that impression.”

“I shouldn’t have to. I do not owe her an explanation.”

“Our sisters appear to think differently.”

Edmund sighed, “I’m well aware of their feelings on the matter.”

“But you don’t agree?” Peter probed, “It is rare of you to not see the reality of a situation.”

Edmund rubbed his eyes tiredly. In truth, he thought he was in the right at the beginning, but as time passed and Grace got under his and his families skin, he was starting to feel the pressure towards the other alternative. “I will admit this once and only to you, Pete. Not a word to Lucy or Susan,” He said lowly.

Peter made the motion of crossing his heart, eyes in earnest as he waited for Edmund’s confession.

“I may regret some of my actions after Grace’s arrival,” Edmund admitted. The words were a release he had not expected; but with the relief of letting go of the fear, Edmund realised how real the thought was. He had fought against Grace for so long, for what? The safety of his family? Even Edmund could not substantiate scaring her into solitary confinement as reasonable any longer. There was something more at play, something Edmund was too fearful to delve deeper into.

Peter regarded at him with warm understanding. He motioned towards the marble archway which Grace had disappeared under, “I think you’ll find that now is the perfect time to make amends.”

Chapter Text

XXII

GRACE

Promise – Ben Howard

It wasn’t until the cool crisp air hit her skin that Grace felt like she could breathe again. Her chest heaved against the confines of her dress as she leaned against the archway for support.

She was surprised that King Edmund had allowed her to leave so easily. He had not ordered a guard to accompany her, nor had she felt the burn of his gaze on her back. If Grace wasn’t so focused on catching her breath, she might have had the foresight to see some kind of plan in his actions. But at that moment, it wasn’t his plans which concerned her.

The haunting image of Margrove entered her mind. There was no doubt that he had broken one of his legs; Lucy’s expression had told her as such. She wanted to go back into the hall and find him, but upon looking back into the crowd of courtiers she blanched and decided against it.

Grace was relieved that she had not bungled up the dance but she still remained perturbed as to how things had turned out. Her waist throbbed with the imprint of his hands which made Grace run her hands over them in turn as she tried to brush the feeling away. Fifteen turns of the Long Trot and thirteen of them within the King Edmund’s grip.

An incredulous laugh bubbled past her lips; she clamped her hand over them reflexively. Of all outcomes to the night, this one was the least expected. She supposed the act was quite chivalrous on his part and would give credit where it was due, however, it was entirely out of character for what she’d seen of him.

Grace shook her head, disbelieving of the thoughts within it. Surely, she couldn’t forgive him that easily? One act of kindness did not make up for a month of calculated imprisonment. She’d allow him one lapse in judgement but would not dare to hope for better.

Above her, the constant flickering glow of the torches did little to stem the light of the stars. Grace stared up at them in wonder; noting that not a single constellation in the sky was familiar to her. With the sheer number of stars in the sky, she wondered how one would even make constellations to begin with.

Under it, the dim glow of the torches did little to light the area. Nervous that she was not alone, Grace looked about but there was little to be afraid of; apart from the guards stationed on the inner hall, the balcony seemed to be secluded enough. She ventured closer towards the stone railing, hands trailing across the rough texture of the brick. This was it, if she wanted to make a run for it, the time was now.

The thought was half-hearted at best and even Grace could tell that she wouldn’t truly go through with it. After her earlier attempt it was clear that she had no idea how to survive in a time like this; that paired with her limited knowledge of Narnia would probably end with her dead in a ditch.

“It’s a long drop.”

Grace started, nearly jumping out of her skin as she flinched backwards towards the railing.

King Edmund stood stoically in the archway, the warm torchlight dancing across the serious set of his face, “The chances of hitting the rocks below are higher than reaching the deep sea. I wouldn’t recommend jumping.”

Grace tried to calm her heartbeat as she leaned against the stone bricks for support, “I wasn’t planning to jump.”

The King raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly towards her grip on the stone.

Grace released it reflexively, “I suppose if I were to choose between escape options, that one would be the least appealing.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” King Edmund remarked. He meandered towards her place on the balcony, torchlight catching the silver cloak which had been artfully draped over his shoulder.

Grace turned away from him, instead choosing to lean forward so she might see just how far a drop it actually was. Her eyes were met with the rocky chaos of the waves below, between the foamy black ocean jutted dark rocks, eroded into impaling spikes. There was no hope for a quick drop into the sea, even if that was her plan.

He stopped half a metre away from her perch on the stone but Grace didn’t look up to confirm it or greet him. She didn’t need to; the feeling of his eyes burning into her back was confirmation enough.

“Are you going to push me?” Grace asked lightly.

“You think I would do such a thing?” King Edmund returned.

She didn’t move, “I think you would if it meant finally being rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t,” He persisted. As if to make a point, the King took her by the elbow and eased her gently from the ledge.

Grace allowed herself to be turned, looking up at his darkened face. There was little light but that of the moon, it’s cold glow covering everything in hues of greys and blue. It made King Edmunds face colder, if it were possible.

He let go of her arm and sighed, opting to lean against the ledge of the brick casually. It was odd for Grace to see him like this, though she supposed in the two times she had seen him, he wasn’t in a position to relax against anything.

The silence dragged and although Grace would not say it was uncomfortable, she found herself on edge. The chances that King Edmund had sought her out to sit in silence were slim to none and the seconds which ticked by only served to further her impatience.

“You know; your older brother always kisses my hand when we meet but you don’t. Why is that?” Grace asked.

King Edmund stared at her strangely, “Do you want me to kiss your hand?”

Grace silently cursed her impatient tongue, “No, I just meant that it seems to be a form of greeting here.”

“It’s common amongst the members of the court to partake in such greetings,” the King explained, “I find the practice ingenuine.”

“Ingenuine?”

“Indeed,” King Edmund sighed, “The life of a courtier is often so. To get ahead, one must appeal to their betters. For some, this takes the form of acts of ingenuine fondness.”

Grace looked thoughtful at this. The High King Peter did not give her this impression; with his kind actions yet honest behaviour towards her, he was anything but ingenuine.

“Your brother acts this way and he is the High King,” she voiced.

The King smiled softly, “My brother is the exception to this rule. He takes part because he believes that all should be treated the same.”

Grace’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “But you don’t agree with this?”

The King gave her a withering look, “I do agree with it,” he answered shortly, “However, in the choice between ingenuity and truth, I will always side with the latter. I’m not a believer in false flattery.”

This much Grace could believe of him. In the two times they had met he had spoken to her in stinging truths; stripping her down with harsh words and threats that she’d returned.

Grace’s throat thickened at the memory and she felt herself sour to the man beside her, “Is there a reason you’re here?” She asked, “Other than to make sure I don’t escape.”

The King stared ahead resolutely; his dark eyes catching the light of the torches on the archway as he thought. He seemed to be battling with something, or maybe he was planning his next words carefully. Grace waited, arms crossed with a frown on her face, whatever he had to say couldn’t be good if he was overthinking it this much.

When at last King Edmund spoke, his voice was softer. His face stiffly representing the calm he was trying to exude with his words. It was betrayed by the feeling behind his eyes again, something moving in waves that Grace couldn’t determine from sight alone.

“I have felt for some time now, that you may be owed an apology.”

Grace’s brows shot higher than she’d ever felt them, “Really?” She asked, the sarcastic tone practically dripping onto the rough brick, “What has brought on this radical change of heart?”

“Don’t mock me,” The King clipped.

“I do not,” Grace persisted, “But I’m not one to believe in miracles, sir. You must convince me.”

“It is not a miracle; it is common sense.”

“I’m surprised you can finally see such a thing.”

He groaned, “Do you ever listen?”

“Do you?” Grace challenged him, “In the two times I have spoken to you, your majesty, you have shown little to no care for my wellbeing. Why should I believe that you have suddenly seen the light of my innocence.”

The King glared at her so harshly that it made Grace flinch away, “I never said that you were innocent.”

“No?” Grace goaded, “Only that you owe me an apology. If not for being blind to my innocence then what could you possibly need to apologise to me for?”

“I’m starting to think that you no longer deserve it,” the King grumbled.

“Well, you’ve come this far. It’s too late to back out now.”

“I was going to apologise for my harsh behaviour,” He bit out, “But I can see that it is a moot point whilst arguing with you.”

Grace looked at him incredulously, “That’s it? ‘I’m sorry I was a little bit mean’ is your torturous apology?”

His eyes rolled, “I was not tortured by it.”

She ignored him, “Not to mention, your apology focuses on your method of delivery. Not the fact that you have held me prisoner for a month and denied me every possible chance of getting home.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself for that,” he returned.

“Excuse me?”

The King stood, towering over her by a foot of distance, “Did you think your escape attempt would go unnoticed?”

Grace felt the blood leave her face. Her eyes grew wide as she shrunk back from his towering form.

“Those guards report directly to me,” King Edmund continued, “All they did was confirm what I already suspected of you.”

“It was my first night here,” Grace protested, “You had just told me I was trapped. What did you expect me to do?”

“I expected that you’d trust us to help you,” He gritted.

Grace scoffed, “I had barely known you a day and your actions in that timeframe confirmed what I already suspected of you.”

“I will not apologise for my actions that day,” The King seethed, “They were in service of my family.”

“How?” Grace’s high-pitched outrage rang against the clear air, “How does it serve your family to lock me up?”

“We had no idea who or what you were,” King Edmund defended, “I had to take precautions to ensure you could not harm anyone.”

“So; you confined me to the castle, threatened me with solitary confinement, and completely ignored my protests on the matter because you were afraid I would hurt your family?”

He nodded, “I regret going as far as frightening you to do it, but yes.”

Grace shook her head disbelievingly, “I won’t listen to this.”

She turned to leave, her dress scratching against the stone bricks softly as she moved.

King Edmund grasped her arm, eyes wide in desperation, “Don’t.” 

Grace tried to tug her arm free, but it only served for him to add another hand to it.

“Please,” He rasped, “Hear me out.”

Grace paused in her attempts to claw his hand from her arm and sighed. Her anger began to dissipate at the earnest look in his eyes. In truth, she knew that if she really wanted to, Grace could have pulled her arm from his grip and he would have honoured it.

But then how would she get home? The High King had made it clear; King Edmund was the key to her freedom and if she had to listen to him to obtain his trust, that is what she would do. She stared at him expectantly, hair breezing across her face with the soft wind.

He let her arm go, eyes watchful to see if she would bolt at the first chance, when she didn’t he began anew, “I’m sorry. I am aware that these past few weeks have been difficult for you. I didn’t know that my words would have such meaning that you would lock yourself in your room for fear of them.”

This gave her a small amount of solace for Grace had thought that he’d let her rot in there on purpose.

“I didn’t know about your confinement until Susan told me and by that point, there was little I could do to remedy my mistake. I regret the way I spoke to you in the woods. There is no excuse; but I will say that my actions were in part due to your attempted escape the night before and the stress of the days task. At the time I was angry at you, when instead, I should have seen the escape attempt for what it was, desperation.”

Grace opened her mouth in indignation but he amended himself immediately, “Desperation to go home.”

Her lips shut as soon as she’d opened them.

“I hope that whilst you may see they are unjustified you might understand that everything up until now, has been to keep my family safe.”

“Your family knows that I mean them no harm,” Grace disputed.

“And they are the better people for it,” King Edmund agreed, “It is an unfortunate curse on my being that I cannot be so trusting.”

Grace read between the lines, ‘And until I trust you, you cannot leave’.

She sighed softly, “This doesn’t help me get home and if you are so untrusting then there seems to be no chance of it ever happening.”

The King’s eyes shifted, “I never said it wasn’t possible.”

“In our current state it is,” Grace rebuffed, “I’ve seen you three times in the span of a month, there is little trust to be grown from that.”

He stared at her earnestly, “Then I will try harder to make your acquaintance.”

Grace scoffed, “I doubt you’ll have time for that. Aren’t you too busy being a King?”

“Being a King gives me the fortunate opportunity to make time,” King Edmund countered.

Her answering smile was small, but Grace felt it crack at the resentment she was clutching inwardly, “May I ask, what brought this on?”

“It has become clear to me that your time with Margrove and in the kitchens is sufficient evidence of your hard work and dedication,” He answered simply.

Grace’s brow rose sardonically, “Did one of your sisters tell you to say that?”

“No, I can think for myself.”

“Oh? What evidence have you of this free thinking?”

“Your dancing,” King Edmund clarified, “No one could complete the Long Trot without a fierce determination. It is incredibly difficult, even more-so for a human. The dance was not made for us; our flat feet are tricky to navigate in fast paced movement.”

Grace thought back to the first day she’d learned the dance; in the days after she had accumulated bruises all over her body and her muscles ached from the endless hours of effort. She wondered how many the King had earned whilst learning.

“You seem to have managed it.”

King Edmund smiled fondly, “When We were crowned Aslan granted me the West. I’ve spent many months there overseeing it’s growth during Our rule.”

Grace nodded appreciatively, “How long did it take for you to learn The Long Trot?”

“Roughly eight months.”

Her eyes snapped to his face, “That long?”

The King chuckled lowly, “I was not the most graceful being,” as if to make a point, he tapped rhythmically on the stone balcony, “There was no ‘dance’ in my step.”

“You seem like you manage well enough now.”

His fond eyes swam with unseen memories, “It’s the years of practice and determination.”

Grace allowed him a moment within them. He seemed more peaceful this way. The dark brown colour had smoothed from bark to hot cocoa and the waves of emotion had steadied to a serene ripple.

“How is it that you picked it up so quickly?” King Edmund asked with a slightly envious tone.

Grace shrugged, “I’ve spent most of my life in dance classes. I’m not the best, but I’ve learned to pick up patterns quickly.”

“Was that your occupation in Spare Oom?”

Grace scoffed, “Definitely not, I was never talented enough for that.”

“Didn’t seem that way to me,” King Edmund noted softly.

Grace bristled and looked away, uncomfortable at the compliment.

“What was it that you did before?” He probed, “You clearly have a little talent in making bread, but I don’t believe that that it is enough to make a career,” He gestured to her vaguely, “You dance well, but have claimed that is not it either.”

“Glad to hear you’re enjoying the bread,” Grace mused lowly.

King Edmund looked at her in earnest, “These two things are all I know of you; thus I cannot make another educated guess.”

“Then make an uneducated one,” Grace replied.

The King became motionless, stunned into silence at the unexpected challenge.

Grace grinned cheekily at his reaction – she enjoyed throwing him off kilter. She let him squirm for a moment before she relented, “I was a secretary at a law firm.”

It took a moment for the King to respond; something akin to recognition across his face, “A secretary?”

Grace didn’t like his tone, “Does that surprise you?”

“I’m having trouble picturing you answering to anyone.”

“I’m very good at my job,” Grace defended, “I’ll thank you to leave your snarky comments out of it.”

King Edmund smiled; it was small and fleeting but Grace caught the upturned ends before they disappeared. He leaned against the stone balcony and breathed, “The Lion works in mysterious ways.”

Grace’s sight tore from his lips, “Pardon?” but whatever he’d muttered was lost on her ears and he did not do her the curtesy of repeating it.

The King crossed his arms thoughtfully, “I think I may have the solution to our collective dilemma.”

“Oh?” Grace asked, joining him against the stone.

He paused, the internal struggle present in his eyes once again. There were a few beats in the silence when Grace thought the King might scratch the idea all together, but he did not and when he spoke the resolution was clear.

“You’ll come and work for me.”

Her eyebrows raised at his choice of wording; disliking an outcome which was decided without her input, “Will I?”

The King nodded, “My workload is growing and I have thought of employing some assistance to lessen the strain.”

“And where does this fit with my positions in the Orchestra and Kitchens?” Grace asked.

“We’ll start small,” He decided, “It won’t affect your other positions yet; the work I have in mind can be completed between your current shifts.”

It sounded reasonable. Her time in the kitchens had grown shorter as time passed; She had spent time with Mrs Badger, going over the fundamentals of the bread making process. If she was to leave Narnia, she did not want to leave her positions unfilled. Her time with Margrove often didn’t start until after lunch and continued for the rest of the day. There was plenty of time in between for further work – in fact, Grace welcomed the idea. There was just one thing she didn’t welcome.

“If I agree,” She began, “I would like the boundary to be clear.”

The King listened in interest.

“I don’t work for you,” Grace stipulated, “I am merely assisting you.”

His face wrinkled in confusion, “Why can’t you work for me?”

“It will be difficult to become friends if there is such a barrier between us.”

The King rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Good,” Grace exhaled, “If that’s agreed then we needn’t let Hellabora know about it.”

He looked at her in bewilderment, “Why ever not?”

“Because I don’t want to be paid,” Grace explained.

“If you’ll be completing work on my behalf then you will be compensated for it,” King Edmund insisted.

Grace shook her head adamantly, “No. If I’m being paid by you then I work for you. I won’t have that hanging over my head every time we speak.”

 “It’s not right,” The King disagreed.

“If the work is so small that it can fit between my time in the Kitchens and the Orchestra then it’s not worth paying me for in any case,” Grace returned.

King Edmund did not reply, he only continued to stare at her with that disapproving frown on his lips.

Grace softened; understanding his position but knowing that she could not compromise on her own, “These are my terms. We work together to build trust without money or hierarchy getting in the way or we continue as we are now.”

The look on his face at the latter made her want to laugh – Grace had to agree she did not like it either but what other option was there apart from the third that they left unsaid; King Edmund consenting to her freedom.

The King sighed and considered the situation, “I suppose I agree to your terms, then.”

Grace’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, “I’m glad. I was willing to fight you on it if you wanted to continue as is.”

“I could tell,” King Edmund replied wryly.

“When do we start?”

He stood wearily from his perch on the railing and began to cross the balcony in stride, “I will speak to Casys about delivering you tomorrow morning.”

“Do I need to bring anything?” Grace asked.

He looked back fleetingly with a small smirk on his face, “It would be most useful if you brought yourself. A positive attitude would also be beneficial.”

Grace rolled her eyes, “Very funny.”

“One of the many things you’ll learn about me.”

Grace watched him leave, a small pit in her stomach. She knew she was forgetting something… Some token of gratitude she’d yet to bestow; for regardless of the jarring remarks Grace had thrown his way, King Edmund saw reason enough to grant her the chance she’d been asking for.

“Your Majesty,” Grace called.

He turned to her expectantly, face half lit from the light in the archway.

“Thank you.”

The King smiled softly, “Get some sleep, Grace. Tomorrow is a new day.”

END OF PART I

PART II WILL RELEASE ON 31/12/2024

Chapter Text

PART II - THE UNWORTHY

XXIII

EDMUND

Nobody’s Soldier - Hozier

The sharpened steel in Edmund’s hand cut through the morning light in swift strokes, the motion effortless and reflexive in his practiced hands. His skin was coated in a thin layer of sweat which provided little relief from the staunch heat of the firepit beside him. 

He didn’t mind, Edmund preferred the heat to the chilly morning air that brushed hauntingly across his skin. He hated winter. Every year he wished Narnia lived in an eternal spring – just like it had seemed to when he was young – and every year he was disappointed.

Another swipe of his wrist, another block of an invisible foe. It was mindless practice of the forms he’d been taught by Orieus all those years ago. Of course, Edmund knew more complicated forms, but when his mind buzzed the way it did today, he preferred to get back to basics.

The repetitive movements calmed Edmund, a reminder of a simpler time when much less was expected of him. Now-a-days, he felt like he was constantly toeing the line of a cliffs edge. The endless expanse of terrifying possibility laid bare before him. The arrival of Grace only served to heighten the feeling; he felt as if he was bent over for balance, one foot hanging haphazardly over the emptiness.

Their negotiations last night had done nothing to quiet the feeling. If anything, it had made it worse.

What was he thinking? Getting involved with the woman was a recipe for danger.

Edmund supposed there was sound logic in both of their arguments last night, however, and even he knew there was no chance that her situation would improve without it.

Crack!

Edmund started; his grip released the hilt of his blade, only to find it did not fall to the floor.  

He’d hit the dummy.

Edmund grimaced at the steel lodged within the wooden shoulder. He dislodged it hastily, ensuring to take time and care in examining the metal for any scratches or cracks. When there was no damage found, he breathed a sigh of relief; grateful that there was no need to reforge his sword again.

His sword arm dropped to his side, the steel tip grazing the grass with a soft crunch. Behind him he heard Shese yawn languidly.

Edmund spared the Winged Panther a look over his shoulder. She hadn’t moved, the only sign of life in the irritated twitch of her left ear.

Having already felt guilty for waking her so early, Edmund was relieved to have not stirred her. It couldn’t be helped, however – one could only toss in their bed for an hour before they went mad. There was a nervous energy that had settled into his bones which would not be released with sleep alone.

A large and slitted yellow eye opened to meet his gaze. Edmund jumped from the acknowledgement as he faced his sworn protector fully, “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was,” the Winged Panther stretched, “It’s hard to continue when someone is watching you.”

Edmund apologised, picking up his sword as he joined her at the stone wall.

“It is past dawn, your majesty,” Shese observed.

“Yes, it is,” Edmund agreed, fingers deep in a polishing rag as he buffed the steel surface of his blade.

Shese eyed him critically through narrowed slits, “Do you not wish to clean yourself up before the Daughter of Eve arrives?”

Edmund sighed deeply, brow furrowing as he focused on a stubborn speck of dirt, “I have plenty of time before Grace leaves the kitchens.”

The Winged Panther sniffed the air, “It seems breakfast is well underway. I smell sausages, eggs and toast. She can’t be too far off.”

A thunderous grumble reverberated from his stomach at the thought and Edmund fought the urge to snort at the impertinent stare Shese was giving him, “What are the chances of getting another round in without being late?”

The Winged Panther’s teeth shone in her wide grin, “Slim to none.”

Edmund groaned and plucked his possessions from the stone top, “Onwards, then.”

His boots trudged soggily through the mud as they followed the trail to the Cair. Edmund didn’t bother to go around the patches that were messier than the others. What would be the point if he was going to bathe anyway?

Each step felt heavier as he marched, though, he knew it wasn’t the mud that bothered him. Edmund didn’t like to be dramatic but the truth could not be ignored – He was tense at the thought of prolonged proximity to Grace.

Perhaps it would be fine. Perhaps they would find some common ground to bond over and Edmund would finally be at peace with the decision to let her go back to Spare Oom?

Another voice leapfrogged over the rational quiet of it’s predecessor. Darker and less humoured in nature.

Or perhaps he’d finally obtain the evidence that would allow him to lock her up for good.

-

Edmund swore upon seeing her. Her deep blue dress singular against the white marble floors and walls of the hallway. Grace was early.

Or was she? They’d never really specified a time. Edmund had told her to join him when she had finished her work in the kitchens. He’d never asked her exactly when that was.

At her side stood her guard, Casys, stoically straight and watchful of his charge as she leant against the pallid wall. Grace paid him no mind, satin eyes focused singularly on Edmund as he speed-walked down the hallway.

They weren’t narrowed – as he’d expected - in fact they were rather large in comparison to their usual venomous slits. This was accentuated by a dark rim at her waterlines. Had she applied something? Edmund remembered a similar tint on Susan’s eyes last night.

“Apologies for my tardiness,” Edmund uttered when he reached them.

In his peripheral, Casys placed an arm across his chest in respect, “My King.”

Grace arose from the wall, arms crossed inquisitively, “It’s alright, I’d imagine there are many pulls on a King’s time.”

The soft fur of Shese breezed against his leg as she gave a low growl of disapproval, “You will provide a proper greeting to the King, Daughter of Eve.”

Grace’s eyes flickered downwards and widened as if she’d never seen such a creature before, “I-”

Edmund waved his guard off, “Leave it, Shese. Grace and I have an agreement.”

The Daughter of Eve’s smile was unequivocally grateful.

His words were not enough, however, as Casys scraped a hoof across the marble and gave a stern look to his charge.

Grace looked to him apprehensively, her eyes lowering to the warning laid on the marble.

As if she’d been drilled on court manners since birth, she dropped into a low curtsey at once. In his stunned state at the interaction, Edmund could only note that the motion was smoother than that first day on the terrace.

Edmund cleared his mind of those memories, tainted with first impressions he did not want to impose upon this day, “Rise.”

As she rose, Grace looked up at him through wispy lashes, the grey almost undiscernible against the warm blue of her iris.

Edmund cleared his throat, slightly uncomfortable at the intensity of eye contact. He leaned forward to push the door open, motioning for Grace to take the lead.

She did not, “Does Casys need to stay?”

The Centaur beside her looked alarmed at the question, his stoic façade slipping as he looked between the woman and the King.

It made sense for him to stay – lest Grace attempt to make an escape through the hallway – but Edmund knew that would not play out well in Grace’s favour. He remembered that she was especially cautious of her Guard’s comfort, even at the expense of her own. The last thing Edmund wanted was for her to forego her time with him so that Casys might breathe fresh air.

He assessed her, like he had that day in the woods. Edmund knew that if it came down to it, he could overpower her. There was no need for a second or a third measure of safety.

But because he was himself, Edmund would proceed with two, “You may leave Us, Casys. I will have one of the guards on patrol fetch you when Grace is done.”

The effect was instantaneous on the lines of the Centaur’s face, “Thank you, My King.”

Edmund addressed Shese, “If you wouldn’t mind watching the door, friend.”

Shese looked as if she might argue, her slitted yellow eyes trailing after the Centaur as he passed her, “If that is what you wish, sire.”

Edmund nodded with appreciation. He knew that his Guard was well-opposed to the idea of leaving him with a stranger behind closed doors. He also knew, however, that it could not be helped. Grace had asked for equal footing in the hope that they might become friends… and Shese had the habit of reminding those who encountered Edmund of exactly who he was and what he was owed. A trait of many Westerners, he’d noticed.

There was a pride that filled him at the deference of his people but also a slight feeling of embarrassment and if Edmund was honest, he was sparing himself a morning of the latter.

His eyes returned to Grace, only to be startled by the look within them. It was not a look Edmund had seen before; they were a smelted blue, clear and warm as a summer breeze.

She turned away before he had the chance to comment, eyes cast curiously to the interior of his study.

Edmund moved to the side, hand open once again in the doorway. An invitation.

This time, Grace accepted it. Feet stumbling rather than stepping across the threshold as her head craned in different angles.

He followed behind, catching Shese’s worried frown from the crack in the doorway.

I’ll be fine, Edmund mouthed. To be on the safe side, however, he left the door ajar.

Grace spun to face him. Her face half ridden between humour and pointed accusation, “So this is where all the books are?”

Edmund’s eyes flickered towards the western wall; it was fitted with wooden shelves that spanned the space in its entirety. The wall was practically packed to the brim with books – some sitting horizontally on top of others where there was no space for them.

“You were looking for books?” He asked, a singular brow raised in question.

Grace nodded as she returned to exploration, “Back in my first week I asked Casys where a library could be found.”

Edmund followed her as she meandered towards the bookshelf, “What would you need a library for?”

“Something to do,” Grace shrugged, “I’d already exhausted all of Casys’s stories about Narnia by that point and he hated being pent-up. I thought that if I had a book to pass the time, the days wouldn’t seem so much like purgatory.”

There was a sombre inflection in her voice which made Edmund’s stomach turn, “What did he tell you?”

Grace plucked a book from the shelf gently and opened it, taking extra care to support the fragile binding, “That paper is rare, books even more-so. I assumed there were very little in the Cair at all and let it be.”

Edmund remembered what Susan had told him about Grace’s first week in Narnia. After his interrogation at the tree line Grace had sequestered herself into solitary confinement. He’d imagined there was not much to entertain her during that time; the guest rooms were generally bare and awaiting to be filled with the possessions of those who held them… but how did one fill them, if one had nothing?

“I’m sorry,” Edmund started, “If I’d known-”

The thick binding of ‘Is Man A Myth’ thumped softly as it closed.

“What? You’d have given me some?” Grace snickered lightly, “I doubt you would have trusted me with trade secrets such as these back then.”

The book was held aloft in her hands as she attempted to place it back upon the shelf. The space it had once lived, however, seemed to have shrunk and Grace was finding it difficult.

“Allow me,” Edmund stepped in, his experienced hands taking over the effort.

Grace stepped back, hands raised in surrender as she watched the short-lived struggle.

“All it takes is a little-” Edmund grunted, “Push!”

The book slotted into place easily, as if it had never left it to begin with. He looked back to Grace in triumph, “See?”

Grace was watching him, arms crossed with a bemused smile on her face.

“What is it?” Edmund asked, eyes flickering to the book he’d successfully recaptured betwixt its brethren. Then, his eyes adjusted from the strain.

He’d put it in upside down.

Edmund groaned and plucked the book from the shelf again, the two bordering immediately closing in on the space, “Never mind, you can read this while I organise your work.”

He deposited the tome into her surprised hands and crossed the plush carpeted floor to his desk. It was only then that it dawned on Edmund that he had not wholly thought the matter out. He stared at the chaotically organised sheets on his desktop. What work would he give her?

Never mind that, what work could he give her?

Anything to do with the Giant’s Rebellion was immediately struck from the list in his mind. He couldn’t possibly trust her with any of the Calormene negotiations. Truly, the thought of Grace handling anything sensitive this early in their acquaintance made Edmund uneasy. In soul, he was tired of the mistrust and dishonesty between them but in mind he could not commit to disavowing their past so freely.

It was for that reason, he chose not to give her any true work at all.

Edmund reasoned that a test was the best way to determine Grace’s trustworthiness.

He shuffled through the bottom most pages of his least used drawer until he found what he was looking for: a letter from the Duke of Galma regarding a trade deal. It was five pages long and at least a year old. There was nothing to be gained from it… other than the Duke’s taste for large words and his appetite for Narnian recipes.

Hastily, Edmund dripped ink over the letter’s date, thoroughly concealing the old ink in the new. As he lifted the sheet, he eyed the stain that remained on his desk with disgust and hastily rubbed at it with a cleaning cloth.

The sheet was held aloft and fanned in the air to dry it quickly. Edmund scanned the room to confirm he had not been spotted.

Grace sat peacefully on a seat by the fireplace, utterly absorbed by the pages of ‘Is Man a Myth’ in her lap. Perfect.

Edmund joined her, standing with the parchment stack held aloft, the heat from the fireplace drying it in minutes, “For you.”

Grace glanced up at him and the sheets in his hands. The book was closed gently as they were taken from him. As her eyes ran curiously over the first page, Edmund explained.

“It is a letter from Lord Paranus, the Duke of Galma. He’s made an offer of trade between Narnia and Galma. We are to accept the terms with one slight amendment; Narnia wants twice the reams of parchment.”

Her hands ran over the smooth texture of the letter as she read it. Fingers grazing worryingly close to the corner Edmund had just concealed.

In an effort to distract, Edmund leaned towards her and asked, “Do you think you can handle it?”

The fingers retracted and Grace’s satin eyes returned to his with a boisterous sheen, “Absolutely.”

Chapter Text

XXIV

GRACE

Paris, Texas – Lana Del Rey, SYML

Grace grimaced as the ink spluttered in small dots. It was an inconvenience she did not have time for, nor the paper to spare. The splotches stood unevenly over the thin lines of the staff, easily confused with the purposefully placed notes. Grace sighed, she’d need to re-do the entire score sheet from scratch now.

The paper was folded, the motion accentuated with a short and exasperated huff as she tossed it aside. It would be used as scrap later.

As a new sheet was grasped, Grace felt the chair sink with a weight next to her. She needn’t look up to determine the source.

“How was it?” Margrove asked. One hand gripping his crutch, the other placed on his good leg.

Grace looked up from her work sparingly, “How was what, Mar?”

“Your first day of working for King Edmund.”

Her confusion was replaced with incredulous suspicion, “The matter was only decided last night, how on earth do you know?”

Margrove’s lips upturned in a sheepish smile, “Word travels fast in Cair Paravel. There are little secrets within its walls.”

Grace eyed the group of Dryads as they weaved amongst themselves in varying blurs of green and brown. A few had given her odd looks when she’d entered, but Grace had thought nothing of it initially; her presence in Narnia had stirred the court gossip wheel and she’d naturally grown accustomed to the stares.

Her true shock came from finding more souls than Margrove inside the music room. It seemed that the first week of private lessons had been for her benefit. Now with her established entrance into performance, there was no longer a need to coddle her.

As the lingering stares of the Orchestra continued, however, Grace almost wished they had.

She lowered her voice to a nonchalant murmur, “It was fine.”

Margrove’s coal eyes burned with interest as he leaned forward, “Only fine? Surely you have more detail than that.”

Grace deposited her quill in the inkwell gently, instead picking up her pencil and the straight piece of wood the Narnians had the nerve to call a ‘ruler’, “I’m not sure I want to speak out loud. If – as you say – Cair Paravel has no secrets, then perhaps it would be best if I kept my thoughts to myself.”

This halted the Faun. He looked past her thoughtfully to the dozens of eyes she could already feel. In fairness, what else where the instrument players to do on their pauses? Stare at the wall? Grace would not begrudge them their sight of her, as long as looking is all they ventured for.

“Perhaps holding your silence is a good idea,” Margrove agreed. His actions did not correlate his statement, however, as he settled into the chair comfortably, “And yet, one finds themselves less burdened when they confide in a friend.”

Grace rolled her eyes good naturedly, “Is that what one does? I thought one bottled it up until it exploded.”

Margrove lifted a finger in warning, “It was one time.”

“How was I to know it was your favourite chair?” Grace murmured defensively.

“Perhaps by my scarf hanging over the arm?”

Grace snorted, “I’ve never seen you wear that scarf.” 

Margrove huffed but let it go. He continued to stare at her interestedly whilst she traced lines on the page.

Grace breathed a deep and steadying breath, “The last thing I would want is for word to get back to him.”

Margrove frowned, “I would never betray your council.”

Grace’s eyes raised to him involuntarily, “Even if my opinion of the King is unfavourable?”

“I would probably refrain from saying anything too degrading in mixed company,” Margrove agreed, eyeing the dancing troupe thoughtfully, “You will not find a soul in the West that is not fiercely loyal to King Edmund.”

A ghost of a smile passed across Grace’s face, “Does he truly inspire such loyalty?”

Margrove nodded, “All of our fair Kings and Queens do, but the people of the West take the honour of their hailed very seriously.”

Grace nodded in understanding. The few Westerners she’d spoken to had nothing but praise for the Just King. She cast her gaze thoughtfully to the circle of dancers.

From the blurry circle of greens and browns a figure emerged. Her weave of evergreen vines flowing gently in the breeze as she departed seamlessly. Lilis danced in their direction, her steps never missing a beat.

She reached them quickly and seated herself on the other side of Grace, her whistly voice a whisper of warning, “Your voices are carrying.”

Grace’s eyes widened in alarm, “Are they?” Her eyes flickered to the troupe, but none were looking directly at her, solely focused on their steps and the music.

Lilis’s small smile cracked at her bark-like skin, “They are listening. Perhaps this discussion can wait until later?”

Margrove tilted his head perceptively at her interruption. He leaned across the back of the chaise to mutter, “You’re only saying that because you also wish to know the answer.”

Lilis’s attempt at a coy expression was not successful.

Grace smiled warmly at her friend, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“What about me?!” Margrove protested from behind her.

The outburst drew the attention of the dancers; some losing their focus and running into each other, some blatantly staring and causing the blockage. Grace froze, witless in the face of being the centre of attention. Thankfully, Margrove was smarter.

“I think that will be all for today, dancers,” He ordered as he stood wobblingly from his chair, “The Orchestra must begin preparations for the Christmas ball in four weeks.”

There were a few dejected faces amongst the group. Some of the dancers even dared to look at Grace longingly as they left. Clearly, they had wanted to hear the latest tidbit of court gossip.

When only the Orchestra remained, Margrove set them to work on The First Gifts of Christmas. He hobbled about the room, leaning on his crutch heavily between steps. Grace watched with concern but didn’t interfere – she had offered multiple times to help already, but the stubborn Faun had declined. 

Margrove returned to his seat with a huff, laying his crutch beside him, “That takes care of that.”

Lilis laughed silently, the motion shaking errant vine leaves into the air.

Grace shook her head and returned to drawing lines. There was a song she had in mind for the Christmas Ball, but every time she attempted to put it to paper, something went wrong.

On the small table before them was a list of music that they would present for Queen Susan’s approval. Margrove had requested music from Spare Oom specifically, stating that it need not be Christmas music if it held the appropriate magic. Grace knew the song she had thought of met this criteria but wasn’t sure that the instruments available would be able to capture the magic effectively.

The Faun leaned towards her in anticipation, “So?”

“It was fine,” Grace replied evenly, “Rather uneventful and boring actually.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Lilis asked, her whistly tune barely legible amongst the robust music in the room.

“Uneventful is better where Grace is concerned,” Margrove agreed.

Grace reflexively let her hand fly in the Faun’s direction.

“Tell us more,” Lilis commanded.

“Well,” Grace sighed, “First off, he was late.”

Lilis’s expression wore intrigue, “He was? That’s odd. King Edmund is known, generally, for being punctual.”

Margrove agreed, “What time did you both say to meet?”

Oh.

Grace closed her eyes in realisation, “We didn’t. It was stipulated that I’d meet him after I finished work in the kitchens. I suppose I never told him when that was.”

“Never mind, you both will have a better idea of when to meet now. What happened then?” Lilis probed.

Grace shrugged, “We spoke briefly about Casys’s release. I was quite surprised that the King let him go. It was half expected that Casys would be glued to the door until I was finished.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Margrove interrupted, “His Majesty is generally thoughtful of others. I’d imagine Casys was only appointed to be your Guardian out of necessity to begin with. He’ll be needed less now as you gain the Just King’s trust.”

Then Grace remembered something that made her latch onto the Faun’s arm, “I learned that he has a hoard of books in his study! But Casys told me books were rare in Narnia?”

“They are,” Lilis established strongly, “The cutting of Sentient Trees is forbidden and there are very few normal trees to be found.”

“Most of our parchment comes from Archenland,” Margrove added, “Their trees have the best texture for it and the craftsmen there do well at their trade. It is well known that the Royal Family have been slowly collecting books for years. You probably saw but one deposit of them in that study.”

Grace nodded slowly. His words reasoned with what Casys had told her previously, but Grace had not known that the prevention of cutting trees was due to their sentience. She wondered what Sentient Trees were like. Did they speak? How did they show emotion?

She tucked away her questions for a later date, when the topic was not one that Lilis felt so strongly about, “After that he simply gave me some work and left me to it. There was no spat, no warnings of a serious nature. He didn’t even look at me, really.”

“Ah, so that’s why you seem troubled,” Margrove jibed with a cheeky grin, “King Edmund did not look at you.”

“After I spent so much time on your hair too!” Lilis complained, her thin fingers tucking an errant strand back into Grace’s braid.

Grace rolled her eyes, “This isn’t funny. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other. How is he supposed to trust me if he won’t speak to me, let alone look at me. I suppose the work is sensitive and that alone shows promise in a friendship but it isn’t enough to guarantee his regard.”

Lilis and Margrove shared a look.

Grace looked between them with thinly veiled impatience, “What?”

A silent conversation passed between the two but when Lilis spoke up she looked apprehensive, “Out of curiosity… did you attempt to speak to the King?”

Grace’s brow furrowed. Now that she thought about it, she had not.

“It’s not a mark against you,” Margrove added gently, “But you do have a tendency to recluse when working, Grace.”

“Do I?” Grace asked softly, her eyes picked a spot and unfocused as her mind connected dots she hadn’t realised existed.

Lilis intertwined an arm through hers, “Perhaps he was letting you show yourself in your natural state. He may have wanted to see you as you are before revealing himself.”

“I’d say it’s a good start in any case,” Margrove asserted, “Working in silence is far more favourable to working in aggressive chaos.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed at his expression; knowing he was referring to their first week of work together.

Margrove had tried many tactics to pull Grace from her comfort zone and found none worked so well as pressure. It was better now that she was in a comfortable place within the Orchestra. The Faun had to push her less and less every day.

Secretly, Grace was glad. Though she loved her friend, she never willingly wanted to see that side of him again.

“Perhaps you might ask him more questions about your work?” Lilis suggested.

Grace’s brow furrowed, “But I don’t need any help with my work?”

There was an obvious look to the Dryad’s face, “I’m only saying that it might be a good way to start conversation.”

Grace glared, offended by the Dryad’s suggestion, “I’m not going to act dumb just so a man will speak to me.”

“She’s right,” Margrove agreed as he leant forward on his crutch, “It won’t help in this situation in any case. The Just King is has no favour for falsity.”

Lilis’s throat whistled with an aggressive outflow of air, “I’m only saying that if you have a question, ask it. Don’t be stubborn and try to figure it out yourself.”

Grace shook her head. Stubbornly refusing to look at either of the devils-on-her-shoulder as she continued drawing lines upon the page.

Margrove juggled his crutch between his hands and patted the newly freed one on Grace’s knee, “You’re clever, Grace, you’ll work it out. I’m sure that before long you and the King will be swapping notes on trade deals with our neighbours. You’ll be such good friends that you’ll completely forget about us down here.”

Grace’s stubborn stare broke into the beginnings of an exasperated smile, “I could never.”

Margrove only smiled in return. He stood shakily from the chaise, barking orders to the Orchestra playing across the room as he returned to hobbling about.

At her right, Lilis tucked another tendril of loose hair behind Grace’s ear, “I need to fix this braid.”

“It’s lasted really well today,” Grace murmured thoughtfully, “It was only the vigorous exercise that really threw it out.”

By this point, Lilis had positioned herself behind Grace and had begun loosening the twisted mess upon her head, “What vigorous exercise were you doing? You weren’t enlisted to dance today.”

“Just a bit of running,” Grace replied mildly.

The hands working on her hair stopped and Grace looked up at the knowing dark eyes of her friend.

“You thought you were late this morning, didn’t you?” Lilis asked.

Grace sighed and returned her sight to the blurred lines of pencil, “Yes, I did.”

Chapter Text

XXV

GRACE

Paris, Texas – Lana Del Rey, SYML

The mid-morning light refracted off the rim of the inkwell mockingly as Grace stared at it. Her ink-stained hand poised perfectly over the ledge as the quill it held dripped any overflow into its dark depths.

It seemed all she did these days was write; sheet music, letters to important dignitaries, orders of trade to be sent to the docks. The list was endless and her hand was stained and cramped with the endless flow of information.

She didn’t complain. If anything, Grace enjoyed the process of putting thoughts to paper, and to have a release in so many forms was liberating in a way she had not seen since she was last at home. The only issue with the whole process, was that there was little she needed from King Edmund to complete it.

He took her work at the end of the day – she assumed to check it over – and each morning she was given a new list and a stack of paper to write on. She never heard an outcome from his lips, no comments or questions of a quizzical nature. He didn’t even bother to interrogate her on the likelihood of her betrayal.

It was all rather… boring.

Grace wondered how anything was to proceed like this. King Edmund was undoubtedly seeing her mental prowess and work ethic, but what did these traits contribute towards his trust? Had he forgot to mention he was a scholar? A man who prized hard work above all else? Or perhaps these matters did not attribute to trust at all and he was merely stalling for time.

Her quill scratched it’s last word upon the paper and she looked upon the final stop with satisfaction. The pen was returned home to its inkwell with a thunk that sloshed the ink dangerously close to its rim and Grace held the letter aloft in her hands, undeniably proud of her efforts and the fruit they bore.

This letter had taken her the better part of the morning – King Edmund must have assumed it would, as the list he provided contained less than it’s forebearers.

Grace blew gently on the paper as she relaxed into her seat. The King had been kind enough to organise her a writing desk along the western wall of the room. It was a small square of cherry wood, raised at a 70-degree angle to aid her wrists efforts.

She would admit, the gesture was kind. It also should have been – at minimum – expected that such a thing would be provided. Surely, no one would expect anyone to write at great lengths on their behalf without a little assistance.

Grace’s eyes flickered to the impenetrable face of the King; his brows furrowed in focus as he stared at the open book upon his desk. Grace knew he’d been brushing up on the laws for working rights – she’d seen him pluck the book from the shelf earlier – but hadn’t found the nerve to ask him about it.

As Grace continued to blow heartily on the sheet, an idea came to mind. Usually, she would deliver all of her work to the King at the end of their session… but perhaps it would be prudent to deliver this letter now? If the King had any feedback, he would then be able to deliver it whilst she was still there and maybe then they could… talk?

Grace groaned internally, the idea seemed so silly now – in the light of the darkened study. She mentally cursed Lilis for putting it there in the first place.

“Is that the Terebinthian letter?”

Grace started, her fingers nearly dropping the paper in her hands, “I uh-”

The King held his hand out across the wide expanse of his desk, “May I see it now, please?”

Grace’s lips parted into a surprised ‘O’. Had he read her mind? The timing was impeccably uncanny.

He watched her expectantly for a moment, before his brow furrowed and his reach dropped atop the desk, “If it is not yet ready-”

“No, it is!” Grace shot up from her seat, fingers indenting the remaining papers as they were collected. The five meagre steps it took to reach him felt like they were through thick mud, but she managed them, one foot placed determinedly in front of the other.

The stack was placed into his awaiting hand – it was still atop the desk as he had not cared to lift it, choosing instead to eye her with the most curious gaze.

“Right, thank you,” his calloused fingers enclosed around an edge and lifted the document.

Grace gazed after them, half in awe at how clean they were. She looked back to her own, covered in blotches that hadn’t moved no matter how hard she scratched at them with the brushes of the Cair’s baths. Some were beginning to fade, but not fast enough for her tastes.

The King cleared his throat, his dark eyes catching Grace’s in a silent question.

Grace caught the hint, back stiff as a board as she spun and returned to her seat. She was sure that her cheeks were burning. But what for? There was nothing to be embarrassed about, there was no way the King had read her mind… was there?

In a world of water-like sheets and talking animals, Grace was beginning to doubt herself and decided to test it.

She stared directly at the King’s forehead – it was bare and pale with a few stray hairs artfully folded over it. The dark expanse had grown at least a centimetre since she’d first met him on the terrace a month ago, but it had not yet reached that awkward stage of growth after a haircut.

You need a haircut, she thought loudly.

Nothing, not a single twitch out of focus. His bark eyes remained steadily concentrated on the letter, twitching left and right with the lines of text.

Perhaps she had not been rude enough to warrant a response. Maybe if his pride was hurt, he’d be more likely to call her out on her thoughts?

Or perhaps, he knew she was testing him and would ignore her no matter what she tried.

Grace sighed, hinging her chin in her hand as she reluctantly returned her eyes to work. Never mind, it looked like today would not grant her liberty. It was a futile hope at best, she knew, but one could not help it.

She gazed emptily at the next sheet of paper for a few minutes, mind frozen between her previous task and the next. The King made no noise during the time, save for the brief shuffles of paper as he turned a page. Just when she thought she might go mad with impatience, the stack was dropped noisily atop his desk.

Grace jumped, her grey and searching eyes fixating on the King’s face. He was staring at the letter with a perplexed frown.

“Is something the matter, your majesty?” Grace asked.

King Edmund’s look was infuriatingly indecipherable,  “It’s curious.”

Her head tilted, “Curious?”

“Yes,” He ran a thoughtful hand over his chin, “Your grammar and spelling are perfect but your wording itself is not something I would agree with.”

Grace didn’t respond. Her mouth frozen as disappointment settled in the pit of her stomach.

“See here,” King Edmund turned the sheet and pointed at a line of text which was unreadable at her distance, “You’ve written the request of materials rather oddly.”

The sheet was plucked out of his hands before Grace realised she had done it. She didn’t understand what he meant by ‘oddly’, she thought she’d laid out the terms with satisfaction.

“What do you mean? I’ve stated Narnia’s needs quite clearly here and provided a suitable timeframe for shipment?”

King Edmund shook his head, “It’s too soft, the Kingdom of Terebinthia has promised parchment and a supply of oil in exchange for our precious metals, but they have yet to deliver on their end. This,” He tapped the papers edge lightly, “Will not convince them to make good on their promises.”

“I think it would.”

His disbelief was transparent in his dark eyes, “What gives you such conviction on the idea?”

Grace thought it should have been obvious, “Have you not heard the phrase?”

King Edmund only stared at her dumbly, “What phrase?”

“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

His face was still as he took in her words and replied simply, “You would catch an equal amount of flies with a carcass.”

A dull bell of annoyance rung in Grace’s mind. The King was right – he was totally missing the point of her statement – but in the barebone meaning of the words he was right.

“What would you usually write for something like this then?” Grace snapped, stung at the easy dismissal of what she had thought was a good point.

The King lounged comfortably in his chair, seeming to enjoy her discomfort, “I would accuse them outright at not delivering upon our agreement.”

Grace scoffed at his response, her arms crossing defensively as she spoke, “And do you not think that might cause some friction?”

King Edmund shrugged easily, “It always works.”

His easy arrogance made her eye twitch. It also made Grace wonder at the history between Narnia and Terebinthia in general.

If it was a feud between neighbouring kingdoms then his actions – and the actions of those on the other side – would make sense. However, there was something about the King’s behaviour which made her think he’d been personally offended by the Kingdom and was taking a course of retribution.

Grace leaned casually against the desk, “Tell me, how are Narnia’s relations with Terebinthia?”

A thoughtful hand ran across the King’s face, “Well… they love Lucy. King Ventotene used to constantly ask after her health in our missives. That is, until I asked Lucy to write to him separately about such things.”

There was a slight edge to his voice, jealousy. Grace pushed against it gently, “And have they ever asked about your health?”

King Edmund snorted, “We are discussing a trade matter, why would they need to? It is the very reason I asked Lucy to write to him personally.”

Grace crossed her arms thoughtfully, “It’s only that, I find it odd that they would ask after Lucy’s health… and not yours?”

There was a beat of silence, then slow recognition began to light the King’s features. He threw her an accusatory glare, “You think they don’t like me.”

“It’s pretty clear and doesn’t need much thought,” Grace shrugged.

There was a tinge of hurt in his soft eyes before it was replaced again with stubborn bark, “It doesn’t matter if they do or don’t, we are discussing trade deals,” the letter was grasped and held aloft, “Terebinthia is repeatedly late with their payments and needs a firm hand to maintain trade.”

Grace’s hand gripped her arm as she grew frustrated with the King’s stubbornness, “Surely you know that a friendship between countries cannot survive on force alone.”

He looked away from her, “Lucy and King Ventotene share personal correspondence, that seems to satisfy the need.”

“Clearly not, if the King is willing to blatantly disrespect you with late deliveries,” Grace chipped.

King Edmund stood, the motion creating a loud scrape of wood that made Grace wince. His back was ramrod straight as he looked down on her, “I wonder, where you this argumentative to your previous boss?”

Grace bristled uncomfortably, “You are not my boss, or is your agreement on that point so easily forgotten?”

“At the very least, your work is under my review,” The King argued, his breath uncomfortably warm across her face, “Why do you struggle to take my criticism?”

There couldn’t be more than 15 centimetres difference in their height, but like that night on the balcony he towered over her again. His eyes a shade of unforgiving darkness that made Grace want to shudder.

“Because there is something about this situation that stinks,” Grace bit back, she’d been backed into a corner now and refused to falter, “Something that you are not telling me.”

King Edmund scoffed, “I have nothing to hide.”

Grace stood taller, “That’s not what I’m seeing. Your expression became sour the minute King Ventotene was mentioned.”

The King sneered, “He is old and unchangeable. King Ventotene clings to the traditions of his people and scorns any who step out of their line. There is little to like about him.”

“You talk as if you are not just as stubborn.”

“I am different,” King Edmund insisted, “And if the roles were reversed, I would not behave the way he did.”

Silence fell as Grace pieced his words together.

“The way he… did?” she repeated, “What did he do?”

Something haunted crossed over the King’s sight like fog on a murky river, “It does not matter.”

“No, tell me,” Grace persuaded him.

“I do not like to speak of it,” The King dismissed.

Grace could feel the energy in the balls of her feet. Whatever the King was hiding, she knew it was important. Important enough that he curled around it like a wounded animal. There was a part of her rising that was desperate to know his secrets, a part that Grace knew she could not control.

“Tell me anyway,” She tried, “Consider it an exercise of trust. An offer of your secret in exchange for one of mine.”

At her offer, King Edmund looked past her. He’d shrunk again, no longer towering over her like the intimidating King she knew he played, “You could tell me any number of things that are insignificant.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed at the implication, “A question, then. If that is your price. Anything you want to know.”

The King’s eyes returned to hers. Still haunted by the mist as he considered her proposal. They shifted between hers in thought, seeking some kind of truth in her promise.

Then, at last, he nodded.

The King’s shoulders hunched forwards as he reseated himself. It was as if a great weight had settled itself upon them, or perhaps it was always there and in this moment he simply wore it openly.

Hands rubbed the King’s face tiredly and when his shadowed eyes were released from their grasp they looked an age older. There were no physical signs, no crow’s feet or sagged skin; however, there was more than the simple knowledge they beheld previously. They held the experience of one who’d seen the worst mankind could offer.

Grace settled herself comfortably against the edge of the desk and waited. She tried to cool her features, worried that a show of overexcitement might scare him off. It was hard for her, but she managed it; her toes stinging with the pressure she exerted to stick them to the floor.

Finally, King Edmund spoke, “Our first week in Cair Paravel was packed with balls and celebrations. Susan spared no expense of finance or time in planning it.”

Vibrant and rich images ghosted over her mind’s eye with startling clarity. From the sight of Queen Susan’s birthday ball, Grace had no doubt in the woman’s ability.

“The Cair was packed with foreign dignitaries from all over the world,” The King continued, “Some had come to trade, some to make alliances and some just to look at us; the four children who had reclaimed the wilderness after the Hundred-Year-Winter.”

Grace’s eyes widened at the mention of the Hundred-Year-Winter. Having only heard of it in passing and shuddering every time she did.

“We welcomed them all just the same. Susan made a big deal out of it and had us meet them on the Cair’s steps personally. She said it was about making a good first impression,” The King snorted.

“Did you not make a good first impression?” Grace asked.

King Edmund grimaced, “Some first impressions are made before the first conversation.”

Grace stared at him, her mind reeling at the meaning of those words.

“The day went well, though it was long. We were out on those stairs for the better part of the morning, King Ventotene was the last to be welcomed. He arrived on a chair carried by four of his party. He looked rather pleased with himself.”

If she had four people to carry her around in a chair, Grace would be too.

King Edmund squinted at the memory, “I remember feeling intimidated at first. At King Ventotene’s full height he towered over us all. He stayed two steps below so the height difference was not so apparent as he shook hands. First Peter’s, then Susan’s and then Lucy’s.”

Grace was beginning to understand where this was going, “But not yours?”

His jaw tensed, “Not mine. It wasn’t noticed, of course. My Royal Siblings were all caught up in greeting the remainder of his party. I’ll never forget the manner in which he passed me over - he’d taken the trouble of climbing those last two steps to scowl at me over his nose.”

Graced nodded, so King Edmund had been scorned. It was plain in his features that King Ventotene’s behaviour still troubled him, even further than the issues it caused with trade.

“It’s been many years since then, right?” Grace asked.

The King nodded, “Yes, but that was not the last of it. Nor do I think the treatment will ever end.”

Something in his voice told her that he’d resigned himself to his fate, that he even thought he deserved it. But surely that couldn’t be the case? For what could a teenager do to offend a King he had never met?

“Did you ever ask him why?” Grace murmured. Her eyes were glued permanently to the lines of King Edmunds face.

“I bribed a member of his household to bring him a missive. She returned a day later and handed it back,” His expression soured, “It was unopened. I doubt it was even touched by anyone but the maid.”

Grace’s face scrunched in confusion, “But why?

The scorched bark eyes of the King stared unseeingly ahead, “Because the King already knew his stance and was in no mind to negotiate with me. Or at least, that much became clear with the message his maid returned.”

Grace couldn’t help the way she leant forward in interest. Her hands gripping the edge of the desk were the only anchors keeping her from falling forward, “What did she say?”

At first, King Edmund did not speak. He did not even move. There was the haze of a battle being fought behind his eyes, one more severe than the one she’d seen a few nights ago on the balcony.

Then he lifted his chin, his dark eyes blank and expressionless, “She conveyed that while King Ventotene was pleased to be welcomed at Cair Paravel, there were some troubling whispers he’d heard. For the reputation of his kingdom, he saw fit not to consort with me directly.”

The pieces of the puzzle clicked loudly in her mind. King Ventotene had ignored King Edmund because of a rumour. A rumour so heinous to him that he saw fit to continue torturing the King for near a decade afterwards.

Her epiphany must have been clear on her face for the King looked away from her again. His gaze returning to the abyss as he added, “For my part in the matter, I do not blame him.”

So it was not a rumour then. Grace watched his resignation with pity. What could be so horrible that a grown man could not forgive? What could be so horrible that a grown man had the right to withhold forgiveness from one he held no acquaintance to?

“What were the whispers?”

Grace regretted the words the moment they left her mouth and King Edmund’s reaction only served to deepen her guilt.

His eyes closed like she’d asked the question he dreaded most, “I offered you one secret, Grace, and it has been given. I offer no more on this day.”

The questions stilled in Grace’s mind as she became worried by the expression on his face. With one simple overstep the oozing and sickening feeling of guilt had begun to fill her stomach. She looked away from him, out of the nearest window and into the clear blue skies beyond it.

As Grace thought, she could feel the King wrestle with his emotions. The soft sound of skin against skin accompanied by slow drawn-out breaths of air. She didn’t need to look to know what he was doing. It was a practice she followed herself. A practice she had not needed in a while.

“If King Ventotene has become this troublesome,” She began tentatively, “Perhaps someone else should take over Terebinthia’s trade deals.”

The instant denial would almost be laughable if the expression on the King’s face did not hold traces of his emotion moments ago, “As the best negotiator among my Royal Siblings; any formal trade deals are my burden to bear. My siblings have enough work as it is.”

Grace glanced to the overflowing stacks of parchment set on multiple points of the desk, “So do you, as it seems.”

“My workload is manageable.”

“Oh, so that is why you hired me,” Grace commented, “To show me just how manageable it is.”

The King didn’t reply to that one. Grace took a peek at his expression again, noting happily that he looked much calmer. Their trade of remarks returning some colour to his skin.

For a moment, Grace felt bold, “Perhaps I might suggest someone?”

King Edmund looked at her curiously.

“From my conversations with Lucy-”

“Queen Lucy.”

Grace ignored him, “It seems like she wants to contribute more. Perhaps you might consider handing the Terebinthian trade matters over to her?”

King Edmund seemed to think over it. There was a doubting expression on his features that made Grace think the proposal was fruitless.

At last, he opened his mouth, air poised in his lungs to respond when – BANG!

The loud echo of the study door shattered the peace in the room and in its wake stood a very dishevelled Queen.

Lucy was almost wild as she rushed through the doorway, her eyes a wide and manic blue. The crazed look was only accentuated by the wet streaks dripping from it. Her hair was falling from its pins more than it usually did, like she had been tugging at it with her hands for hours on end.

Those same hands were clutching something pale, white, and crumpled. It was only upon closer inspection that Grace realised it was stained with ink.

The Valiant Queen’s voice was cracked but strong as she laid the purpose of her interruption, “Brother, I’m going to the Northern Reaches.”

Chapter Text

XXVI

EDMUND

Mothers Daughter – Miley Cyrus

Edmund was stunned at the sudden interruption. The tears streaming down his sisters face as she crossed the room in stride only served to confuse him further. It was rare to see Lucy cry nowadays, except for in the gravest circumstances.

His mind whirred with the possibilities as his body launched into action, “What’s wrong?”

The air stirred beside him as Grace hopped from her perch on the desk. She wasted no time in manoeuvring around the sturdy wood and meeting Lucy on the other side.

Lucy leaned into the embrace, absorbing a few seconds of comfort from her friend before letting Grace go. She eyed Edmund with a determined look, one fist clenched over the crumpled letter she held aloft, “There was an attack on the Healers Tent near the Marshwiggle territory.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Edmund asked as he retrieved it. His eyes flickered to Grace momentarily - a niggling part of his brain did not like her presence in this conversation.

Lucy nodded, her lower lip wobbling as she spoke mournfully, “They managed to get many of the wounded out but Maltooth was wounded and Ritili…” Her voice caught on the name as she struggled to compose herself, “Ritilian is dead.”

Another lone tear cascaded gently down his sisters cheek. Before he could think, Edmund was across the desk, Lucy held tightly to his chest.

Grace watched the exchange with wide eyes, both worried and out of place. “I think I should leave you,” She said, not waiting for a response as she dropped into a half-hearted curtsey.

Edmund nodded gratefully over Lucy’s head, “I think that would be best.”

Thankfully, Grace did not seem offended by his tone, though it was short and unfettered. She simply nodded, eyeing his sister in his arms empathetically as she turned to leave.

His eyes followed Grace’s form keenly until it disappeared behind the heavy wooden door.

Their conversation remained fresh in his mind. Her points were valid and worth listening to. In truth, her first letter had reminded Edmund of his own first attempts to reconcile with King Ventotene. The naivete he’d once shared stung as he remembered the reply he’d received, and the subsequent replies since that date.

King Ventotene had made it clear from the beginning of his dislike for Edmund and that he thought him unworthy of his position. It only stung more that in some ways, Edmund agreed.

A secret for a secret. It was a very artful way to draw the truth from stone. The very material he thought unyielding. Grace seemed to have the talent of drawing blood from it, but not in the manipulative way he’d seen before. There was something open and honest in her eyes that showed him her request was genuine and held no malice. She had no intention of using this information against him, she’d simply wanted to understand.

Edmund would return the favour in kind someday. That is, when he figured out what he would ask her.

Lucy’s muffled voice brought him to the present, “I have to go to the front.”

Edmund felt the colour drain from his face as his grip tightened, “Are you insane? If they’re attacking the healers tents you would be as good as dead.”

Lucy struggled against his tight grip. The movement serving her enough to look him in the eyes, “I have to oversee the installation of a new healer and report on our losses.”

“Peter would never let you,” Edmund protested.

Lucy seemed undeterred by this. Her wet lashes glimmered, encircling her strong and purposeful gaze - it was then the reason for her appearance dawned upon him, “That is why you must.”

His arms slackened, the weight of her request weighing heavily upon his shoulders, “No, Lucy.”

She shook her head fervently, the action loosening another tear at her eye’s corner, “I will not engage – If that is what you wish – but there is no other choice; Maltooth will need an experienced healer and the Cair has very few at our disposal that can ride.”

“We will send for one of the Centaurian Healers from the Western Wilds,” Edmund reasoned.

“The trip West takes days at minimum. There’s not enough time.”

Edmund let her go, a list of the Cair’s staff in mind that he would locate in his desk, “Then we will organise a willing guard to take one of the Cair’s healers.”

Lucy refused, “We cannot ask them to risk their lives. Besides, what if my cordial is needed?”

Edmund ignored her, fingers shuffling through paper at precarious speed. Where did he put that damn list?

“Edmund,” Lucy grasped his arm, halting it mid-air, “Be reasonable about this.”

He looked at her begrudgingly, his Sister’s eyes were open, honest and brimming once again with unshed tears.

“We’ve taken a hit,” She continued, “The people need the Crown’s support now more than ever. Peter is the head of Aslan’s Army; he needs time to muster the numbers. You and Susan are tied up in this business with Calormen. All of that aside, none of you have the experience to manage the Healer staff.”

Edmund’s frown grew grim at the ever-present sense from his sisters mouth.

“It has to be me.”

Edmund knew her expression held that same surety that all of his siblings did. Would that he could mirror it; that he could feel as sure of himself as they did.

He looked at Lucy imploringly, “If I let you go and something happened I could never forgive myself.”

Lucy sighed, her voice soft and soothing despite the words it spoke, “You are not letting me go, I need your sign off in order to do so legally but I will leave without it if I have to.

“You would really risk your life for this?” Edmund whispered, “There are options available to us – despite your dismissal of them.”

Her eyes gleamed with an otherworldly courage, “I do not fear death, brother.”

Edmund did. He’d feared the death of his family ever since he’d became aware of it’s very real possibility at his hands. He remembered his own brush with it, the creeping coldness crawling under his skin and into to his heart until there was nothing left of him to feel, to think, to breathe. Endless nothingness was a fate he wished on none.

But Lucy knew nothing of that and if he could control the future, she never would.

“Clearly, you fear Peter’s wrath instead,” Edmund muttered, his eyes flickering towards the study door.

“No,” Lucy blocked his view, “I don’t want to worry him.”

Edmund continued to muse, “If Peter knew, you’d be kept with a watchdog until this mess with the giants was over.”

Lucy glared at him, “Perhaps not. He seems to understand that I am a grown woman, capable of making my own decisions.”

Edmund rolled his eyes; Peter saw Lucy’s wisdom due to the interference of others. If he’d been left on his own, Lucy would be coddled forever.

“You’re still our little sister. I doubt that he would let you go willingly,” Edmund persisted.

“Honestly, I thought we were past this, Ed,” Lucy groaned, “You all need to stop treating me like a child.”

“Then you need to stop acting like one.”.

“That’s enough,” His sister’s cold tone cut through air with furious accuracy. Her eyes were dark and dignified, holding the distilled wrath of her position with precarious ease, “Either you and Peter will sign off on this or I will go myself and trust me brother, there are little who will be able to stop me.”

He looked at her, wary of the unforgiving glare levelled at his form. Sometimes Edmund forgot that she was more than just his kid sister, that the Valiant Queen was not a title handed lightly to her. Sometimes, he swore Lucy enjoyed reminding him.

Edmund’s resolve loosened, “I will sign off on it on the condition that you take a squad of guards of my choosing.”

Lucy closed her eyes in stoic relief, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Edmund muttered. He returned to his seat and plucked a bare sheet of parchment from the stack, “You have two weeks, Lu. I want daily reports by flight on your status.”

“Daily reports aren’t nece-”

Edmund silenced her with a look, “You will do this for me. I will include three of flight in your guard. The repetitive journeys may prove tiring, so please see to their care.”

Lucy sighed, her eyes reaching the ceiling as she shuffled closer to the desk but she did not protest further.

“The Healers Tent will be moved into the Marsh-wiggle territory to deter against further attacks,” Edmund grimaced at the words upon the page, “Try not to place it too close to a Wigwam, the last thing we need is a petition for breach of Marsh-wiggle privacy.”

As Edmund neared the end of the letter, he took extra care in writing his name. The pointed flow of the R burning into his retinas as he considered its significance.

He shook his head; this was Lucy’s choice and there was only so much he could do to cushion the outcome. The page was held aloft to his sister who snatched it without hesitation.

“Take this to Boram at the gatehouse. He will rally your squad,” Edmund watched her nod as her clear eyes scanned the page, “Make your preparations quickly, the two weeks start from today.”

Lucy’s jaw dropped, “Today?”

“Be thankful that I am signing off on this at all, Lu,” Edmund warned, “You’d have a much harder time organizing this on your own.”

His sister looked away, chest heaving with a deep breath as she relented, “Fine.”

Edmund relaxed into his chair; the pressure which bubbled in his chest lessening marginally at her acceptance. The feeling did not evaporate, however, and he doubted it would until Lucy had returned.

Surprisingly, Lucy did not leave. She stood calmly at the opposite end of his desk, her eyes now unburdened of fury as they gazed at him, “Do you remember our trip to the Western Wilds?”

Edmund raised his eyebrows at the change of conversation, “Which one?”

“Just you and I,” Lucy prompted, “After the Festival of Floralia.”

Edmund remembered it well, as he did all of his trips West. However, the one Lucy spoke of was one of his least favourites.

He was five and ten years of age when the Great Peace began. Edmund and his siblings had taken up permanent residence in Cair Paravel and he – finding the stillness of settled life unnerving – had decided to go West to secure his dukedom.

Lucy had requested to come, a little to his annoyance. Days into their journey, his sister had gone missing from their camp. Edmund had nearly turned the forest upside down in search of her, against the grumblings of their friend and advisor, Mr Tumnus, that she would be perfectly safe.

“The forest was so green and the flowers were in full bloom, don’t you remember it?” Lucy pressed.

“I remember you getting lost on the Swaying Path,” Edmund grumbled.

“And I came out just fine at Beavers Dam,” Lucy returned brightly, “With not a scratch to be found on me.”

Edmund looked at her sceptically, that wasn’t quite how he remembered it. Though his sight might have been marred by the worries of an older brother.

“Is there a point to this story?” Edmund asked shortly.

Lucy rolled her eyes, “There would be, if you’d have some patience.”

He waited for her explanation.

Lucy looked at him through thick lashes, her hand fiddling with the sleeve ties of her wrist, “There’s something I haven’t told you about that night.”

Edmund felt a gnawing suspicion tug at his mind, “What is it?”

His sister looked cautious at her next words, “During that night, there may have been an attack on my person.”

For a moment, Edmund sat dumbfounded at her words. They reached his ears and wormed their way into his mind but they didn’t settle, instead dropping to the pit of his stomach and joining the sickened feeling there.

“There was a hag living in a burrow under a tree,” Lucy explained, “I slipped and fell right into her lair.”

Edmund’s brow furrowed as he swallowed nervously, “How on earth did you make it out of there without a scratch on you?”

Lucy grimaced, “I cut off her claws.”

There was a startled laugh, it took Edmund a minute to realise it was his own. The idea of Lucy meeting such a feat was not impossible, but at three and ten years of age he couldn’t imagine her small skinny body swinging a blade with such force.

“Why did you never tell me?” Edmund asked.

“What would’ve been the point?” Lucy argued, “The Hag was dead. If it was known then I would have been banned from going out ever again.”

“I think we’d need to get over the shock first,” Edmund muttered, eyes wide with stock still disbelief.

Lucy shook her head exasperatedly, “I’m only trying to remind you that I am tough and resourceful. You need not worry about me.”

“Oh?” Edmund tilted his head mockingly, “Was that what this conversation was aimed towards? I thought you were trying to give me a delayed heart attack.”

There was a beat of silence where Lucy stared at him, eyes moving in quick paced assessment.

“You might be a bit peaky but I believe you’ll survive,” She ascertained, before adding wryly, “I’d imagine your time with Grace has already been trying on your nerves.”

Edmund’s eyes were instantly drawn to the letter upon his desk. Amidst the confusion of explanations and the rather unexpected appearance of his sister, it had been shuffled to the side. Now, however, it’s image was at the forefront of his mind and with that the points that Grace had made.

“Did you tell Grace you wanted to do more?” Edmund asked, “For Narnia, that is.”

Lucy’s eyes drew surprisedly from the parchment she was reading, “Grace told you that?”

“It was brought up in conversation.”

Her cheeks flushed at the exposure of conscience, “I may have mentioned it. You all have your fields in which you specialize but my toolkit feels a little bereft in comparison.”

Edmund hummed thoughtfully, “I suppose that might be due to your age. Peter and Susan have always been wary of putting too much on you.”

“But I’m of-age now,” Lucy insisted, “Working in the field and with the Healers Guild is well and good but I want to help more with Narnia’s administration.”

Edmund’s lips quirked at her initiative, “Then I might have a matter or two for your perusal.”

A dull light sparked in Lucy’s eye, “Really?”

“For when you return,” Edmund negotiated.

She deflated a little at that. Her eyes wondered to Grace’s letter atop the desk. Before Edmund could stop her, she lunged for them.

“Is this one of them?”

Edmund’s hand swiped over the desk, missing the pilfered stack by a hairs breadth, “No, it isn’t. Give it back.”

Lucy flipped through the pages easily, “The author of this letter has rather odd handwriting. I’m sure King Ventotene will have a hard time reading it.”

“It’s not for King Ventotene,” Edmund grunted as he reached for the stack again.

“Yes it is,” Lucy pointed towards a line of ink, “His name is written right here.”

Edmund huffed and fell back into his chair. Lucy had wondered out of his reach, her skirts folding outwards with each step.

“The ink is still wet,” she noted, “Did Grace write this?”

“Yes,” Edmund muttered defeatedly.

“It’s rather good,” Lucy praised, “Though perhaps her vocabulary could use some work.”

A noise of approval left his throat, “I also thought as much.”

His sister looked at him, her clear blue eyes holding a glint of mischievous planning, “Will you lend her your thesaurus then?”

Edmund’s eyes were drawn to the forementioned book before he could think better of it. His thesaurus sat betwixt multiple personal leather-bound journals, the fraying and old binding in stark contrast to its neighbours. Edmund had been given the book their first Christmas in Cair Paravel and like any other beneficial book, he’d poured over it; writing in the margins and dogearing pages he might find useful in the future.

“No,” Edmund answered resolutely. That expenditure would perhaps be too dear in the current situation.

Lucy’s expression did not change at his dismissal, it was as if she’d expected his answer, “What a shame. I suppose I could lend her mine…”

Edmund rolled his eyes, sensing a deeper meaning in her words, “I suppose you could, if you were so inclined.”

“I suppose it would be counterproductive for me to offer such a thing when yours is sitting right there,” Lucy glared pointedly towards the offending shelf, “Grace might think you were going back on your promise to try to make friends.”

Edmund’s ears perked at the end of her sentence, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Have you been listening to my private conversations?”

Lucy shrugged, “You know we have spies all over the castle.”

She was right; there were many spies in the employ of his family – Not that they’d ever truly needed them. Narnia’s peace was prosperous and long lasting, but it never hurt to ensure it remained that way.

“I want this to work, Edmund,” Lucy continued, “Your friendship with Grace will be important.”

Edmund involuntarily raised a brow, “Will it now?”

“Yes.”

He studied his sister for any trace of doubt. She stared back evenly, fingers stock still with Grace’s letter in hand. Her face the very picture of determination. Of all the things Lucy was known for, her unwavering faith was high amongst them. On the other side of the coin, that faith always had purpose. There was very little she was not right about in some form or another.

With that thought in mind, he silently called on Aslan for strength – he would need it in great quantities in order to sustain a friendship with Grace. Especially if she was so inquisitive of everyone and everything.

Edmund sighed, a long and drawn-out noise which made Lucy smile, “I’ll do my best to maintain amiability.”

Lucy held the letter towards him, a peace offering, “That’s all I ask.”

His fingers reached towards the stack of parchment eagerly, before he thought of a better plan, “Put it with the kindling. ‘Twas only a test and I’ve already passed feedback on to Grace.”

Lucy nodded, withdrawing the proffered parchment and returning to her spot by the fire.

Edmund’s eyes followed the flowing script as it was dropped amongst twigs, leaves and other scraps of paper. Edmund hoped that Lucy would not look to closely into the bucket and see the similar penmanship. He did not wish to explain to her exactly why all of Grace’s work sat in that bucket.

Lucy did not move from the fireplace at first; her hands held toward the flames cautiously as she absorbed the heat. Her silence began to make him nervous, until she finally stood, cheeks plump and flushed, “You’ll burn the Cair down one day if you don’t keep control of that fire.”

“I have it under control,” Edmund shrugged her off.

“It is at least ten degrees hotter in here than anywhere else in the castle.”

His lip quirked involuntarily, “Like I said, under control. Worry about your own hearth, Lu. Did the staff not put out an unrestrained fire in your rooms just the other day?”

Lucy looked bashful as she admitted, “Only a small one.”

Edmund gave her an amused look. Knowing his point was made, he didn’t feel the need to push further.

His sister continued to watch the fireplace worriedly, the flickering flames dancing in her cool irises, “It’s such a shame that the letter will not be issued. It looked like Grace put a lot of time and effort into it.”

“She did,” Edmund affirmed. A guilt pooling in his stomach that his rational mind refused to acknowledge.

“I’m sure that King Ventotene would enjoy such a letter,” Lucy said thoughtfully, “He so very much enjoys a lighter tone. My correspondence with him has always been so.”

Edmund’s sight drew to the kindling box once more. As much as he fought against it, he knew the letter was good. It was only due to its different tone that Edmund had discarded it on instinct; his mind clouded with the memories of his own correspondence with the King of Terebinthia.

In the past four days, Edmund had kept a watchful eye on the Daughter of Eve. Her writing desk had been scoured at the end of each session. To little need, it turned out. There was nary a hair out of place save the space which she used.

There were no hidden missives or sensitive information tucked away in her room either; he’d sent Shese to investigate in multiple instances.

Yet, each time she came back with the same story. Grace’s only additions to her guest quarters were a couple of dresses which Susan had imposed upon her, stacks upon stacks of music sheets and a handful of painted stars atop the ceiling.

Perhaps Grace was not as terrifyingly manipulative as he’d originally thought. Every scrap of evidence seemed to point towards the outcome in brightly coloured arrows. Even his own assessment of her had turned more positive over time.

As Edmund stared exhaustedly at the tall stacks of parchment which sat atop his desk, he entertained the idea of sharing it with her. He was sure that at least some of the work in there would be complicated enough to make her face dimple in that soft concentration he’d seen before.

Lucy interrupted his thoughts, “I hope you’re nice to her, whilst I am away.”

Edmund’s eyes instinctively returned to her face, “Did I not promise to attempt amiability?”

Lucy glared at him shrewdly, “Yes, attempt being the main word. I will not have another fiasco like the one the day the Ambassador from Calormene arrived.”

Edmund grimaced, “I do not plan on anything like that happening again.”

“Good,” Lucy breathed in relief, “Because if it did happen again then I would not blame her for reattempting an escape.”

His sister was speaking words Edmund could not comprehend at that moment. He stared dumbly after her as Lucy retrieved her own orders from atop the desk.

The dust around Lucy’s skirts swirled in the billowing sunlight as she crossed the plush carpet to the doorway. She looked back at him briefly, her eyes glinting with her familiar mischievousness, “And this time, I hope that she gets away.”

Chapter Text

XXVII

GRACE

Heaven Is Here – Florence + The Machine

“That’s it! Keep moving,” Margrove shouted.

Grace bent and twisted to the pulse of the music, her limbs as free flowing as leaves in the breeze. A dryad circled an arm through hers and gripped at her thin wrist, using the tension to spin them both.

The grip was released and Grace was unprepared for the loss of tension. Her body spiralled backwards, ending in a tumbled heap upon the stone floor.

“Ow,” She groaned, already feeling the bruises painting her flesh blue.

The music did not stop, nor did the sound of hard feet against stone. Such is the way of Narnian dance, one must continue in order to thrive. There is no stopping the beat of life.

A shadow darkened the light over her closed eyes and Grace cracked them open to the disapproving face of Margrove.

“You’re distracted today,” He observed, “You need to focus or you’ll lose a limb.”

Grace groaned, “I can’t help it. It’s been a long day.”

The Faun made a noise that stood somewhere between acceptance and suspicion. He turned and called towards the group of dancers, “Continue, Grace will be pulling out!”

On instinct, Grace protested, “I never said that!”

Margrove grabbed her arm to help her off the floor, “You’re right, you didn’t. I’m pulling you out.”

“But that’s not fair,” Grace whined, her voice barely louder than the sound of his cloven hooves atop the marble, “I’ve only fallen out twice today.”

“In an hour,” The Faun corrected, “You’ve fallen out twice in an hour.”

Her cheeks grew hot with frustration, “Regardless, I don’t think that is worth an ejection.”

“As the leader of the Orchestra my word is final,” He gave her a stern glare, “If you have any complaints, please take them up with me after you are promoted.”

Grace sighed, “Mar, please-”

“Enough,” Margrove took her by the elbow and ushered her into a cushioned armchair, “Sit and work before I eject you from this room. Your energy is unpredictable this afternoon and it’s disrupting the flow.”

Grace sat, a stubborn frown on her face as sheet music was thrust into her hands. The Faun hobbled away immediately, as if escaping an impending bombshell.  

There was no use in arguing the point further, her words would only seem rash and childish against the truth; She was distracted. She had been since the moment Lucy had burst through the study doorway. Her eyes big, blue and brimming with tears.

Grace didn’t know how to react. Her heart ached to stop the offending water leaking from Lucy’s persistent eyes… but she’d never seen the Queen in such a state before and didn’t know what to do. The suddenness of her emotions shifted the mood of the room entirely and – apart from shielding her friend in her arms – Grace was ill equipped to assist in returning it.  

It seemed that King Edmund had the situation in hand. Dropping everything at once to do the same thing Grace had. The embrace of a friend is vastly different from that of a brother, she observed, as Lucy settled into it and sobbed.

At that, Grace made her exit. Seeing Lucy in such a way made her want to sob with her and she hardly thought that was appropriate given her displacement from the situation.

King Edmund had looked relieved to see her go. Atop that, his words were short and unmonitored. A dismissal as automatic as artificial intelligence. Grace tried not to let it get to her, after all what reason would he have to act differently with their scant acquaintance and his sister crying in his arms.

Grace did not remember the words that proceeded the moment. Lucy had spoken so quickly it was as if Grace had blinked and then was outside in the hallway. There was something about going North, some giants – Grace decided to dissect that later – and a friend dying… Ritilian. Someone who was clearly important to Lucy and held meaning to King Edmund as he’d rushed to her side as soon as she’d said it. Although, from knowing the Queen as she did, Grace wondered whether Lucy held the same love for all she touched, even an enemy.

Grace worried for the moment she would have to leave. She didn’t want to hurt her friend in such a way, but how could it be helped? It was not as if she could take Lucy with her!

Her only solace was that she would miss her friend just as deeply, if not more. Grace had never had a friend such as Lucy before. Someone who was kind and caring without judgement. Who supported Grace, despite the pressures to the opposite from her brother. There was a debt owed between them that she could never repay, a debt which she knew Lucy would not collect upon.  

Perhaps in their shared grief of each other they would be connected forever? Grace dearly hoped so.

At the other end of the coin sat the ever-present question of King Edmund. His outward appearance of cold scrutiny and hard accusations a shell for… what? It was clear he had been hurt, further than by the actions of King Ventotene. In the light of the study, there was a resemblance between him and his sister which she could not place until the latter burst through the door.

Their expressions of sadness were the same, but the difference was how often they wore them. Lucy, she had not seen cry once since her arrival to the Cair. Her grin of mischievous kindness constantly displayed on her features, the look reminiscent of a smile she’d seen on the High King’s face.

When Lucy had surged across the carpeted floor of the study she was the very image of King Edmund. Stoic and sincere with the slightest tinge of sadness – the very expression he always seemed to wear in Grace’s presence.

At first Grace didn’t know what she had done to bring on such a reaction from him, however, as time wore on, she began to realise that the problem may not lie with her.

Was that why she pushed him today? When had she decided to push past the barriers the King had so clearly placed? Was it when his expression had dipped further than its usual level of despair? When his eyes hardened against her questions? Did she simply like the challenge? What was wrong with her?

Questions upon questions encircled her mind and Grace gripped the auburn mess atop her head to keep it from imploding. There was a dull ache radiating from the base of her skull that made her wish ibuprofen existed.

“Surely the music isn’t causing you this much anguish?”

Grace started, her wild eyes landing on the relaxed form of Margrove. He was sitting across in his favoured armchair, a scarf woven around the curves of his wrist. It was a habit of his to play with the knitted article, twisting it this way and that around different limbs of his body like a constricting snake.

“I have a headache,” Grace muttered, her throat scratchy with emotion.

The Faun only raised an eyebrow, “I’m sure. Does this headache have a name?”

“I was thinking, Bartholomew?”

His lips pursed like he’d eaten something sour, “I have a cousin by that name, nasty bloke. Tried to trip me over a lot when we were children.”

Grace leaned forward curiously, “Your uncle has children?”

“Adopted,” Margrove explained, “The Battle of Beruna saw many an orphan made. Many were rehoused with relatives. Those that weren’t were taken in by my Uncle.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Grace asked.

Margrove looked past her, his eyes clouded and unseeing. They crinkled at the corners subtly, as if tears would pass from them if they were available, “Yes.”

At once, Grace regretted the question. Clearly her foot had lodged itself firmly in her mouth today and it refused to rescind, “I’m sorry, that was too personal. I’m asking all sorts of questions I shouldn’t lately.”

He waived her off, “It’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it, however, it’s been a while since I last did.”

Grace’s lips lifted in a small grateful smile and the two fell into silence, their thoughts heavy in their minds.

“Sometimes I forget about it amidst everything going on,” Margrove admitted lowly, “and I feel guilty. Surely, he deserved better than that.”

Empathy tugged at the strings of Grace’s heart, “You aren’t alone,” she murmured, “but whenever I feel like I am failing to remember, I remind myself that that is what they would have wanted for me.”

At first, Grace wondered if she’d said to much, but Margrove didn’t probe further and she found herself grateful for his restraint.

Her hand reached across the empty expanse between them and settled on the Faun’s wrapped ones, “Your Father would have wanted that for you. He would have wanted you to live in the present; creating songs and dances that will be remembered in Narnian history forever.”

A hand released itself from under the expanse of knitted wool. Grace felt the warm calloused skin atop her own.

“Thank you.”

She smiled, it was small but present. A testimony to the hope she held deep down, the hope she longed pass to those who needed it.

Margrove returned it, his eyes warm and cleared of cloudy mourning. Then, they sparked and Grace knew she was not yet clear of his curiosity, “What other questions have you been asking today?”

Her expression dropped, the dull ache of the afternoons memories returning to the forefront of her mind. She withdrew, huddling herself back into the cushioned armchair, “Stupid ones.”

The smile on the Faun’s face grew, “There are no stupid questions.”

“There are where I am concerned.”

“Was this question by any chance,” Margrove continued, balancing his chin atop his hand purposefully, “Directed towards King Edmund?”

Grace did not move, “I do not wish to speak of it.”

“So it is!” The Faun grinned, “Isn’t that good? You’re supposed to be getting acquainted with each other. I’d imagine questions play a crucial role in that transaction.”

“Not when I take them too far.”

Margrove stared pointedly, he waited for her to proceed until it became clear that she wouldn’t.

“Must I beg?” He asked, “Please use your big human words and explain.”

Grace glared at him, “I wrote a letter that caused some friction.”

Margrove didn’t move, his expectant expression persistent and irksome.

Her long sigh threaded the air, “His Majesty, King Edmund was insistent that the tone of my letter did not match it’s urgency, I disagreed. In proving my point I treaded on an emotionally sensitive matter.”

Margrove’s eyes widened with a hint of recognition, “What emotionally sensitive matter? Who was the letter for?”

Grace froze for a moment, unsure whether she should proceed. The conversation with King Edmund had been… delicate. The matter seemed too personal to discuss with others.

But because Grace could not make sense of the moment she’d witnessed this morning or the millions of questions whirring in her head, she decided to trust Margrove, “It was for King Ventotene.”

A brief look of relief passed over the Faun’s face, only to be replaced by slow creeping realisation, “What did you ask?”

Grace winced, “King Edmund was reluctant to speak about his aversion to the King. I pressed him on it.”

Margrove observed warily, “Define ‘Pressed him’.”

“I offered him a trade of his secret, for one of mine.”

The Faun’s jaw slackened, “And his Majesty agreed?”

Grace shifted in her seat, a sickening guilt curdling the contents of her stomach, “I may have guilt tripped him a little.”

Margrove whistled in awe, “I’m surprised your head is still atop your shoulders. King Ventotene is a very sore subject for the King.”

Grace blanched at his recognition, “I thought that wasn’t common knowledge?”

“It isn’t. I overheard he and my Uncle speaking about it.”

“Margrove!” Grace admonished, eyes wide at the casual nature of his statement.

He grinned cheekily, “I did that a lot as a child. It wasn’t long before my uncle pulled me up on it.”

“Were you punished?”

“Bed without supper for a week.”

They laughed, the noise light and tinkling against the boisterous noise of The First Gifts of Christmas being played across the room.

When the moment passed, Grace’s friend looked at her with sincerity, “You didn’t listen in, Grace. You asked and the information was given. Curiosity is a natural part of life and should not be frowned upon.”

“It is not only that which I feel guilty about,” Grace admitted lowly.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s that I want to know more.”

Margrove’s head tilted, “If the King has told you everything, then there can’t be much else to ask for?”

“But he didn’t,” Grace replied, “I want to know why King Ventotene acts so unjustly towards him. I’ve come to understand that he heard something before he’d even met the King but I can’t – for the life of me – understand what would be so horrible that a King would seek to belittle a teenager.”

There was an expression that passed over the Faun’s face, akin to the recognition she’d seen before but somehow going further than that. It bordered on reluctance.

When he spoke, it was with a delicacy she’d never seen from him before, “The people of Terebinthia are very proud and their customs are set in stone. Their culture has survived with little change for hundreds of years.”

Grace nodded, gathering the information between the lines, “Are you saying that King Edmund has done something to offend these customs?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Margrove’s eyes were guarded as he considered his next words, “The Terebinthian’s respect family above all else. Any act against that is considered an act against Aslan himself.”

Confusion marred the picture she’d painted in her mind. King Edmund was heavily devoted to his family – she was proof of that. What did this information have to do with King Ventotene’s dislike of the King?

“I don’t understand,” Grace voiced.

Margrove’s eyes narrowed and his expression turned cold, “It is not for you to understand, Grace. I must be perfectly clear when I say this, you are not to ask anyone else about this. To do so would hurt your cause.”

Grace’s eyes widened, “But-”

The Faun held a warning finger aloft in her direction, “Do you understand?”

Grace deflated, her heart constricting in her chest at Margrove’s shift in behaviour, “Yes.”

“Good,” The Faun gave her another pointed look before he wobblingly stood from the armchair and leaned over the writing desk situated behind it. His calloused hands shuffled through the sheets of music as Grace watched.

The silence dragged and she could feel it crawl over her skin to the uncomfortable beat of her heart. Grace couldn’t imagine what she had done to deserve such a warning. Had she stepped too far again? Over lines of which even Margrove would not pass?

At last, the Faun located the sheet he was after. He plucked it from the pile with his nimble fingertips then failed to display the same amount of grace as he hobbled back to the armchair.

With a grunt, he collapsed into the chair and held the sheet aloft, “Here.”

Grace took it warily, eyes casting over his expression with anxiety fuelled speed. It was more or less the same as it always was, cheerful, but there was something more behind his eyes now. A guarded care had taken up residence in those onyx irises.

“Margrove, have I done something wrong?” Grace asked tentatively.

“No, but there are some things we do not speak of,” He looked meaningfully towards the sheet of The First Gifts of Christmas in her hands, “You need to learn that for the Christmas Ball. Give it a read and let me know how you feel about it.”

Grace glossed over the music sheet, confusion setting in as her eyes flickered between the inked notes, “I can’t sing in this key.”

The Faun smiled wryly, “Then consider it your education.”

Chapter Text

XXVIII

GRACE

Lapse – Black Math

Grace nervously fiddled with her sleeve as she followed Margrove down the hallways of Cair Paravel. The mid-afternoon sun had long steeped the air in comfortable warmth, every now and then giving way to the crisp breeze drafting through the windows.

“Have you any idea why we were summoned?” She asked, feet nearly stumbling over themselves to keep up with the Faun’s stride.

Margrove spared her a brief look over his shoulder, “She’s a Queen, I couldn’t imagine what her intentions are.”

Grace latched on to his arm in an attempt to slow him, “Did the missive not say anything?”

“Only to meet her on the terrace for tea,” The Faun gruffed as he hoisted himself over a step. His right leg was still bandaged and he relied heavily on his crutch for movement, yet somehow this did not hinder his speed as he hobbled haphazardly in front of her.

Grace could not help but watch in amazement. She had known that Faun’s had an advantage in movement due to the shape of their legs – she’d even seen it in motion during the Long Trot at Queen Susan’s birthday ball. However, seeing the effect of it still present whilst the being was injured was incomprehensible.

No further words were spoken as they were escorted to the terrace and – apart from the grunts of the injured faun and Grace’s own heavy breaths – the air grew silent.

The bright sunlight of the terrace was welcomed. It’s warmth soft against their sweaty faces as it dried them.

Grace breathed deeply, the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle soothing her lungs as they were lead across the stone floor.

The scene was similar to that of a few weeks ago, in a time darkened with her depression. It seemed tea was a common occurrence for Queen Susan, and that she liked it’s setting to be just so.

Grace did not blame the Elder Queen, if she had to endure endless meetings she would also do it on her own terms.

Queen Susan sat serenely on a chaise, her long dark her grazing softly against her straight and regal back. In the sunlight Grace realised it was the same as King Edmund’s – almost black with the undertone of a rich brown which was pronounced in sunlight. It was uncertain whether this similarity gave her comfort or not, given her uneasy acquaintance with said king.

She was accompanied by two dryads who stood stoically behind her. Their vines hung in woven braids that rustled with the ocean breeze. They stood, eyes closed with patience but Grace knew they were listening intently for their mistresses commands.

Beside her, Margrove bowed lowly. Grace matched her friend, though, her curtsy was lower due to her lack of injury.

The Queen smiled and motioned for them to sit with a gentle wave of her hand, “Thank you both for coming.”

Grace smiled politely as she sat, silently watching Margrove to ensure he didn’t need her help.

“We are honoured by your invitation, your Majesty,” He responded with only a slight wobble as he landed in the cushioned chair.

Grace nodded in agreeance, her admiring gaze returning to the dark-haired Queen.

Queen Susan’s eyes crinkled with her close-lipped smile. A hand was waved to the dryads-in- waiting who immediately began pouring teas and setting food upon their plates.

Grace eyed the smaller Dryad with dismay as her moss-covered fingers placed a cucumber sandwich upon her plate. Grace picked it up delicately, trying to keep her distaste showing as she eyed the offending fruit.

Margrove dug in immediately. He was often hungry after rehearsals as he did not allow himself to eat until they were complete. In fact, Grace thought the Faun was often hungry in general. Any time they had shared a meal together whilst discussing lyrics or the melody of an overture, the Faun’s face was always stuffed with food.

She was grateful that Margrove had decided to show a modicum of decorum as he delicately lifted a sandwich from his plate and took a normal sized bite. Grace followed his movement – she herself was starving, having not eaten anything since leaving the Kitchens that morning.

Queen Susan waited patiently while they took their first bites and only began to speak once they had swallowed, “I was hoping to commence the planning for the Christmas Ball. I understand the Orchestra has already begun work.”

Margrove nodded enthusiastically through a mouthful of another sandwich.

“We’ve put aside a few songs for the performance,” Grace explained, “If there are any your Majesties are wishing to hear-”

Queen Susan’s bright eyes sparkled with interest, “Are there any more of your songs from Spare Oom?”

Grace froze, “I-”

“I’ve got her working on it,” Margrove assured. He caught Grace’s glance from the corner of her eye and added, “There are two currently in the works which Grace deems appropriate for Christmas time.”

“They aren’t carols or anything,” Grace cut in nervously, “But they do possess a type of Christmas magic about them. As requested by Margrove.”

Queen Susan nodded, the slow electricity of her excitement radiating from her cheekbones to her bright eyes, “Excellent! The court has been abuzz with your contribution to the last ball. There is hope for more.”

“Is there anything in particular the court is wishing to see?” Margrove asked.

“Perhaps some more dancing music? The Long Trot was a success by all accounts,” The Queen noted before adding with a grimace, “Apart from your injury.”

Margrove grinned, “Wonderful, I’m sure Grace and I can replicate a few dancing songs from Spare Oom in time.”

Grace blanched a little at the idea. She eyed her friends leg warily. It had been two days since Queen Susan’s ball and the leg was healing as well as could be expected. At least, that was what Lucy told her whenever she’d asked. The break was clean and easy to correct, the only tell lying in the white bandages cast around the wound alongside the stiff discarded branch of a tree.

“Perhaps we should postpone pairing the songs with dances for now,” Grace suggested, “The music I have in mind is far better suited to a performance than a dance.”

There was a look in Queen Susan’s eye that told Grace she wanted to argue. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a smooth calm. The Queen gave a small nod, her mouth crinkling in disappointment as she took a sip of her tea, “If you wish it.”

“I could be amenable to that request,” Margrove agreed, “Although I do wish to provide at least one non-verbal song for the Christmas Gallop.”

This seemed to lighten the Queen’s spirit, “That would be well received. The old tune has needed a replacement for years in my opinion.”

Grace was still unsure whether adding more dancing music was a good idea. In truth, she partially blamed herself for Margrove’s injury. If she hadn’t introduced the music that inspired him to reintroduce the Long Trot, he might have avoided a great deal of pain.

Upon looking at Grace and her unsure features Queen Susan added soothingly, “The Christmas Gallop is not too difficult. It is unlikely that anyone would take injury during it.”

Grace was minimally comforted by this, her breath releasing to soothe the nerves in her chest. The combination of the Queen’s sure words and eagerness to see more of her work made her agree, “There is a symphony I’ve had in mind.”

The answering grin was dazzling and Margrove clapped her soundly on the back.

“That’s the spirit!” Margrove grinned as he plucked yet another sandwich from his plate. Grace followed his lead. She’d thought she would have made a dent in the pile on her plate by now but no matter how many triangles she took, the stack did not shrink.

At her assent, Margrove pulled a folded sheet of paper from who-knows-where and handed it to the Queen. Grace – upon recognising the words upon it – couldn’t help but look at her friend in slight betrayal.

The sheet held a list of song names she assumed were being proposed for the event. Some Narnian songs, some of her own – most of the list containing songs she had not yet shared with The Faun.

Margrove stared back at her evenly, daring her to chastise him.

Grace’s eyes narrowed, she would need to find somewhere more private to hide her work if he kept snooping through it. Perhaps the locked drawer in her bedside table would suit. Surely, the Faun would not stoop as low as to snoop there.

Queen Susan took the sheet gratefully. As her eyes swept over the page she appeared pleased at the number of unrecognisable songs on the list, “This will do well, I think. We have much to work through before the planning can truly commence.”

“I’m afraid the list is incomplete, your Majesty,” Grace interjected with an annoyed look at her friend, “Only the third and ninth are available immediately of the new music. The rest are still in the beginning stages and are likely not to be ready in time.”

“Oh?” The Queen’s perfectly shaped brows raised in apprehension, “Is there no chance that a few more of these could be worked on in time?”

Grace opened her mouth to speak, however, Margrove overtook her, “We will do our best, your Majesty. As Grace says, however, the music is only in the very early stages.”

Queen Susan nodded softly in understanding, “I see. Then I hope to set up a meeting with you in a weeks’ time for review? We may then go over the finalised set list.”

“But of course,” Margrove agreed readily, “We should have one or more on our repertoire by that point. Shouldn’t we, Grace?”

Grace attempted to keep her daggers at a minimum as she agreed.

The Queen’s hands joined loudly in excitement, startling the two from their shared glare, “Excellent!”

The Faun grinned, delighted to have pleased his queen.

In the empty expanse of the archway behind them, the sound of hoof-steps echoed.

There, another faun stood, cheeks red and worn out as he leaned against the crafted stonework, “Your Majesty,” He heaved, “I have a message.”

Queen Susan sat forward with generous interest and gestured for the Faun to approach.

He did, hooves scraping lazily against marble as he knelt before the Queen. Grace didn’t hear what was said, for the Faun spoke in soft whispers but by the concerned look on Queen Susan’s face, she knew it was not pleasant news.

The Queen dismissed him with a gentle smile before turning her crinkled eyes to Margrove, “If this is all the Orchestra has planned then you may leave Us, friend. My Royal Siblings and I thank you for your service.”

Margrove nodded in respect before unsteadily lifting himself from the chaise, the slight groan he gave imperceptible to all except Grace who was too angry at him to offer help in that moment. He gladly accepted a plate of sandwiches from the taller of the two Dryads, making sure to stuff another triangle in his mouth as he hobbled away.

Queen Susan sighed and swept her hands across her skirt as she stood, only allowing the dryads in waiting to fuss over her a moment before waiving them off.

In between the discontented grumblings in her mind Grace realised that she had not yet been dismissed. She turned to the Elder Queen who was staring at her expectantly, “Did you need me for something, your Majesty?”

Queen Susan gave her a small kind smile and held out her hand, “Walk with me, Grace.”

-

There was something about Queen Susan that put Grace at ease. A calmness that couldn’t be described. Grace had no idea where it came from, it seemed the Queen was always going this way and that; busy with balls, the maintenance of the Cair and who knows what else. The peaceful air followed her, practically exuding from her being.

They walked arm in arm down unfamiliar hallways in warm familiar light. It was late in the afternoon and soon the sun would set.

Usually at this time, Grace and Margrove would retire from the music room to one of their own and begin working on reconstructing songs from Earth. The Faun had taken it upon himself to bring all of her memories to life in some form or another and sometimes he made the songs better.

She couldn’t imagine how he did it; perhaps there was some charm in the instruments from this era that added a little something extra? Or perhaps her friend was simply good at what he did.

Grace was grateful that she would evade his company today. She worried what pointed accusations would leave her lips when she saw him next. The music he’d stolen was barely written and she’d still not gone over them properly. It was a breach of privacy that left her feeling uncomfortable and she would not let it slide.

When the corridors became familiar again, Grace could finally place their location in her mind. She’d remembered passing through them a few weeks ago when Casys had taken her to see Hellabora. Grace sighed internally at the thought of the Eastern Gardens, she would have to visit them again soon, if only to stare at the beautiful flowers for a few minutes.

Queen Susan broke the comfortable silence as the large wooden doors of the front entrance came into view, “I hope I am not intruding on your thoughts... I was hoping to ask you a question?”

Grace nodded her assent, looking patiently to the Queen’s curious eyes.

“You fall between Lucy and Edmund in age, do you not?” She asked.

Grace thought for a moment, she didn’t believe either of them had ever revealed their age to her. In terms of maturity she could see herself placed between them, however, if life had taught her anything, it was that maturity did not determine age.

“I do not know,” She admitted, “I am twenty-two, if that helps?”

“It does, indeed.” The Queen nodded, “I hope that was not too personal to ask. I myself do not like to be asked my age.”

Grace smiled, “It doesn’t worry me. Age is only proof of time passing by. It has no effect on who I am or who I’ll be, why should I be identified by it?”

“Surprisingly well put,” Queen Susan acknowledged, “A sentiment I wish I shared; My own age is becoming increasingly worrying to bear.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, “Why is that?”

The Queen regarded her with an obvious expression, “Because I am not yet married.”

It was as if something yanked to attention in Grace’s mind, the knowledge which had laid dormant in her mind since stepping foot on Narnian shores.

Of course, in times such as these it was the expectation that women married young in order to increase their chances of children. Preferably male children, she corrected with mental distate.

“At your age I had been looking for a suitable companion for five years,” The Queen continued, “I have had difficulty in finding one to my tastes where I am also of theirs.”

Grace nodded slowly with understanding. Although she couldn’t imagine why anyone would not think the radiant dark-haired queen was not to their tastes.

“It is only…” Her melodic voice trailed off like mist behind her thoughtful eyes. It was as if the Queen was thinking of how to phrase her next words carefully.

“I have noticed that you have never mentioned a spouse in your requests to return home. I only wonder whether your situation is similar to mine,” Queen Susan edged, “If your quest for love has also been difficult?”

The question was odd in her mind, for Grace had never considered it. In truth, relationships were not something she thought of often, but she could not deny the pang of envy she felt at the sight of other happy couples.

“I do not think I have embarked on such a quest yet,” Grace admitted, “My life has been preoccupied by other matters.”

The Queen frowned in disappointment, “I see.”

Grace mirrored the expression, needless guilt kicking her voice forwards, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Queen Susan smiled with kindness, “In truth, you are like Lucy in this regard and I am glad for it. The pain is one I would not wish on any other.”

They halted at the edge of the corridor, just before two great and intricately carved doors. Grace stared up in wonder as a streak of yellow sunlight slipped through the crack between them. Two attendants had come forth, silently prying the entryway open with their fingers.  

“It not as if I am lonely,” The Queen’s gentle voice washed against the creak of the doors, “I love my siblings deeply. They are the light of my world but-”

Grace understood, “You wish for a family of your own.”

Queen Susan looked to her with imploring eyes, “Is that so bad?”

Grace shook her head, her eyes returning to the fresh and open air, “I don’t think so. You have the right to your wants as much as anyone else does.”

In companionship, the Queen took Grace’s arm. The air around them settling in that peaceful strain she always carried with her. As she tugged Grace forwards towards the front steps of the Cair she omitted a soft whisper, “Thank you.”

The light of the late afternoon had begun to dim, settling everything in a shadowed golden glow. The stairs lay empty, the only souls standing at their feet upon the multicoloured gravel. The silhouettes of Lucy and the High King were prominent among them, along with a horse and its attendant who held firmly to the reins.

The siblings were whispering to each other furiously, their clasped hands between them acting as a tether to their conversation. Lucy looked up at her brother with determined eyes, his own towering above her by more than a head of distance.

As they descended the steps the sound of whispers became more prominent but remained undecipherable. The Queen lead them both, feet moving in equal tempered rhythm on the flat expanse of each step. She did not seem troubled by the exchange happening before them. In fact, Grace thought she might have expected it.

There was a piece missing from the situation, one that Grace knew sat on the tip of her tongue. Why was she here? If it was to temper an argument between the two, Grace did not think she would provide much assistance.

The sound of footsteps on gravel grew increasingly louder as more joined the party. Beings of all kinds lined up in military lines. There were ten in all; fauns, centaurs, dryads and talking beasts. All wrapped in polished silver metal. Armor, Grace noted.

Her eyes darted to the tall brown steed behind Lucy, it’s saddle packed heavily with travel bags and equipment. They returned to the two siblings who were still exchanging whispers at the foot of the Cair. The whispers had changed now, softened to a caring murmur as the High King pulled Lucy into his arms.  

The pieces shifted in her mind, turning clockwise and anticlockwise to fit snugly amongst each other and suddenly, Grace remembered.

Lucy was going North.

From over the shoulder of her older brother, Lucy’s watery eyes caught on the pair. Their feet had narrowly passed the last step before Grace felt a force latch on to her body.

“I’m sorry to leave you like this,” Lucy whispered into Grace’s burning hair, “I know our plans for your return home are not yet complete.”

Grace’s arms wrapped warmly around her friend, “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”

The Valiant Queen released her, dropping atop the gravel with a short huff. Her lips pursed in mock distaste, “Don’t you start. I’ve had enough worry for one day.”

Grace tried to smile obligingly, “I won’t. Just know that I will be thinking about you while you’re off adventuring.”

Lucy’s head swivelled to the horse and company beside it, “This will be you, soon enough.”

Her gaze returned to Grace, the spark of determination clear in her eyes, “When that time comes, I will wave you off with the same amount of enthusiasm you are about to show me.”

Grace felt her cheeks stretch, a smile against her will, “What would you request? A big banner in the sky? ‘Goodbye Lucy’ written into the clouds?”

Her friend’s eyes widened with wonder, “Can you actually do that?”

“Not in this world,” Grace shook her head, “But at home, yes.”

Lucy nodded in understanding, “Well, forgoing the artful clouds, I will take a gesture of good will instead.”

Grace took the Valiant Queens hand and gripped it tightly as she whispered, “Good luck and be safe.”

It had the desired effect, Lucy beamed. Her gratitude displayed when she vaulted into another embrace, “I will be back in two weeks. Wait for me, friend. We still have much to do together.”

As her sight blurred, Grace gripped at Lucy’s small shoulders and offered a silent prayer to whoever was listening that her friend would return safe.

Lucy released her, eyes glistening with unshed tears and turned to her elder sister. Grace did not watch as she leapt into another embrace. Her stomach and eyes burning already from seeing one and feeling another.

A rough cough startled her thoughts and as Grace hastily wiped at her blurry eyes, they cleared to the sight of the High King.

Grace’s attempts to clear her cheeks from wetness became rough, “I’m sorry. She’s your sister, you have more right to tears than I do.”

King Peter looked at her kindly, his own lashes sparkling from the dim sunlight, “She is your friend. You have right to your own tears.”

A traitorous sniffle escaped Grace’s nostrils which she reflexively covered with her hand, her cheeks colouring in embarrassment at the omission.

The High King did not laugh as she half expected him to, however, he simply stared unseeingly in the direction of his younger sisters. His face was still and wrinkled with worry, the expression strongest in his clear blue eyes.

A pair of shoes began to descend the steps, the scuffed sound holding no rhythm. The figure atop them rushed downwards in fracturing speed. Queen Susan and Lucy separated tearfully, the youngers head snapping towards the noisy appearance of King Edmund.

“Sorry I’m late. I didn’t get your message,” He huffed as his feet hit the stone gravel.

Lucy did not wait, flinging herself into his arms the moment he landed. King Edmund caught her easily, as if he’d been expecting the attack.

Beside her, King Peter broke their mutual silence, “I am sorry we have not had a chance to speak since the ball. I’ve been meaning to ask you how your plans are faring.”

Grace breathed deeply, eyes inexplicably drawn to the mess of dark hair that overtook Lucy’s golden hue. It’s texture was more unruly than hers as it weaved atop his head like vines.

“I have no plans,” Grace breathed, “Any that I did you counselled me against.”

“Then I am glad you have heeded my warnings,” The High King said approvingly, “I’d imagine it’s only helped your situation.”

 “It has, thank you,” Grace begrudgingly admitted, “We have reached a sort of truce.”

King Peter hummed, “I heard. Working together. Tell me, how do you find the intimacy of Narnia’s affairs?”

Grace bristled, unsure how to reply without framing herself as a spy, “They are intellectually stimulating.”

“A good response,” The High King praised, “Is that the wording you also use with my Royal Brother?”

Grace winced, “I try to be as articulate as I can.”

Lucy dropped gracefully from her brothers embrace, the two exchanging indecipherable whispers. From the set of his brow, the Just King seemed to be giving orders and Lucy was having none of it.

Grace watched as his expression grew frustrated. Brows tipping further inwards to form a single line of brotherly concern. She would have laughed, if those dark gritted eyes hadn’t met her own in barely concealed annoyance. Her mind stuttered, expression freezing in her half-humoured smile.

The gaze held for barely ten seconds before Lucy regained his attention again, her body language venting a frustration of their own.

Beside her, King Peter added, “Be sure to tread carefully with your words. Edmund hates artifice almost as much as he hates Winter.”

Grace nodded. She knew it, between the words of the King and the overbearing heat from his room that much was clear. Her eyes reglued to the agile form of Queen Lucy as she mounted the horses saddle.

A pit of fear swelled in her stomach at the sight. Apart from the line of military equipped men, there was no one else to protect her. Whilst she had no doubt that Lucy was fearless and perfectly able to handle anything thrown at her, there was a niggling feeling that would not leave her alone.

Lucy waved, her smile of sorrowed cheer clear from an even distance. They all waved her off, hands raised in anxious unison as she urged the horse forwards.

No one moved for a long time, not until the shadowed silhouette of the party passed through the trees and beyond their view. The first to take their leave were King Edmund and Queen Susan, their looks towards the shadowed forest refusing to cease as they climbed arm in arm up the stone steps of the Cair.

King Peter remained steadfastly at her side, his expression stoic as he continued to stare into the woods Lucy had disappeared into.

“Do you think she will be ok?” Grace asked, her throat scratching against the broken silence.

The High King took a deep and steadying breath, “I have to. There is no other option.”

Grace turned to him, eyes wide and entreating.

“Do not trouble yourself over what is still yet to be determined,” King Peter comforted softly as his gaze met her own. There was a strong resolve in those sky blue irises, one Grace wished she could mirror, “We must hold faith in those who have the power of the outcome in their hands.”

Chapter Text

XXIX

GRACE

Daylight - Cinematic  – David Kushner

The air was uncomfortably hot in the kitchens that morning. As Grace kneaded the mixture between her fingers she could feel it rising between them, the bacteria producing air bubbles before it could be fully incorporated.

Amidst the bubbling of pots and the roaring of multiple fires, Mrs Badger prattled on about the Cair gossip. Her sharp and kind voice cutting through the air with ease.

“You should have seen it! Hellabora nearly spit out leaves at the sight,” She chuckled, “Lady Peridian will be cleaning the mud from her skirts for a good while. Poor thing.”

Grace sighed in frustration at the sticky mess in her hands, hands shaking vigorously in order to release themselves from the goop.

“More flour,” she ordered towards the hare at her side.

Kit nodded dutifully, his paw dipping into the paper bag and sprinkling it atop the mass of dough.

She began kneading again in earnest, “Mrs Badger? Is there any way we could close the ovens?”

The Badger in question shuffled over from the other side of the room, her fur mussed and burnt in various places, “I’m sorry dear, but this meat needs air flow to cook correctly. It won’t be much longer, however, I can see the charring on the flesh growing nicely.”

Grace grunted, giving Kit a short nod to add more flour to the mixture.

“Such a strange meat they brought from Calormen,” Mrs Badger murmured as she peered into the roaring fires, “The Calormene Ambassador refuses to eat anything else outside of the company of the Kings and Queens.”

Grace threw the Badger an incredulous look, “Why are you cooking it if you don’t know what it is?”

Mrs Badger returned her comment with a stern glare, “Because I know my place Daughter of Eve,” Her experienced hands flipped the meat upon the skewer, “As should you.”

Grace closed her mouth firmly, she had been significantly chastised, “I’m sorry, I’m always irritable in the heat.”

Mrs Badger softened, her feet waddling her small body across the stone floor, “It’s alright dear. No one likes being cooked like a roast chook. It won’t be for much longer, I promise you.”

At her side, Kit threw another helping of flour into the mixture. As Grace continued kneading, the mixture finally began to form. She eyed it cautiously as her fingers rounded it into a large ball.

It would have to do, there was not a better batch that could be made in this heat and she was already late. Grace turned to the hare as she began untying her apron, “Could you portion it to rise for me?”

“Certainly,” Kit grinned, taking the apron from her gratefully as she hastened to the washing bowl to clean her hands.

“You have nothing to worry about here, Miss Grace,” Mrs Badger called from the ovens side, “It won’t be long before Kit can cover your work entirely.”

It was the truth, Grace had spent many hours over the past month giving Kit pointers on how to maintain the bread quota of Cair Paravel. At first it had come from fear of leaving any matter unfinished when she eventually left Narnia. Now it come from a place of business. Between Grace’s time with King Edmund and her work with the Orchestra it was become increasingly clear that she could not sustain such long days over an extended period of time.

Grace made for the exit, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning!”

“Wait!” Mrs Badger called, eyes beady and discerning behind semi circled spectacles, “You haven’t eaten anything this morning missy, don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

The Badger waddled towards her, plate of toast and marmalade in hand, “Take this to eat on the way.”

Grace smiled gratefully at the Badger as she took the offered slices, her stomach grumbling as she thanked her and slid outside through the cracked doorway.

On the other side of the door, Grace moaned at the chilled air. Fresh against her red and puffy cheeks.

She ignored Casys – who was looking at her under one thick raised brow – and set off immediately in the direction of King Edmund’s study.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait to be summoned?” She asked after swallowing a healthy bite of toast, “I thought the point of the amended orders was to limit your time in doors?”

The Centaur kept pace with her easily, “Normally so, but you did not call for me and I grew worried.”

“For my health or that I’d run away?” Grace asked.

Casys’s lips lifted minimally at their corners, “Both.”

Grace grimaced, “I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped. The kitchens were lowered into the fiery pits of hell today,” She spared a glance over her shoulder, “The dough didn’t like it.”

The Centaur nodded, “Do not trouble yourself. My morning duties were complete and I had little else to attend to.”

Grace’s ears perked, “What is it that you do in the mornings Casys? I’m sorry, I’ve never asked before.”

“I spend my mornings in training. Aslan’s Army has no short of new recruits and there are very few who can train them.”

Her feet paused mid-step, “But I thought Narnia was at peace? A Great Peace at that. Why would the Army accept recruits at such a time?”

Casys urged her forward with the flick of his tail, a serious look upon his face, “Do you believe such peace is sustained without a force behind it?”

Grace stepped unwillingly beside the Centaur, “I suppose not. But does Narnia not invite a threat by holding such a large army? Do the bordering countries not see this as a challenge?”

“Most of the countries on the Narnian border are allied.”

“And those that aren’t?” Grace probed.

The Centaur glared at her, “Are kept in line with the threat of our forces.”

Grace shook her head disbelievingly, she wiped the errant drop of jam from the corner of her mouth, “I still don’t see how that works. If someone in the house next to me started collecting weapons and amassing a threat I would immediately assume I was the target.”

The Centaur returned his eyes straight forward, a barely concealed annoyance within the onyx irises, “Let us be thankful that you are not the leader of a bordering nation, then.”

The thought made Grace grin; if she were the queen of a far-off nation, there would be some heavy repercussions for King Edmund’s actions. The forefront of her mind practically overflowed with the very satisfying images of her slapping the Just King silly, “Yes, let us be very grateful for that.”

If Casys noticed her mad grin, he did not comment.

Grace hastily covered it with the last bite of her toast, her feet skipping steps to keep up with her four-legged companion. Her mind was bursting with the questions within it, and it was very difficult to keep any from passing her lips.

“You said most of Narnia’s bordering countries are allied,” She began tentatively, “I take that to mean then, that there are a few that are not?”

Casys nodded. It was minimal but there, an unwilling movement.

“Which countries are they?” Grace probed, hands clasped behind her innocently. She knew there was not a name nor their whereabouts which would be known to her. However, there was something about the Centaurs shifting gaze that made her wonder… was she safe in Narnia?

She knew threats of military pursuit were common in these times. Fights  over land, food and glory causing the common to fight on behalf of the noble. If Narnia was caught in such a rift there was little chance Grace would be able to leave… and if Cair Paravel was taken, what would happen to her then?

Casys’s dark eyes became guarded, “The Kingdoms of Ettinsmoor and Telmar steadfastly remain detached, however, they are no immediate threat to Narnia.”

His reaction only heightened her curiosity, “How come?”

The Centaur shook his head, his voice gruff and unrelenting, “I will not divulge more unless King Edmund deems the information worthy of your knowledge. If you wish to know more, perhaps you should ask his Majesty directly.”

Grace scoffed, surely Casys knew such a thing was impossible. If Grace were to probe into Narnian affairs then she may as well sign a citizenship certificate.

Casys’s expression turned reproachful, “Surely, you do not fear the small task of asking, Daughter of Eve?”

Something prickled Grace’s skin at his tone. Was he challenging her?

“There is no fear in avoiding a question because you know the outcome,” Grace sniffed in a sour tone.

“But there is fear in resigning yourself to an outcome before it is proposed,” Casys countered.

In a fit of annoyance, Grace turned away. Damned Centaurs and their sense. It was as if Casys’s head had been screwed especially tight upon his neck. Unyielding and unbound by emotional turmoil. She wondered if all Centaurs were this way; Stoic beings who only allowed wonder to light their eyes when mapping the skies and telling stories.

The clopping noise of Centaurian footsteps stopped, but Grace – by virtue of her stubborn nature – kept walking. Her feet trudging forwards until they tripped over a particularly large mound of fur.

Immediately the shoulders of the creature hunched and the creature let out a noise of surprise. Grace yelped as she landed on the floor the other side, her legs retracting from atop the beast.

“Watch where you are walking, Daughter of Eve,” Shese snapped. The Winged Panther shuffled from underneath the masses of Grace’s skirts with a deadly glare.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said, voice high pitched and embarrassed as she righted herself again.

Casys watched the exchange with an unimpressed expression, “Begging your pardon, Shese. Grace was otherwise preoccupied.”

Grace had the nerve to glare at him in return, dusting of her skirts with more force then necessary.

The Winged Panther watched her with a slight sneer, “As I see.”

“I assume King Edmund is prepared for Grace’s arrival?” Casys asked.

Shese nodded, testing and stretching the wings upon her back, “His Majesty has left the room for a brief interval and bid me send Grace in to wait.”

Grace felt the eyes of the two beasts settle on her, neither look particularly friendly. Deciding not to waste time under them, Grace made for the door, opening it just enough to slip through without catching her skirts and closing it behind her.

The immediate heat was both comforting and stifling. In encircled her in dangerous waves, hotter than the breeze of a summers day. She could feel the sweat building at the temperature.

Grace turned, the sway of her skirts expelling the last of the cool air from around her as her eyes met with the sight of the fireplace, roaring and flittering almost dangerously over the threshold.

It was not unnatural, King Edmund preferred the sweltering heat to the cold, however, this fire was different. In the absence of the King it had become out of control, flames flickering well past the grated blockade and heating the iron to a bright orange glow.

She gasped, hands grasping at her skirts as she crossed the room, pausing a short distance from the overgrown flames. The heat was unbearable at this distance, she could feel it brazenly lapping at her face, the smoke making her cough into her sleeve.

How did one put out such a fire? Her knowledge was limited and – unless this was an oil fire – would be no use here. Her eyes reflected the flames like a perfect mirror as they frantically scanned the room, looking for anything that would help.

There was only books, paper and wooden furniture, all which would be no help. Surely King Edmund would not keep a fire without the proper tools to maintain it? He was not that stupid?

Then at last, like a beacon of smouldering metal, she saw it. The poker sat ramrod straight at the edge of the hearth, spots of glowing orange spattered throughout, as if the fire was hot enough to begin smelting the metal.

Grace eyed the poker worriedly, she would need to grab it with her skirts to avoid burning herself. Her hand reached under the layers of fabric – surely five would be enough to keep her safe?

A silent prayer was offered to whomever was listening. It was a really stupid idea. Grace should have just called for help as soon as she saw the fire. Surely there were people in Cair Paravel who were more equipped to handle this?

But there wasn’t any time. The flames seemed to grow higher by the second, long covering the mantelpiece and the items atop it in soot and smoke.

Her eyes skittered between the fire, the fuel of burning logs at its base and the hot poker. Grace sighed, Queen Susan was going to kill her for this.

She lunged for the hot metal, hands grasping for it through the material of her dress. The heat soaked warningly through them, but did not scald or burn.

A second lunge; Grace thrust the poker forwards, carefully aiming for the topmost log. She was successful in catching it, however, unsuccessful in knocking it from the fire. She tried again, this time managing to knock the chosen log and the one it sat atop to the furthest corner of the hearth.

She breathed heavily as the flames shifted, their protruding shape slowly shifting back into the expanse of the fireplace. The poker dropped noisily at her side, leaving a singular line of scorching black amongst the smooth blue cotton.

Grace fell to her knees in relief, the exhaustion of her efforts and worry bearing heavily upon her shoulders. A silent thank you was offered to the ceiling, the motion making her laugh with incredulity.

The heat of the fire was bearable now and Grace felt it dissipate from her face as she worked to sweep the ashes on the floor with her hands.

Scolding accusations towards King Edmund surfaced in her thoughts. How could he leave the study like this? If books were such a rarity in Narnia, then how could he endanger them in such a way?

Her smoky eyes flickered to the shelves about the room, practically overflowing with knowledge and binding. If this room went up, she was certain that all of Cair Paravel would go with it.

She knew it was not her place, but then again… whose was it? His Royal Siblings could not be aware of such a thing in this room, otherwise they would have put a stop to it. It couldn’t be helped, Grace would have to tell him exactly what-for when he came back.

Grace’s gaze shifted towards the study door, it’s smooth wood intermittently interrupted by swirling carvings. It did not open, nor did the gleaming brass handle move.

An unknown feeling crept across her skin. One which Grace steadfastly ignored, her hands returning to cleaning the stone in front of the fireplace – silently, she praised the craftsman who chose to place stone before the hearth instead of allowing the carpet to trek all the way to its door. It was a choice which saved the study that day.

Her arm knocked unexpectedly against hot metal and Grace recoiled from it, grasping her arm with an outcry. The skin of her forearm immediately blistered from the contact, leaving a small line of raised pink. She ran a finger over it testingly and hissed, eyes casting a hateful look towards the offending bucket.

It sat innocently beside the dimming fire, covered in blackened soot and radiating heat from its rim. A few errant flames had caught on to the branches within it, burning at the twigs end like a candle.

Grace looked further into the bucket, eyes tracking for any other errant flames – the last thing this study needed was a fire in a bucket. Portable and likely to be disastrous should it fall onto the carpet.

To her relief, there were no such flames. It was lucky, considering the amount of dried leaves within it. It appeared to be a bucket for kindling; full of twigs, leaves and… paper?

Her eyes squinted and Grace’s hand reached for the ink-stained sheet, only causing a slight hiss when her skin brushed against the hot rim. She held the sheet aloft to read by the light of the fire, her sight tracing over the all-to-familiar words she had written but a day ago.

Confusion marred her eyes as their corners crinkled. Had King Edmund decided the letter was no good after all? Grace had hoped he might bring it up today, if only to pass on further notes.

Her hand dropped in disappointed exhaustion. Had it truly not been good after all? This was the first piece of work he’d sought to give her feedback on. The thought that King Edmund did not see it through to the end… stung a little.

An unsettled feeling began to cling to her soul and despite her better judgement, Grace looked into the kindling bucket once more.

She shouldn’t have, for the moment she did it was as if the tile had been yanked from beneath her and she’d free fallen into the unknown darkness below it.

There was more than one letter shoved between the curtains of dried twigs and leaves. There was even more than two. The realisation formed in her shaking hands as they grasped around the stack of parchment nestled between the dried wildlife.

It was the size of a small manuscript, thick and heavy with the weight of its implications. Grace shuffled through it haphazardly, fingers barely gripping the sheets as they shook with anger. It was everything she’d ever wrote on his behalf.

Her brow furrowed as a familiar prickling sensation crept from her toes to the heady thoughts in her mind. Her mouth set in a firm line, unwilling to release the string of curses that had been beaded on the thread of her mind.

How dare he?

Somewhere, there was a rational side of Grace, a side that pleaded for her to stop and think. Because, truly, how had she expected anything different from King Edmund? To become angry over yet another disappointment seemed stupid.

Grace’s anger pushed the thoughts aside roughly, the voice of reason ignored amongst the satisfactorily bubbling torment it offered.

The sheets dripped slowly from her hands until only one remained clenched in her creasing grasp and Grace – now unburdened by the weight of them – decided she could sit there no longer.

The cool air on the other side of the study door did little to temper the flame of irritability that warmed her from within. Her feet kept moving of their own accord in a direction she did not know or care for. As long as it found her in the furthest possible corner from that room she would follow its heed.

The smell of salt air filled her senses, the breeze wafting in tantalizingly clear waves from a secret third direction. Grace knew the scent well, knew that it was not as far as she’d hoped from her previous location… but there was something about it that enticed her.

And so Grace followed it, leaving all other senses behind her.  

Chapter Text

XXX

EDMUND

Daylight - Cinematic  – David Kushner

The door to Peter’s study closed with a heavy thud as the urgent scuffing of his boots picked up pace. Late, Edmund was late, again. It seemed to be becoming a habit of his where Grace was concerned.

He hadn’t meant to be absent for Grace’s arrival, but with the arrival of Lucy’s first letter there hadn’t been much choice. As soon as the parchment was placed into his awaiting palms he was off, only stopping once to instruct Shese to let Grace in upon her arrival.

Edmund cursed his impatience, in leaving the room so quickly he’d failed to set out Grace’s work or stow away some of the more sensitive matters within the mess.

He supposed it was not so much of a risk, the past days working with her had shown that Grace was trustworthy – Or at least, trustworthy where trade deals were concerned. In fact, he now deemed her reliable enough to provide more than a simple test.

The work that awaited her today was simple but nonetheless would be useful towards the goal of his trust. That effort alone ought to count for something, right?

As the familiar outline of his study door burned into his retinas, Edmund picked up the pace. There were none before the door, except for Sheese who stood warily at its entrance.

“I take it Grace made it on time then?” Edmund panted as he reached her, “Good.”

His hand made towards the handle, only to be covered by the large paw of the Winged Panther.

“Your Majesty, there has been an upset,” Shese murmured, her dark eyes worriedly darting to the corridor behind him.

“An upset?” Edmund frowned.

Shese dropped, “Yes. The Daughter of Eve was here a while ago but she left the room just as quickly.”

Edmund froze, his darkened eyes following the Winged Panthers down the corridor he had just travelled, “What has been done to recover her?”

“Casys is with her, though, their current whereabouts is unknown to me. I remained at the door should she decide to return.”

Edmund’s hand laid upon the handle, fisting around the warm brass until his knuckles turned white. His mind was a whirlwind of questions. Why had she come only to leave? Had she seen something upon his desk? Something which could finally be useful to her or whomever she was working for?

For all his thoughts, only one short question managed to work its way past his lips, “Did she have anything?”

The Winged Panther only stared at him with blank confusion, “I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

Edmund’s eyes closed against the pressure building in his skull, “When Grace left the study, was she holding anything?”

“A single sheet of parchment, Sire.”

His eyes snapped open in cold fury. The brass handle rattled under Edmund’s grip as the study door was thrown aside. He did not care to close it behind him as his thoughts recurred in an unfriendly loop. The rhythm of his steps matching the pounding in his skull.

Had he truly been right all along?

There was a sickening sense of satisfaction as he crossed the carpet to his desk. The chance to say ‘I told you so’ only disquieted by how Grace’s betrayal would affect his siblings. Peter would be disappointed, Susan would lament the loss of a friend and Lucy… sweet naïve Lucy…

Edmund was going to kill that woman.

But as he reached the parchment covered wood, he found nothing. Not a sheet or pencil out of place. Everything was exactly as he had left it half-an-hour ago. That is, except for the spattering of soot and ashes all over the contents of his desk.

Ashes?

Edmund’s head whipped towards the hearth. It sat innocently, the flames perhaps a little more robust than usual. He moved for the poker – hoping to shuffle a few of the logs about to lessen its rage – when the toe of his boot hit something hard. He yelped and recoiled back from the offending object.

The poker wasn’t in its usual holder on the wall, in fact he’d nearly tripped over it. He glanced between the holder and the poker which lied mockingly on the stone floor of the hearth. He didn’t remember leaving it there.

As Edmund leant to retrieve it, he noticed there was far more amiss then he’d originally credited. The grate of the fireplace radiated heat, some spots taking on that molten bright glow he had become familiar with. An expanse of ashes covered the stone floor, some still glowing brightly against the cool white surface.

On closer inspection, the white was not that of the stone at all. It was parchment, spattered and covered with Graces handwriting. How had that gotten there? Edmund’s dark eyes trailed slowly to the kindling bucket, noting the splay of branches had been disturbed from the placement he’d left them in.

Edmund sucked in a short and smoky breath, surely she couldn’t have? He almost didn’t want to look but there was little to temper the dismayed curiosity that had set into his fingertips. They grasped the rim of the bucket – noting it was still uncomfortably warm but not enough to scorch the skin – and tipped the content of the bucket into his field of view.

When his eyes met with the black emptiness of twigs and leaves, Edmund’s stomach lurched.

She knew.

Grace was going to chew his ear off and it would be no less than he deserved. His hands hurriedly wiped off each sheet as he slotted them back into the kindling bucket. As they did, Edmund’s mind kept track of every work that passed through his sight.

He knew them all, had poured over them more intensely than he should have from the moment she’d placed them upon his desk. There was something in the way she wrote that was vastly different to any writing style he’d ever seen. It was as if she’d taken the storytelling voices of the Centaurs and put them to parchment.

Whilst – in theory – that writing style was hardly appropriate for the work she undertook, somehow Grace had made it work. The levity of her speech adding charm and thus making it influential over the reader. It was a talent he hoped to employ on some of his more unwilling negotiators in the work he gave her today.

Clearly, with Grace’s disappearance, that may no longer be an option.

The last of the sheets were tossed into the bucket. His hands stained with soot and ink which he carelessly wiped on his pants. All work was accounted for, except for one. The letter to King Ventotene was missing.

A curse passed Edmund’s unwilling lips.

In a movement swift as the current of a winding river, Edmund was on his feet again and striding out of the study door. He turned at the hallway, following the hallway he had just trekked and with it the direction in which Shese had stared after moments ago.

The Winged Panther followed him in stride, “Where are you going, your Majesty?”

“To find Grace,” Edmund answered, his stride lengthening as moments passed, “Stay by the door, Shese. In case she should return.”

The air was crisp and cool against his skin as he strode down the marble hallway. It was almost too cold, the breeze brushing against its sweaty exterior in a piercing caress.

Edmund shuddered, his hands absentmindedly rubbing against the fabric covering his arms. The sooner he found Grace and got this blessed argument over with, the better.

-

It was at times like these that Edmund was grateful for the excess of guards and spies within the Cair. It had taken only three encounters for him to ascertain the direction in which Grace had fled.

A relieved sigh left his throat as he cleared the shade of the archway and stepped into the warm sunlight of the balconies. The chill that clung to his skin began to disperse, the only tell it had even been there in the unseen goosebumps that remained.

His dark eyes searched the silhouettes of countless courtiers, all languidly strewn about the marble terrace in small parties no larger than three or four. The sight was usual for this time of day, Breakfast would soon be taken in their private rooms and all at court preferred to partake in some gossip before they broke their fast.

When it was clear that none among them matched Grace in height, colour or spirit, Edmund deflated. Perhaps his informants had been mistaken?

As he continued to wade through the crowd his head turned this way and that, frantic to find some trace of the auburn hair he’d found so irritating but a day ago.

“Are you well, your Majesty?”

Edmund started, his wild gaze landing on the steadfast form of Lord Peridian. The Lord looked at him warily, his grey eyes searching the King’s face for the source of his troubles.

At his friends concern Edmund smoothed his features, a little abashed that he’d forgotten himself amongst company. He nodded respectfully to the Lord, “I am well. I thank you for your concern, Peridian.”

The Lord nodded in return, “I am grateful to hear it your Majesty. I must raise some concern, however, you do seem quite stressed. May I ask, what has brought on such concern from my King?”

“I was merely looking for one of Our charges,” Edmund replied.

“Ah, the Daughter of Eve from Spare Oom?” Peridian asked.

“Yes,” Edmund spoke with barely concealed relief, “Tell me, did you see her come this way?”

There was a thoughtful frown upon the Lords face as he replied, “I must confess I have yet to make the acquaintance of the young lady, however, there is gossip – as you well know – which speaks to her appearance. A description which matched someone who did flitter across this balcony recently.”

“Did you see which way she went?”

“I’m afraid not,” Lord Peridian replied, “She disappeared amongst the peoples almost as soon as she had come. I must say, the Daughter of Eve was quite adept in weaving her way through them. The only casualty of her haste was my daughter, who was knocked to the ground in the kerfuffle.”

Edmund nodded with slight disappointment, “I see. I am sorry to hear Our ward has caused such a disarray. I should like to apologise to the Lady Eliane for the intrusion if she is available.”

The Lord perked at the extended olive branch, “My daughter is just cleaning herself off, Sire. I am sure she will be back at any moment.”

Lord Peridian looked about, catching sight of a familiar slender figure as it waded through the throngs of the crowd atop the balcony.

“Say,” He added, “Perhaps Eliane may be able to point you in the direction of the Daughter of Eve.”

“Wouldn’t that be the Lion’s Luck,” Edmund agreed with a hopeful smile.

The Lady in question wandered towards them slowly; offering small gentile smiles to all she passed. Her hair was plaited in a long dark braid, the only sign of distress amongst the strands being the few which were pulled from it. Her dress of a dark blue was haunted with patches of stubborn dirt and the water with which she’d obviously tried to clean it.

Edmund concealed a long sigh, it seemed that atop receiving an ear beating from Grace he would have to scold her and he was sure that would go over well. There was nothing to be done to the contrary, however, if Susan found out he’d let this slide he’d never hear the end of it.

When Lady Eliane reached the two, Edmund attempted to channel his brothers amiability. Immediately upon her arrival, he took her offered hand and brushed an airy kiss over her knuckles, “Lady Eliane.”

“Your Majesty,” She returned with a short curtsey before she turned to her father, “Well I have done my best father, but I will need to change after our fast is broken.”

“Of course, of course,” Peridian smoothed a hand over her shoulders as he gave her a once-over, “I will say that you look much better, my dear. Does she not look well, my King?”

“She does indeed,” Edmund agreed, “How could I be remiss as to not remark upon it? My apologies, Lady.”

The Lady Eliane grinned brilliantly, “Think nothing of it, my King.”

“Now, what is it we were just speaking of Sire?” Peridian asked, eyes staring unseeingly at his King.

“The whereabouts of the Daughter of Eve,” Edmund prompted with barely concealed impatience.

“Ah, yes!” The Lord turned to his daughter, “Tell me, Eliane. The Daughter of Eve ran into you earlier, did you see which way she went?”

The Lady Eliane’s lips quirked into a scowl, “I could not see much from the ground.”

Edmund could see not much information would be gleaned past the Lady’s first impression of Grace and sought immediately to soothe the wound, “My Royal Siblings and I offer an apology on behalf of Our ward,” He offered softly, “Grace has not been herself this morning. I’m sure she did not mean to injure your Ladyship in anyway.”

The words did their part as the Lady Eliane’s features softened drastically, her eyes warm and entreating as she replied, “No, I can see she meant no obvious harm. I believe she was headed in the direction of the shore.”

On instinct, Edmund’s eyes drifted past the Lady’s shoulder to the endless expanse of ocean. They flickered back to Peridian and his daughter as he nodded gratefully, toes itching to descend the endless steps leading to Emperor’s Beach.

Edmund grasped the Lady Eliane’s hand in earnest, “I will have Alsira sent to your quarters to see if anything can be done for your dress. Would this afternoon suffice?”

Lady Elaine’s eyes brightened at the prospect, “This afternoon would be perfect, Sire.”

Edmund smiled, “Good, then if you might excuse my rudeness, I will go and see to the Daughter of Eve directly.”

Peridian clapped Edmund soundly on the back as the King made his exit, “Go with His grace, Sire.”

Edmund ducked under the Lord’s arm, a small smile on his face as he weaved through the gaps in the crowd.

Chapter Text

XXXI

EDMUND

Daylight - Cinematic  – David Kushner

The stairs that lead from the stone balcony to Emperor’s Beach were exhaustingly long and treacherous – the later strings after the last landing without any railing at all. As the tips of his boots met with each slab of decaying marble, Edmund began to feel anxious for what lied at their end.

It had become clear that the whole matter was foolish, that if he had listened to his rational mind when Grace had first entered his study then he would not have been in this position. Edmund cursed the greater of the two, the side which borderline refused to trust and to be trusted. It was more easily managed by him in the past, especially around family.

Grace, however, was not family. She was not even friend. She was… he wasn’t sure what she was. Human? Certainly. Thoughtless? In some respects, yes. Kind? Images of her sacrifices on behalf of Casys surfaced in his mind. Yes, she was kind and considerate.

Trustworthy? Yet to be determined.

But it wasn’t, not really. Edmund subconsciously knew that she was no threat from the moment he laid eyes on her. It was the other side of him that disagreed. The other side which remembered the inviting gaze of another who had made him feel unsettlingly at-ease.

As he spent more time in her presence, it became clear that Grace did not lure for her own purposes. In fact, he would make the assumption that she did not aim to lure at all. She simply did by being.

When she’d pressed for more information that day in the office, Edmund had not meant to give it. However, there was something behind those eyes that egged him on. A sense of spirit in curiosity that made Edmund want to tell her more. To spill his deepest darkest secrets and watch her reaction.

Since then, her eyes had been guilt filled and knowing. As if Grace had not meant to push him that far and now felt the repercussions. Edmund knew he could not blame her. She had not pushed him further than he was willing to go, the pressure she applied lifting as soon as Edmund had begged for it to stop.

He had to admit, it was a relief to speak it out loud. To date, he’d only ventured to speak to Mr Tumnus about King Ventotene and the Faun only learned of it after crossing Edmund in a very vulnerable state.

Edmund meandered around the sandy worn stone of the last steps, careful not to slip on the dregs of sand atop it or to allow his sword to swing freely and throw him off balance. At last, his boots hit the shifting form of the sand, their footsteps becoming heavy as he trudged through it.

A relieved noise left his throat when his eye’s at last landed upon the form of Grace. She was half a beach away, standing stoically still as she watched the ocean. There was a moment of slight panic before Edmund caught sight of her guard, Casys, who stood decidedly farther than he would have liked.

Edmund eyed the unsteady and soft sand as he headed towards the Centaur. In truth, he’d never seen any centaur upon sand. As his feet repeatedly sunk and hoisted from the small dunes, he theorised that was most-likely due to its unstable nature.

It felt like an age before he caught up to Casys, the Centaur stationed on the point where the grassy hills met the sand of Emperor’s Beach. There was no humour in the guards face as he watched the King struggle and upon Edmund meeting him at the grass line the Centaur bowed in respect, one arm pressed solemnly over his chest.

“Your Majesty. I promise you the situation is well in-hand. There is no need for you to trouble yourself.”

Edmund waved him off, “I trust you have the matter, Casys. I do not question your judgement. I have come to enquire after the Daughter of Eve’s state of mind.”

The Centaur grimaced, “She is not happy. There has not been a legible word that has passed from her lips this past half-hour, however, her tears and general manner have bordered on hostile since her departure from your study.”

A firm line set in Edmund’s lips, “I see.”

His eyes wandered to the mass of auburn hair billowing in the cool breeze. The wind had picked up some since that morning, it’s force greatest amongst the waves of the ocean. In the distant sky – and from the angle which Edmund now stood – it looked as though grey clouds had begun to form atop Grace’s head. How fitting.

Edmund steeled himself against the onslaught he was about to receive with a deep breath and squared shoulders, “I will speak to her.”

The Centaur moved out of his way with a pitying gaze that Edmund tried to ignore. He did not want to know what Casys had seen that would make him look so, it would only loosen his resolve.

His body was stiff and straight as he stepped atop the sand, the sinking of his boots doing nothing to deter him. Grace did not move from her position, the skirts of her dress covered in dark specks of ash and white specks of sand, the effect dazzling in the sunlight. The dusky green colour it sat against was familiar to him, like an herb he’d seen growing in the woods.

She stood silently, facing the ocean with a defiant glare. If Edmund looked carefully enough, there was something else within her glassy gaze… fear. The ocean lapped at her in response, each wave sliding closer and closer to the edge of her dress in tantalising invitation. However, every time it got too close Grace took a step back.

She was afraid of the water?

An understandable consequence considering Lucy’s reports that she’d almost drowned… but somehow this piece did not fit his image of her. The Grace he’d known who was so headstrong and unfearing of him. How could she be afraid of something so inconsequential?

As the ocean lapped at her, Grace continued to evade it, eyes bordering between frantic fear and gritting resolve. The look reminded Edmund of one he’d seen previously, in the mirror before a battle.

No, she didn’t fear the water. Grace feared death.

The knowledge was oddly comforting to Edmund, that his fear was mirrored in another. Amongst the courageous eyes of his siblings, he’d begun to think himself alone. His mind constantly dragging the worst possible outcome to the surface and tormenting him with it until he was forced to react. To squash it below the surface of possibility and ensure it remained there.

The very thing he had attempted to do to Grace.

His feet stopped of their own accord, still one or two paces away from her hunched figure.

Grace looked at him, the full force of her burning tear-stained glare conveying the brunt of her thoughts.

Edmund swallowed, “I can explain.”

An unsettling silence passed as he shifted uncomfortably on the uneven terrain. He had expected shouting, perhaps even some sand thrown in his face. What he hadn’t expected was the terrifyingly calm tone she spoke with.

“Explain what?”

Involuntarily, Edmund’s eyes flickered to the crumpled parchment in her hands.

“Oh this?” Grace caught his glance, holding the parchment in the air between them, “Yes I was just reviewing my work on the letter to King Ventotene.”

Her words edged and Edmund felt his insides mass together in an uncomfortable ball.

“A letter which I found in the kindling bucket.”

He tried to speak, “Grace-”

She turned on him, “Was it all some sick trick? Was my work truly that laughable to you that you had to throw it away?”

“Of course not!” Edmund protested.

“Then what other explanation is there?” The crumpled parchment was thrown at him, catching on the wind and floating away, “I put everything into my work, everything into showing you that I was worthy of your trust and this is how you repay my efforts?”

Edmund’s voice froze in his throat, the practiced responses he had mentally stored dying on his lips.

When he didn’t speak, Grace’s face crumpled vulnerably, “Were the matters I worked on even real to begin with?”

Her question tugged at an involuntary string inside of him. When his next words left his lips, Edmund knew they were automatic and unconvincing, “I had to ensure you could be trusted before I handed you anything potentially damaging.”

Grace’s brow furrowed with incredulity, “But how can you trust me without handing me anything potentially damaging? If there is no risk, there is no reward. Surely, a king should know that!”

Edmund bristled, his shoulders squaring angrily against her accusation, “A king also weighs the risk versus the reward and determines the best course. I do not need you to tell me how to fill my position, Grace.”

“I never said you did.”

“You just questioned it,” Edmund argued, his voice rising against the rolling thunder of the waves, “And in my presence, no less!”

Grace rolled her eyes irritatedly, “I was merely pointing out that a man of your position should understand what is at stake here.”

“I am well aware of it, I assure you,” Edmund gritted, “Do you not think this whole matter has not tortured me since it began. That I have not thought it over numerous times to the same result.”

“If this is the same result then I hardly see its effectiveness,” Grace spat, returning her eyes to the clouds over the water.

Edmund scoffed, “How about you worry about your actions and I will worry over the effectiveness of my plans.”

“Your great plan was to give me fake work on purpose to trust my credibility. I don’t see how you thought that would prove effective?”

“It wasn’t going to continue forever-”

“Just enough so that you could be satisfied with its result,” Grace finished for him.

“Yes.”

Grace’s head shook before the word left his mouth. Her own lips set in a firm line as her eyes burned blue. The grey fizzling out amongst the driftwood flame of her anger.

“And what of my satisfaction?”

Grace’s words and her face were incomprehensibly and terrifyingly striking in the dim light of day. Edmund found himself caught, barely able to utter his thoughts from within his confusion, “Your satisfaction?”

Those burning eyes met his clouded ones, “My pride in my efforts to build a bridge. Of which you have now bruised.”

The clouds shifted, her words the gentle breeze that blew them apart. It was if the crack between them allowed for a small beam of sunlight to penetrate his mind.

Ah. He’d bruised her pride.

He thought her words a little supercilious and dramatic, but then he supposed that there was no other way Grace could be. She who reacted to his warnings with self-sacrifice and his anger with intense reason.

“You have enacted a rather stupid plan in my opinion. I can’t imagine it has done you any favours either since – last I checked – your desk was piled sky high with work,” Grace continued, “I suppose the only true consolation I’ll have from this whole sorry mess is the fact that it has left you in a worse position.”

The truth stung like salt water on a wound and Edmund couldn’t mitigate his cold words of retaliation before they left his mouth, “Better to have more work than to have to deal with the repercussions of your inevitable betrayal.”

Grace’s head whipped from the direction of the sea, “Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

It was too late to turn back now, “I do and they are reasonable to me.”

Another moment passed where they both stood still, feet wedged in the stand and eyes burning with furies of different colour. Edmund refused to be the first to bend, refused to admit he was in the wrong. He ignored the niggling voice in the back of his mind as it screamed he should apologize, that he never should have tested her to begin with.

In a surprising turn of events, Grace relented first; adjusting her bare feet in the sand and crossing her arms immaturely. From the set of her face, it was if she’d resigned herself to a dreadful fate, “You know what? I’m tired of this. If you are so determined that I am going to betray you then by all means, present your case and at least allow me the chance to defend myself.”

It was an open invitation. Or a trap.

Edmund weighed both of the options in his hands as they linked behind him. The action straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin in a manner that was both familiar and comforting.

On the one hand, he could present his case as she’s suggested… and leave himself open. The reasons for his suspicion were drenched in the blood of his past. If Edmund were to tell her, then he may as well give her his sword and watch her sheathe it in his skin. His hand found the cool metal, the spiral of leather under the hilt comforting beneath his fingertips. No, it was not an option.

The other hand was enticing in a cruel and unfeeling way. Edmund hated to consider it. He could deny her the chance to prove herself and opt to stay the course the louder of the voices in his mind had planned. But what would be the excuse? What would be the use of the effort in denying her this right when no fruit would be borne at the end of the journey?

Grace would not forgive easily, this he could tell by the sting of her words and the charred remains of older fires in her eyes. If he refused her now, there would be a retribution. Not only from Grace but from Lucy, who had made her stance between them in this matter clear.

His sisters words rang soundly in his ears as if she was by his side, ‘And this time, I hope that she gets away’.

Would the consequences of his denial truly be so dear? Was this the only olive branch that Grace would offer in their acquaintance. She was theatrical enough to see it through, of that Edmund was sure but didn’t it seem a bit… much?

Around the grip of Edmund’s hands he felt another, a third option which bridged the skin of both sides with just enough truth and just enough discretion to see the matter through.

At least, with Grace’s unpredictability he hoped that was the case, “You are not from here. You had not a single friend in Narnia when you entered and yet in the span of a night you had my youngest sister speaking upon your behalf. Requesting your stay in Cair Paravel and work to keep your mind occupied.”

Edmund allowed a second for it to set in. He watched the words seep into her ears and light her eyes with scepticism.

“What? You think I bewitched her or something?”

Edmund glared, ignoring the mental yank he felt at her perceptive words, “It is not a laughing matter.”

Grace’s glare reduced to something akin to astonishment, “Your Majesty, magic isn’t real. Even if I wanted to do such a thing I could not.”

Edmund looked away, refusing to allow himself to be entreated at her word, “Even if you were being honest, there is no way I could verify your story. I rely only on facts and evidence I can hold within two hands.”

“What do you do with word of mouth then?” Grace retorted.

“I have the witness write it down and sign it,” Edmund replied simply, arms releasing from their thoughtful grip and tangling across his chest in challenge.

Grace did not falter, the connections forging so clearly behind her eyes that Edmund could swear he saw them glow, “So you think I will betray Narnia because I am alien to it?”

He supposed that was one interpretation, “I believe We cannot know the course of your actions or their meaning because We do not understand you.”

Her finger lifted towards him in accusation, “You were alien to Narnia too, once. I know the stories. All four of the Kings and Queens who currently reign over Narnia appeared when they were children. You were not born here, yet none of you betrayed Narnia. Why then, should that story be true of me?”

A boisterous disbelieving noise left Edmunds throat. Grace truly had no idea what she was talking about, “That is quite possibly the worst possible example to rely on.”

Her head cocked as she searched his face for meaning, “Why? Because you are a king and so obliged to do right by your people? Somewhere along the line, someone gave you the chance to prove yourself. That is all I am asking for.”

Edmund leaned forward, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the waves, “And you think a handful of written documents will achieve the desired result?”

Grace looked at him with barely concealed distaste, “I see no other way in our current situation. In the past three days you have spoken only a handful of true words to me and more than half of those were constructive criticism of my work.”

“Which is an understandable result considering we were working, Grace,” Edmund rebuffed.

“Trust is not built on tests alone. It is based on experience, on conversations,” The burning blue in her irises flickered with something more, “On reliance.”

Edmund stared after the flicker as it dissipated, it’s brief existence a puzzle he could not yet fathom. The conviction in Grace’s voice was difficult to deny, the sense in her words even more so but there was something that still didn’t sit right at their meaning, “You want me to rely on you?”

Her face didn’t shift, as if she’d expected his answer, “No, but it wouldn’t be a sore sound to my ears if you made attempt at some conversation.”

“Oh really?” Edmund asked, “About what? Shall we speak of the weather? Of my sisters new sparkling dress she wore to the ball?”

“Real conversation. We need to speak to each other.”

“But we did speak,” Edmund debated, “I provided a secret at your request, how is that not suitable.”

Grace levelled him with a hard stare, “One instance in four days.”

Edmund sighed as he ran a tired hand over his face, “There is one crucial factor missing from your equation, Grace.”

“And what’s that?”

“Time,” Edmund explained, “It takes time to develop trust.”

Her expression diminished, the hard stare wearing away like the worn edges of the sea cliffs, “You are right, it does.”

It was a small victory and Edmund felt it in that moment. One point won in the war. That was until, her determination resurfaced.

“But I do not have the luxury of time, I have to return home! I have been in Narnia for a month with frustratingly little results and you want to ask for even more time?”

“Our agreement has been in action for only four days. Nothing is that quick or that easy especially where I am concerned,” Edmund reasoned before another thought etched into his mind and out of his lips.

“I can no more charge into the change of my conscious than you can alter yours,” Edmund was becoming impatient now, the words leaving his mouth in harsh tones, “Or is your character truly so flimsy, Grace?”

The moment the words left Edmund’s lips he regretted their existence. He wanted to reach into the air and take them back, to catch the fog of his breath in his hands and shield her from them. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, It was as if something was meddling in the line between, twisting and inking the words into their darkest form.

Whatever formed the insult rejoiced in her reaction. Grace’s eyes widened as her head inched back in recoil. Her glare didn’t leave him for a moment and so Edmund found himself on the front lines of their shifting tones. At first she looked upset, then there was anger, at last she settled on an emotion that he nor the nastiness inside him could have predicted. She looked at him with pity.

“What on earth made you like this?” Grace asked, her voice soft and disbelieving.

Edmund looked away, “That is none of your business.”

“If it’s to do with King Ventotene’s-”

“Do not speak of that here!” He cut in as his hand reflexively gripped the hilt of his blade.

But his words did not deter her, if anything, they made her more insistent, “I will not be scared into silence by you. I understand that whatever is going between you and the King holds a very heavy personal significance,” When Edmund tried to interrupt her she raised her voice, “I also understand that there must have been events preceding his rejection of you that you blame yourself for.”

He could feel his hands shaking, itching to do something to stop her from throwing them both over an edge he would not be able to return them from, “You are teetering on words you should not and I will ask you to withdraw them.”

“No,” Grace replied. She was as disbelievingly stubborn as she ever was, the resolve in her eyes only matched by the pity that stood by its side, “You shouldn’t fear my questions, your Majesty, I wouldn’t truly ask you for something you didn’t want me to know.”

A sign of respect he had not expected from her. The response in his body was instantaneous; the shaking in his hands lessening to a warm wobble, his white knuckled grip on the leather handle gaining colour.

“However, I will ask that those events do not hinder our efforts.”

Edmund stared, the confusion he knew lay evident on his face was hard to wipe when he had so many other things to think about. He was not confused about how his past hindered their current predicament – of that he was well aware – what he was confused about was how she supposed to work around it?

The two voices struggled, the louder and more dominant convinced it was a trap, that Grace meant to lower his defences in order to slip past them. The more he trusted her, the more she had access to. It was a battleplan on a map of the Marshes, sticky and impossible to navigate.

The reasonable side of him screamed to be heard amongst its twin. Grace could not prove herself until Edmund allowed her to. He knew that this did not mean he had to let her in completely, he simply needed to provide enough risk for her to return the reward.

“I don’t know if that would be possible,” Edmund murmured.

Grace leaned towards him, hesitant in her reach as she laid a hand atop his own. It was warm against the cool breeze of the sea. The hilt beneath his own hand bore the weight of two, it’s round surface burrowing into his palm with a cool sturdy presence. It grounded him to the earth and settled the argument in his mind.

Her gaze was as just steady as the metal on his skin, “If you ever want to finally be rid of me then you need to try.”

A laugh bubbled past his throat. It was short and reluctant but nonetheless present. He couldn’t help the reaction for her words had startled him. It was a bittersweet picture, the finality he would find in waving her off as she walked away. Venturing back into the land of Spare Oom – perhaps forever.

Edmund withdrew his hand slowly, careful not to hurt her feelings in the effort as he linked the pair behind him once more, “What would you have me do? It should be obvious that trust does not come easily to me. There will not be a day that I am with you that I will not see a threat. How am I supposed to surpass that feeling when I have no assurance that I am not wrong.”

“The first step is surpassing that feeling,” Grace clarified.

As the louder voice continued to protest mentally, Edmund doubted the chances of that one.

When it was clear he remained unconvinced, Grace continued, “Perhaps if I were to offer something, it might make it easier?”

Edmund nodded.

Hesitance briefly flickered amongst her blue irises; the thought was already formed in her mind, yet Grace feared it. It made Edmund wonder what exactly she had planned that worried her so.

“It is not my intention, but if I were to ever betray Narnia…” Her words edged, her fingers linking and unlinking at her middle in nervous grip, “You can behead me.”

An image flashed that Edmund immediately banished, alongside with any thoughts entertaining its existence. A beheading? Grace truly knew how to stretch a promise to the limit. It was the last effort Edmund would have undertaken. Imprisonment was likely, perhaps a lashing if the information she released was particularly sensitive but a beheading.

He’d give her credit where it was due for her imagination.  

“I could do that anyway,” Edmund replied easily, unwilling to advise her of the unlikelihood of the eventuality. She seemed terrified of the prospect and considering Edmund now knew she feared death, it would be a good deterrent from any nefarious plans she may hold.

Grace looked at him obviously, “But I will go willingly.”

The beginnings of a smile cracked against the serious set of Edmunds face. Ah, so that was her bargaining chip. Not the beheading herself, but her compliance. It was humorous to imagine Grace submitting to anything or anyone. A thought which took him back to their first conversation on the balcony a few nights before.

Another agreement, Edmund would have to start writing contracts to keep track of them all if they kept accruing at this rate.

“Are you willing to sign your name to that in blood?” He asked mildly.

Grace rolled her eyes but held out her hand all the same, “And you accuse me of witchcraft.”

The words sobered Edmund. The air around him turning to chill against his skin. When he catches Grace’s eyes again, however, the feeling lessened. The burning jest within them staving off anything other than warmth and familiarity he knew she did not yet hold with him.

And yet… there was a familiarity in that moment. A peace he only felt around his siblings settled over him as he considered her words and her actions. In its truest form, Grace had made an attempt to comfort him and it had been successful.

The voices in his head had quieted to a distant dull buzz, like an insect that could be batted away and for the first time in her presence, Edmund he could make his own decision.  

Grace stood firmly afront him; hand poised in the air, ready to take the blade and commit her promise to blood. The honesty behind the action and in the fierce determination of her eyes were evidence enough that this was not a trick, nor a ploy in order to gain access to Narnia’s secrets.

It reminded him of Lucy somehow but it also didn’t. The light sparkling amongst her blue-grey irises lacked a certain level of naivete that Lucy held and it was far more familiar to him than that of any of his siblings.

Grace looked as if she’d seen the worst that fortune could offer and still endeavoured to focus on the best of it.

“I accept your offer,” Edmund agreed as he gently lowered her hand, “Without the need for blood.”

Grace’s relief was almost palpable. She smiled at him, “Thank you.”

Edmund shook his head, his small smile mirroring her own, “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve yet to advise what our next steps are.”

Her lips quirked in thought as her hands regripped at her middle, “When you made this decision to give me fake work in order to test my reliability. Did it not occur to you that I should have been told beforehand?”

Edmund felt the answer was obvious, “It’s hardly a test of trustworthiness when the subject knows they are being tested.”

“No, but it is a sign of trustworthiness from your side,” Grace weighed in, “Going forward, any decisions either of us make to progress this acquaintance should be transparent. For instance, if you plan on giving me further fake work then please tell me now and spare my pride.”

Edmund grimaced at her choice of words, “I suppose I could be amenable to that request, however, I still reserve the judgement that sharing my plans with you means you could manipulate the outcome.”

Grace sighed, her eyes turning to the sky momentarily as she uttered, “I hardly think I could get anything past you at this point.”

A chuckle passed his lips involuntarily. She was right, he had watched her like a hawk for months, through his eyes and the ones he employed. There was something to her words, however, and Edmund supposed that this experiment of this could have failed disastrously if Grace had not come across the damning evidence and confronted him.

With that in mind, Edmund decided to let the experiment run, “Alright then, complete transparency going forward. Though I must caution, you may regret this request. My methods are sometimes judged as harsh.”

 “You? Harsh? Never,” Grace deadpanned.

Edmund pretended he didn’t hear her, “For full transparency, I was planning on giving you true work today. I did not plan to leave you in the dark forever.”

Grace regarded him carefully, as if she was trying to determine if he was speaking the truth. Edmund looked at her levelly, even if he was lying, he doubted she’d be able to tell.

“Good to know,” Grace said, feet resurfacing from their sunken position as she faced the water once more.

Edmund watched her pensive expression, unsure of what to do next. His mind flitted anxiously to his work filled desk, he couldn’t afford a days reprieve from it – no matter how much he wished to.

“I suppose I should also offer an olive branch then,” Grace’s soft voice broke his reverie.

Edmund looked at her expectantly.

Grace’s eyes met his in a sidelong glance as her fingers wrung against each other, “I’m sorry for pushing you on the Terebinthia subject. I could tell it was a sore topic but I pressed anyway. It wasn’t right to make you reveal your secrets.”

The subtle shake of Edmund’s head brushed the topic away, “Do not trouble yourself. Your points in the argument were valid. I was too swayed by my emotions on the matter to see the truth.”

Her reaction was not what he expected. There was a smile, but it was not grateful in the sense of the word. Grace looked at him like she understood how he felt, like his reaction was justified. Edmund found it intensely uncomfortable and couldn’t hold the gaze.

“I suppose there is no chance of getting any work done after this,” He sighed, mind still forlornly stuck on the image of his desk.

“I think my mind will be too preoccupied,” Grace agreed. Her head tilted to meet the sunlight breaching the cloudbank, “Besides, by the time we’d make it to your study I would have to leave for the Orchestra meeting.”

The feeling of the sand shifting under his feet stirred him. Edmund looked down, surprised to catch sight of a wave releasing its grasp around his boots as it returned to the sea. When had he gotten so close to the water?

Edmund looked towards the strip of green where Casys stood and counted the small mounds of sand where his foot had taken hold. Casys stared from the edge of long green grass, the same size and distance as he had always been. It was then that Edmund realised that they hadn’t moved, the ocean had.

Grace must have noticed the tide washing in, a fearful look in her eyes as her hands picked up her skirts. She looked ready about to bolt from the wave that spilled towards them but there was no need, the water barely splashed the edge of where her dress had been. Grace stepped back all the same, shoulders hunched and hands buried in her skirts in preparation for the next one.

Edmund wondered what drew her to Emperor’s Beach in the first place. If she was as afraid of the water as she seemed, it didn’t make sense for this to be her place of comfort.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” He voiced, “Why did you come here?”

Grace looked at him like he’d grown a third head, “We’ve been through this. I didn’t choose to come to Narnia.”

Edmund shook his head, “I should have been clearer. Why are you here, at Emperor’s Beach?”

The disbelief faded, replaced by the defiance she’d held when he’d joined her at the edge of the waves earlier, “It’s been a source of comfort for me ever since I was a child. If I was ever upset or needed to think something through, I’d find the closest beach and sit on the sand.”

Her lips dipped in a frown, “I used to imagine the waves would take my thoughts away.”

Edmund watched as her expression continued to flicker between fear and frustration, the emotions in rhythm with the coming and going of the waves, “I gather that feeling has changed?”

Grace’s eyes watered, “Yes.”

As a single tear rolled over her cheek, Edmund looked away. Watching her sorrow was painful and the knowledge that there was little he could do to alleviate it weighed heavily on him.

His mind circled with thoughts, ideas, anything to wipe the expression off of her face but what true alternative was there to a place of emotional significance? There was no level of comfort to be replicated anywhere else and Edmund was sure if there was, Grace would already be there.

A steadying breath filled his lungs, the determination drawn with it was heady and exhausting. He had to do something to help – after all, was he not the reason she was drawn here in the first place?

If her comfort could not be replicated, attached to old memories which now held terrifying significance… perhaps they should create new ones.

But what could Edmund give her? What olive branch was sizable enough to bridge the divide he’d excavated?

He thought over her position; Grace had come to Emperor’s Beach to clear her head.

Whenever Edmund needed to think things through, he took up Phillip’s company. The horse was well versed in the trade of advising and listening.

It went further than that, however. Edmund felt most at home riding on horseback under the swaying branches of overhanging trees. The peace and comfort of the woods was something he pursued often, similarly to how Grace sought it in the roar of the ocean waves. Perhaps, by showing her his world and helping her build her own memories within it, she might find that peace again.

It was clear that Grace did not know how to ride already. If she did, Edmund doubted she would have been caught in her first escape attempt. If she was to gain anything from this, he would need to teach her personally. That way, if she did attempt something, he could handle her.

It was a risk that previously he would have balked at, the idea of giving Grace any kind of training unthinkable at best. However, Edmund was not the same as when his feet first sunk into the sand. His head was clearer now, unburdened by the chaos of the infighting in his mind.

He intended to take advantage of it.

Grace still stared intently at the line of the ocean. She’d stepped back two paces now, and Edmund realised that his boots were frequently washed with edges of salty waves.

He refused to count the streaks lining her cheeks as his hands linked behind his back, the movement straightening his posture once more, “I have an offer for you.”

Grey eyes flickered between him and the sea at his boots, “If it involves getting closer to your wet boots, I will have to decline.”

Edmund couldn’t help the smile that stretched his cheeks. He sighed good-naturedly as he trudged further from the wet sand, “Better?”

Grace’s glance did not cease but she looked less uncertain, “Marginally.”

“I was hoping to show you another way of clearing your mind,” Edmund followed her stare to the rolling waves, “As the beach is no longer an option.”

“I don’t think there is enough time,” Grace whispered, throwing an extra nervous glance towards the Cair, “Margrove is expecting me.”

 “Surely, the Orchestra could spare you for a few hours,” Edmund pressed, “It would be just for today.”

Admittedly, that was a lie – if only on the basis that if Grace did well today, Edmund continued to keep training her.

Grace continued to glance between him, the ocean and the Cair. Her expression was uncertain at best and Edmund felt himself becoming impatient. At the rate it was taking for her to decide, they both would end up late to their duties today.

Then, he remembered the artful manner with which Grace had pressed him for more information about King Ventotene. Edmund had been as torn as she looked now, the battle in his mind as hard won as it had been today.

Her offer had been the deciding vote between the two voices, a secret for a secret. Curiosity was a weakness most humans held was it not? And while a secret was not what he was after in this case, Edmund knew the precise words to pull Grace with him all the way to the stables.

“I offer a trade,” Edmund proposed, “Your precious time in exchange for a show of my good-will.”

It did the job beautifully; Grace stood straighter, the warm blue of her interest at last focused solely and completely on him, “What did you have in mind?”

A small and comforting smile stretched across Edmund’s face, “Nothing clears the mind better than the fresh morning air across your face.”

Chapter Text

XXXII

GRACE

Touch the Sky – Julie Fowlis

When King Edmund had offered her a show of his good-will, Grace could not deny the interest it spiked. She’d expected more work – actual work, perhaps even some stories of his past but never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined something like this.

“This is a bad idea,” Grace grumbled. Her behind sat firmly on the soft leather saddle, each leg dangled dangerously over its sides. Held firmly by the muscles of her thighs stood a very large and very alive beast that Grace was trying her darndest not to startle.

“You’ll be fine,” King Edmund shushed her as his hand ghosting over her leg, “Put your foot through the stirrup here.”

Grace followed his directions, a sigh of relief leaving her throat when her shoe found purchase on the metal. She immediately adjusted herself on them.

The King stepped back and gave a short hum of approval, “Good. Be careful not to dig your heels in or Maiden will start walking.”

Grace immediately elevated her heels from the horses sides.

“Not that much,” He chuckled.

As she eased her ankles onto the soft brown coat of Maiden, Grace did not dare to even breathe. The motion was apparently laughable to the Just King, who watched on with an amused smile.  

“You’re thinking about this too much,” He said, “Horses can sense nervousness.”

Grace grimaced, “They can? Maiden is not going to like me then.”

As if in response, the horse snorted, it’s long face moving against the King’s hands. He soothed it immediately with a short pat on the muzzle, “You need to relax.”

Grace tried to breathe, to untense the muscles in her hands which had turned white as they gripped the reins, “Easier said than done.”

King Edmund reached towards her, placing a hand gently – and hesitantly – over the bump in her dress where her knee sat, “Just breathe.”

The effect was instantaneous; Grace’s sweat slicked hands loosened a fraction and her heart rate slowed. Breathing became easier, the inflow entering her lungs circulating to her brain which allowed her to think clearly.

“I shouldn’t need to calm you as well as the horse,” the King muttered, the warmth of his hand leaving her knee as he returned to petting Maiden’s muzzle.

“Forgive me, I didn’t realise that being afraid of a living being between your legs would be considered foolish,” Grace bit back, the fraying edges of her stress releasing before she could school the words. Maiden released another short snort.

An uncomfortable look shadowed the King’s face for a moment as he too turned red. It wasn’t until she saw his expression that she realised there was a second connotation to her words.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” King Edmund hushed her, choosing instead to focus on something else, “Your grip on the reins is wrong.”

Gently, he eased her hands away from the leather and took them into his own. His voice soft as he explained the motions to pull the reins taught and separate them equally in her hands.

“Hold the leather between your thumb and forefinger,” He instructed, pleased when she followed easily, “That’s it.”

Grace adjusted the leather in her hands, her thumb rubbing over the smoothed sown brown in calming circles. She was calm and could breathe easily but that didn’t deter the alarm bells whirring in the back of her mind.

“Tell me, why am I learning this again?” She asked.

King Edmund stepped back slowly, hands raised to catch either of them should they fall out of place, “I told you, it’s a way of clearing your mind.”

Among the thrum of anxious energy in her mind, Grace couldn’t see how this exercise would help, “My mind doesn’t feel very clear right now.”

The King sighed, “It is also very likely that you’ll need to ride a horse in order to make it back to Spare Oom. I don’t imagine the entryway will be somewhere easily reachable, otherwise we’d have already come across it.”

Grace nodded gently, her mind very aware of Maiden’s every movement. She remembered her first steps into the cool night air during her first escape attempt, the very reality that she had no way to travel exhausting her before she’d even stepped off the stone edge of the Cair.

As Maiden readjusted her feet, Grace’s heart leapt to her throat. Another thought entered her mind, terrifyingly tangible amongst the worries she already held, “What if I’m not good at this? Will that stop me from travelling to the entryway?”

“There is no point in worrying about that before you’ve even tried,” The King answered, his eyes a comfortingly warm brown stew made up of a variety of emotions.

“There is a point when I know this is likely to be a disaster,” Grace protested as Maiden readjusted again. She was grateful that King Edmund had not stepped more than a few feet away as the gnawing fear that the horse would throw ate further into her bravery.

He crossed his arms, the dark brows upon his face raised in a challenging motion, “Says who? Between the two of us, you are the only one who is second guessing yourself. It’s surprising to me that your bravery should falter now considering it has never faltered in my presence.”

“You can be reasoned with,” Grace replied, “A horse cannot.”

The King raised his dark irises skyward before he politely turned to an attendant and whispered something incoherent to Grace’s ears. The young Faun nodded politely, folding into a small bow before disappearing behind the large wooden slats of the stable doors.

He – again – stepped further away, much to Grace’s disdain, “If you are brave enough to reason with me then you are brave enough to ride a horse.”

Grace shook her head minutely, her grip on the reins tightening again, “Bravery in an emotional response is different to bravery in the physical.”

The words caught King Edmunds interest, but before he could respond the Faun reemerged. At his side was a large brown horse, completely bare of saddle or reins. It didn’t seem to matter, for the horse followed the side of the Faun obediently, only stirring from its position once the King came into view.

The horse aligned themselves next to the King and waited. In response, King Edmund ran a familiar hand over it’s dark mane. He nodded gratefully to the attendant as a stool was placed between the two.

Grace watched on, puzzled at the scene before her as the King leapt lithely into the horses back – the horses bare back. Unconsciously, she shifted in her saddle, the idea of riding a horse without one seemed uncomfortable at best. That didn’t seem to faze Kind Edmund as he settled a leg on either side of the beast.

“I suppose the question then becomes, why must you only excel in one and not the other?” He adjusted himself on the horses back easily. His balance and countenance assured despite the lack of reins, “Why limit yourself?”

Grace balked at the challenge, “I don’t know. I suppose I find feats of physical ability more daunting. You’re less likely to be killed by emotions.”

At King Edmunds behest, the large chestnut horse trudged forwards, aligning him equally at Grace’s side. The King smiled at her encouragingly, “I am inclined to the opposite. Emotions run unbidden and can only be controlled on the surface. There is much more control to be found in the physical, thus a larger chance at preserving life.”

Grace looked ahead, refusing to meet the reasonable words and encouraging gaze of the Just King. She would admit that her anxiety had lessened with him at her side, regardless of the missing accessories, “I suppose I could try it your way.”

“An excellent choice,” King Edmund praised, he urged his horse forward into Grace’s sight, stopping about a metre away and angled so that the full profile of his horse could be seen.

As the horse walked, the King balanced easily upon it’s back. The movement seemed second-nature to him as he relied only on the grip of his legs and a steadying hand between the horses shoulders for balance. It was all Grace could do to watch in amazement.

He gestured to the chestnut beast, “This is Phillip, he is an… expert of sorts. I’ve asked him to join our ride today to offer a few pointers.”

Grace stared at the beast in apprehension, then her eyes darted around the creature. She expected to see some faun emerge from behind the mass of brown coat. When none did, her confusion marred her features.

Her confusion was obvious to the King, who seemed to have expected it. Tentatively, he placed a hand upon the horses mane, “This is Phillip. He’s a Talking Horse.”

Grace’s eyes zeroed in on the dark ones of the beast immediately. The stare was returned evenly, the irises holding knowledge similarly to the way other Talking Beasts did.

“Is she dumb? Is that possible in human kind, Sire?”

Grace stiffened at the third voice. The strong tone reverberating straight from the horse's mouth. She didn’t know why it surprised her, she’d seen plenty of talking beasts at that point.

At her surprise, Maiden shuffled beneath her again, the movement nearly throwing her backwards. Grace gripped the reins haphazardly to right herself, barely catching the edge of the leather in her hands.

Phillip nickered, the noise sounding almost like a laugh, “His Majesty, King Edmund thought you might be startled.”

Grace’s head slipped into an automatic nod. Any words she had were jumbled at best and caught in her throat. The mixture of amazement and caution jarring her as she leaned sidewards to look at Maiden’s face.

“Do you speak too?” She whispered.

King Edmund chuckled, “She does not, I thought one surprise might be enough for you. Maiden is dumb, but very tame.”

His words made Grace’s face burn in embarrassment. She righted herself immediately, clearing her throat and readjusting her hands on the leather reins in an attempt to look busy, “So, Phillip is an expert then?”

The Chestnut Horse threw his head back and forth in a kind of nod, “His Majesties knowledge of riding is extensive, but mine is complete. There is none that know better the art of riding than those that are ridden.”

Grace supposed that made sense, although, from her understanding, sentient beasts were not to be ridden except in the gravest of circumstances. If Phillip held so much knowledge of being ridden, she wondered just how often he and the King rode out together.

Phillip snorted impatiently, trudging forwards to align himself beside maiden again, “Are we riding or not, sire? I’d like to make it back in time for oats, otherwise Filly will get to them all.”

“We are,” The King soothed with a short pat on the horses shoulder, “Just give her a moment.”

Grace looked at him over her shoulder, eyes widened in false surprise, “Oh, are we waiting for me?”

King Edmund rolled his eyes, “Just walk. Sit straight and squeeze with your knees.”

She followed his directions soundly, pleasantly surprised – and terrified – when Maiden began to step forwards slowly. Grace attempted to mimic the King’s movements to stay upright.

It wasn’t so bad after all. Grace found the rhythmic movement comforting as she swayed alongside it. It was a different kind of music.

“That’s good,” Phillip praised from behind her.

Grace looked back sparingly, the large grin on her face a clear tell that she was enjoying herself, regardless of the anxiety bubbling inside. The feeling was oddly exhilarating and it made her want to do more.

“What now?” She called.

“Just keep at it for now,” King Edmund cautioned as he and Phillip caught up, “And you don’t need to keep squeezing with your knees anymore.”

Instinctively, Grace released her vice like grip. She was grateful to find that Maiden did not stop, in fact, it seemed the Mare trotted a little faster than before.

A warm breeze blew against her cheeks and Grace lifted her eyes to meet it, watching it dance in the leaves of distant trees – taking a few souvenirs along in its gust.

Grace could see how this could be calming; the rhythm of horseshoes beneath her feet, the rolling grassy hills speckled with flowers of vibrant colours she couldn’t begin to describe, the late-autumn breeze hitting her face and combing through the ends of her hair. She couldn’t imagine coming down from the height she found atop Maiden’s back.

“Are you ready to stop?”

Her head whipped indignantly to the King, “It’s barely been two minutes.”

Maiden seemed to snort beneath her in agreement.

King Edmund started, caught off guard by her cross tone, “Apologies, I meant are you ready to learn how?”

Grace visibly slumped in relief, “Oh. Yes, what do I do?”

The King demonstrated, the invisible reins in his hands lifted towards him in an easy motion, “Pull gently. Don’t startle her.”

Grace nodded and attempted to follow the direction. Maiden did not stop, however, stubbornly trotting along as if Grace was only a participant in their ride.

An amused smile tugged at the corners of King Edmund’s mouth, “Not that gently.”

He reached across, one hand wrapping around her right wrist to show her the correct speed and force. Maiden came to a stop easily, however, the Mare was clearly disgruntled by the order.

King Edmund released her wrist as soon as their movement halted and Grace began to feel the lingering burn of his fingerprints on her skin.

“Do you have a fever?” Grace asked. She’d dropped the reins in favour of running her left hand over the offended appendage.

The King sat forward on Phillip. Confusion marred his expression as he ran a hand over the horses mane, “No, I am well. Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing,” Grace dismissed, “I just thought your hand felt warm.”

On reflex, the King inspected his palm, flexing his hand this way and that and covering it with its twin to be sure, “Feels normal to me. I don’t feel ill either.”

Perhaps she’d imagined it? Despite the warm breeze there was a chill setting over Narnia and Grace always acclimatised to the cool faster than she did the cold. Someone had once told Grace that her hands should have been numb from the temperature, and whilst she would admit that upon touching her hands to her face they were cold, she simply did not feel it until there was something to contrast it to.

“I guess your temperature simply runs hotter than mine,” Grace voiced simply.  

King Edmund smiled wryly in return, “I guess so.”

The two fell into an awkward silence, Grace adjusting her seat on Maiden’s back and gently running a hand over the Mare’s blonde mane.

Eventually, the King found his voice again. A short sigh of satisfaction whistling from his throat before he spoke, “Now, how about we try some trotting?”

-

By the time they finished, the sun had passed its highest point in the sky. Grace could hear her stomach rumble easily over the sound of hoofbeats and chatting as Phillip steered them back towards the stable.

They hadn’t gone too far, but it was enough.

Grace felt decidedly better, the fresh air and exercise – she remained unsure that it could be called that as it mainly pertained to sitting – had done wonders for her state of mind. The anger she’d felt hours ago barely tickled the back of her mind as she allowed the King to help her down from Maiden’s back, his grip somehow still burning through the thick material of her dress.

“The Stable Hand will show you how to remove the saddle and properly groom Maiden,” King Edmund instructed, “All are essential in building a relationship between horse and rider.”

Grace watched as Phillip walked into a doorless room, his dark tail whipping the King as he passed. She smiled wryly, “Will you be seeing to Phillip then?”

King Edmund released a drawn out and mockingly dramatic sigh, “I suppose I should. It is part of our agreement.”

The Talking Horse in question piped up from the confines of his stall, “If you don’t hurry up, Filly will beat me to the oats. Hop to it Son of Adam.”

Grace tried to hide her amusement as the King stalked towards the stall, an exasperated but familiar smile on his face.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

It was there with the Maiden at her shoulder that Grace realised she’d never seen the King like this. It was an odd, yet comforting view of his sense of humour.

The Stable Hand rounded the entrance to the alley of stalls, buckets and hands full of brushes and equipment which Grace assumed were for grooming.

She looked up to the sandy horse by her side with what Grace hoped was a confident smile, “How about we get you cleaned up then, Maiden?”

The horse did not talk back, but Grace assumed that any ministrations would be welcomed. She planned on taking a nice long bath after this, why would a horse not want the same?

Maiden was tied to the stall from two sides. Grace didn’t attempt to interfere with that one, scared of going anywhere near the horse’s mouth this early into her learning.

The Stable Hand spoke quickly, fingers pointing erratically between the different instruments he’d laid upon a small table. Grace tried to keep up, at some point she’d even asked the Stable Hand for his name, but the Faun replied too quickly and Grace didn’t have the heart to ask twice.

She followed behind him, her hands performing the actions after the Faun’s ghosted demonstration. It was all what Grace imagined should be common sense; the rear buckle of the saddle must be released before the front, you should fold the straps as you go to avoid getting hit by the loose buckles. In saying that however, Grace knew that if the Stable Hand was not there, she probably would have ended up with a few bruises.

A sigh of relief left her throat when Maiden was properly unsaddled. The horse seemed pleased too, immediately sticking her head into some hay once the metal bite was removed from her mouth.

The Stable Hand ushered a brush into Grace’s hands immediately, “Best to do it now while she’s occupied.”

The Faun’s hands ghosted over her sand-coloured coat in small circular motions which Grace mimicked. There was less resistance than she’d imagined, the brush gliding easily and effortlessly under her inexperienced hands.

“After that, you’ll move on to this brush,” The Stable Hand lifted a small, broom like brush from the table, “and sweep it across like this.”

Grace nodded as she watched the

“And then what?” She asked.

“You’re finished,” The Faun shrugged. He edged out of the doorway, often throwing looks back to Grace to ensure she was following his instructions correctly, “Put the tools away and close the door on your way out.”

He didn’t hesitate to vacate the entryway. The shadow of his body disappearing like smoke in the shadowed corridor between stalls.

From that moment on, the silence was thick, only broken by the rough noise of the brush circles.

The movement was soothing, requiring little focus and effort to maintain. Grace attempted to focus on the movement of her hands, of the feeling of the cool, hard handle and the soft felt of Maiden’s coat under her fingertips.

The Mare sat still throughout the entire event, only moving to dip her head further into the hay she chewed. The movement was intermittent and often startled Grace from her stupor.

A myriad of thoughts passed across her mind; the events of the day, her current situation, the comfortable heat of the King’s hand on her wrist - she truly did worry that he was slipping into a fever. The strings of thought tumbled together in her mind, slowly spooling into a ball of compressed colourful yarn. Each thread was stained with the colour of the memories emotion; the mixture of blues, reds and greens making a startling combination amongst each other.

She felt like a child on Christmas Eve, on the edge of something she knew was tangible and great but not knowing which direction it would go. Would her path lead her home and to happiness or was there an entirely different surprise waiting for her?

Grace sighed as the hard brush was dropped amongst the other tools upon the table. She picked up the next as indicated by the Faun, eyeing the material of its bristles with a careful eye. Was this the soft brush? She could not tell. There were four others – smaller and larger than the one she held – which also looked equally up to the task.

In a hesitant movement, Grace turned to Maiden and gently began brushing the bristles upon her sandy coat. There was no complaint, not even the slightest reaction as the horse continued to chew on her hay.

Grace’s cheeks spread in relief and the suspension in her chest released as she continued her ministrations. The ball of yarn tumbled further, adding threads of unknown colours to the mix, colours and emotions which Grace dare not to name.

She would not hold out hope that this day had truly changed anything until she saw the result, she refused to. It was a motto she often reflected in life; to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised. It was a better alternative than being disappointed by those you thought you loved.

Amongst the scratchy sounds of the bristles upon Maiden’s coat, another set of voices made themselves known. They were not in her direct vicinity – for when she looked there was no one there – but they were close. Close enough that Grace could make out distinct words amongst the monotonous tone of their voices.

“I think she’s more spirited than you originally let on,” The first spoke softly, “She reminds me an awful lot of Filly.”

The second laughed, “She does? I distinctly remember your claim that Filly is the bane of your existence. Does this mean that you do not like Grace?”

“I withhold judgement of your Daughter of Eve, for now. She may yet prove me wrong.”

Grace covered her ears. They burned under the weight of her impertinence. To listen to a conversation was one thing, to listen to a conversation about yourself… that was a different beast entirely. She didn’t listen to anymore, a feat in itself considering the burning curiosity that roared to life within her.

Isn’t this what she wanted? To understand the King? The phrase know thy enemy rang soundly in her mind. If she kept listening would she learn enough to bring King Edmund on-side? Would that be enough to convince him that she was not his enemy, simply a lost human passing through?

No.

It was wrong even in Grace’s twistedly wanting mind. The brick did not fit amongst the others in the road she knew lay before her. King Edmund was a shrewd man and Grace was truly terrible at keeping things to herself; her emotions, her thoughts, her secrets. One need but ask and Grace would metaphorically spill her guts, it was a trait she had always hated.

If she kept listening, there was a hundred and twenty percent chance that she would attempt to use the information and immediately be caught out. She knew enough between the two of them to see the scene clearly in her mind and whilst King Edmund held the power and could make the mistakes, Grace could not.

Well… not at least until the King taught her how to ride like the wind, for he would surely pursue her directly the moment he realised she had escaped again.

There was no sound under the cover of her skin, but Grace waited a minute anyway just to be sure. When her hands lifted the movement was cautious, ready to return at the slightest trace of the King’s voice.

Thick silence flooded her ears once again, only broken by the sound of Maiden’s nickering. Grace pet the Mare’s mane softly and whispered, “Phillip said something about oats, I bet you’re looking forward to that.”

The horse – of course – did not answer and Grace did not wait for one as she untied the strings holding her in place.

Maiden didn’t move from her position, muzzle stuffed in the hay brick and too preoccupied with it to notice as Grace gathered the tools and exited the stall.

She chanted to herself as her shoes crossed the threshold; shut the gate, shut the gate, shut the gate. The toe of her shoe was hooked on the bottom of the wooden door as she yanked it closed, barely catching the smooth timber in her hand to soften the noise.  

It occurred to Grace then that she had no idea what to do next. She stood awkwardly in the shadow of the stall’s isle. Multiple of the gates were open, their inhabitants left to graze or out riding. Grace wondered if one of the owners of these stalls was now with Lucy. The thought taking pause in her soul as she softly wished for the safe return of her friend.

Grace could not see where she was supposed to deposit the tools, nor anyone to assist her in doing so. She simply stood stock still in the middle of the alley, lost and stuck in her own indecision.

A harsh nudge upon her back shoved her forward. It stirred Grace from her thoughts and nearly toppled her over onto the dirt tracked stable floor.

Grace yelped and struggled to maintain balance whilst carrying so many items in her arms. The soft brush fell to the dirt with a delicate thud, it’s bristles lopping sideways lazily.

Her head whipped backwards to her assailant, half expecting it to be Phillip or King Edmund in the midst of some practical joke. She was startled to find the long and sharp-eyed face of a snowy horse staring back at her. Their gaze burning with similar bright blue fury.

“I’ve been calling to you for help,” The Talking Horse scolded, “Did you not hear me?”

Grace shook her head, half in answer and half to expel the aggravation she felt towards the creature. What if she had been holding something sharp? What a joke it would be to die before she ever stepped on the shores of Earth again.

“I didn’t,” Grace replied, “Though I hardly think that warrants a shove.”

The Talking Beast had the sense to look slightly remorseful, “You weren’t answering me.”

“Still not an excuse,” Grace scolded. Carefully, she knelt to pick up the brush, shaking it off in the air to expel any dirt in the bristles.

“Begging your pardon, Milady,” The Talking Horse demurred, bowing her nuzzle with respect, “I merely wished to ask a favour.”

Grace stared after the gesture, somehow uncomfortable with its implications.

“I’m not a lady,” She corrected softly.

The Talking Horse’s head tilted sceptically, “You’re dressed like one.”

Grace’s neck craned to her rich coloured skirts – marred as they were by the burn of the hot poker earlier that day – it was true, the colours were as bright as any she’d seen on Queen Susan or Lucy and the fit was crafted by the Cair’s tailor.

“Virtue of position,” Grace explained.

The snowy ears of the Talking Beast twitched, “Oh, so you are not a stable hand then?”

“No,” Grace’s brow furrowed, “I can’t seem to find one either.”

She held up the pile of tools in her arms as if for explanation, her eyes still searching the immediate vicinity for where to store them.

The Talking Beast huffed, their light gaze resting heavily on the brush grace had just plucked from the floor, “That is why I was hoping you were a stable hand. I have this itch, you see? It’s in a difficult to reach place and I need it brushed.”

As if to demonstrate the inconvenient location, the Talking Horse craned it’s neck, it’s muzzle barely scratching the coat of its backside as it grunted from the effort of extension.

Grace eyed the spot, unsure what she could do to alleviate the situation. The hard brush would probably be the best bet – not the soft bristled one the Talking Beast had been eyeing.

“It’s nearly time for the Oat Spread and if I’m late, Phillip will eat them all,” The Talking Horse explained, “It is for that reason, and that reason only that I beg for your assistance.”

The mention of Phillip tugged at her mind. This must have been the Filly that he had spoken of earlier that day.

The corner of Grace’s lip twitched, “Can’t eat your oats with an itch on your backside?”

“It just wouldn’t be the same.”

The twitch grew to a smile and if Grace squinted, it mirrored on her companions face. She sighed, defeat and compliance setting into her being, “I suppose I could run over it a few times.”

If Filly could grin, Grace was sure she would be.

Immediately, the Talking Horse ushered them both into the leftmost corner stall. It sat just inside of the rolling stable doors and so had the most air circulation that could be provided in such a small space. This inevitably meant it was colder than the rest of the Stable.

Grace shivered as Filly lined herself up. The motion was familiar to Maiden’s, only this horse did not need to be tied up.

Brushing a Talking Horse was unsurprisingly different. Whilst Grace worked on smoothing the bristles over her fine snow flaked coat, Filly spoke to her – or rather, she spoke out loud. Not all of it made sense to Grace; there were some things which she assumed she would learn from King Edmund and other things which Grace could only guess at.

“I told Lady Ezarion that she’d not saddled her horse properly twice before I decided to let it go,” Filly chortled, “I suppose my efforts were rewarded when I got to see her fall clean off the mare’s back.”

Despite herself, Grace’s smile peaked through her concentration. She’d moved past the spot where Filly claimed the itch had taken root, assuming it had cleared when the Talking Horse did not contest the movement.

“She wasn’t happy about it, let me tell you. Told me my albino coat was ratty and turning grey and that I needed my muddy mane trimmed.”

“Seems like an overreaction,” Grace observed, “You were only trying to warn her.”

The Talking Beast nodded excitedly, “That was exactly what I thought! Though, she may be right about the mane. Do you think it’s dirty and overgrown? I’m only asking because I can’t really see it, even in a mirror. If you say it is, then I’ll get it done.”

Grace leant back, her keen sight focusing solely on the flowing threads of white and silver that hung from the horses neck. The mixture glimmered in the dim light of the stall, a metallic silver amongst the alabaster white that reflected and gleamed.

“I think it looks like starlight,” Grace commented. She ran her thin fingers through Filly’s mesmerising mane, her eyes catching on the sparkling strands as they shifted.

“Starlight?” Filly stirred, “You think so? Phillip used to make fun of me as a young filly, said it looked grey.”

“It’s not grey,” Grace declared, “It’s silver. Anyone can tell the difference. I would show you grey if I could, but I covered all of mine.”

The Talking Horse nickered, “What are you doing with grey hairs? You look much too young for that.”

Grace smiled gratefully, “I suppose in some ways I am. Stress and genetics are the harbingers of my early old age.”

“What would a young Daughter of Eve have to be stressed about?”

Unwanted images of her youth came to mind, coupled with the life she’d led before drowning in her bedsheets. Grace shoved them down into the furthest reaches of her mind, instead opting for a different response, “Oh, I have plenty to be stressed about. Age, consequence, a young Filly knocking me over into the dirt.”

Filly threw her a mirthful look, “I promise not to do it again, so long as you actually use your ears next time.”

Grace laughed as she continued to detangle the knots from Filly’s hair, “Good. I’d hate to get on the wrong end of a Talking Horse.”

The Beast in question whipped her tail in Grace’s direction, the fine strands of silvery white only managing to reach her stomach.

Grace moved out of the way in any case, easily sidestepping the motion as if she had expected it.

“What is your name, Daughter of Eve?” Filly asked.

At the question Grace’s head tilted back so that she could meet the horses misty blue eyes, “Grace,” She paused for a moment, unsure whether she should continue to make the assumption that this was Filly or if she should ask.

The Talking Beast made the decision for her, “I am Filly. An odious name, given to me as a youngling. My mother was not alive to name me, you see.”

Grace’s thin fingers ceased their repetitive combing through Filly’s mane, “I’m so sorry.”

Filly shook it off, “Do not trouble yourself. It is not the fact that she passed that bothers me, it is that I am a mare grown who still carries about such a name. It is embarrassing.”

“I’d imagine so,” Grace’s mouth twisted, “If it is so embarrassing to you, why do you not change it?”

The Talking Beast huffed, “What good would that do? Filly is all I’ve ever known. It is not as if any of the Stable Hands or other Talking Horses will accept it either.”

“Surely, you have the right to your own name?” Grace protested, her fingers returned to the shimmery mane as they worked through a particularly difficult knot.

“Well, I suppose I do…” Filly murmured.

“Then why not pick one?” Grace pressed.

The Talking Horse snorted, “Even if it were that simple, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Grace rolled her eyes as she continued to claw at the knot, “It doesn’t matter how you start so long as you do,” She craned her head back to look at her companion, “If you want to change your name, Filly, you need to take the first steps.”

Filly regarded her statement, an indescribable noise travelling out of her muzzle before she exclaimed, “For such a young being, you’re quite persuasive.”

Grace grinned, “One of my many great qualities, as you’ll learn since we are to be friends.”

The Talking Horse laughed.

Chapter Text

XXXIII

GRACE

Touch the Sky – Julie Fowlis

The moment her toes passed the threshold of the Music Room, Grace was accosted by Margrove.

“And where in the Great Lion’s name have you been?” Margrove questioned, his eyes were a shade of worried black she had not seen before. In his hands sat various sheets of music in disarray, some were held aloft in the air as he spoke. The position would almost be funny if it weren’t for the serious set of his face.  

“I went riding,” Grace shrugged.  She took the sheets from his fingers gingerly and inspected the writing upon them, “I’m sorry, I figured you wouldn’t need me today.”

“You figured-” The Faun spluttered, “You went out riding? With His Majesty so firmly on your case? Tell me, do you enjoy brushes with death?”

Grace eyed her friend humorously – his hairy arms had not moved from their stunned position in the air, “Actually, it was His Majestie’s idea.”

A single strand of brunette hair brushed over Margrove’s stunned face, the tickle just enough to coax him back into his senses, “Pardon?”

“I suppose it was his way of making amends, teaching me to ride,” Grace allowed thoughtfully the sheets where compiled and tapped into a neat stack in her hands, “He must consider the risk worth the reward for once.”

“Making amends?”

“Has my news made you less articulate?” Grace quipped, “You were the one who said I needed to talk to the King. Well, we talked. I would have thought you’d be happy that things are progressing.”

As the Faun’s face relaxed so too did his arms, “I am,” he defended, “I am also a little confused on how this came to be? What could His Majesty have done to warrant such a trade?”

Anger brushed against Grace’s mind in tantalizing strokes as the memories from that morning resurfaced. It was only stemmed by the memory of honesty in King Edmund’s eyes as he tried to make amends.

She shook the images away, “What he did is insignificant now.”

As if to end the conversation, the stack of music was placed upon the desk and a paperweight atop it. After her first week in the Orchestra, Grace had gone hunting for many heavy objects in order to stop the sheets from coating the room with each breeze and gust. In the end, she’d found nothing worked so well as a rock.

The title of the topmost parchment stuck out to her, “Is this new?”

Margrove’s face dropped at the shift in conversation, he leaned forward at her side, his eyes tracing over the inked title of The Ballad of the Frostborn, “It is.”

“That’s quite the title,” Grace remarked.

“It’s quite the song.”

She looked to her friend, only to find a level of guarded emotion in the crinkles around his onyx gaze.

“Are you not going to slip into a grand speech about the specifics?” Grace prompted.

“If you’re going to be cagey about the details then so shall I,” Margrove returned.

Grace sighed as her hand instinctively reached for his, “I do not withhold any details out of spite, I promise. I just simply wanted to leave it in the past.”

Her friend’s face softened as he too relented, “I’m sorry. The song was written out of a dark place in my life, I do not like to speak about it.”

“Very well,” Grace nodded. She released the Faun’s hand with an easy smile, “Then we need not speak about it. May I read it when it’s done?”

Margrove joined his hands behind his back inquisitively, “I suppose you may, just leave your thoughts to yourself on this one.”

Grace’s smile faltered as the seriousness of his expression. The Faun didn’t seem worried of her criticism, nor that of the others in the Orchestra, he simply looked sad and tired.

“Of course,” Grace agreed softly.

The moment passed quicker than it came, and the usual lively set to Margrove’s expression returned once more, “Speaking of which, how are you faring with your homework?”

Grace grimaced, the sheet of The First Gifts of Christmas was somewhere in this room. In truth she’d picked it up twice to read, the second time proving more tenuous than the last. The words were understandable as were the story but there was something about it that made her… uncomfortable.

“I’ve read over it once or twice.”

“What did you think of it?” Margrove pressed with an all too innocent expression.

Grace shrugged, “It is out of my vocal range for starters.”

The Faun waved her off, “We can change that. What did you think of the story?”

Her shoulders braced at his line of questioning, for what reason she truly did not know. There was something about the lyrics that just seemed off to her. It is what made her hesitant to finish it in the first place, nevertheless read it a second time.

When Grace did not respond immediately, Margrove continued, “It’s been a while since I’ve last read it, perhaps you may recite it for me, Grace?”

“I’ve not read it enough for recitation,” Grace murmured.

The Faun continued, unperturbed by her unwillingness. He rounded the desk, firmly planting himself on the closest chair, “A retelling in your own words then?”

“I don’t know,” Grace began, the words unbidden from her lips.

“Come on!” Margrove encouraged as he leant forward and tapped the hard wood of the opposing seat, “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Begrudgingly, Grace seated herself atop the stool and warned, “I’m not sure I’ve learned much.”

The Faun shrugged, “And yet, your face sours at the very mention of the song.”

Grace soothed her expression immediately, a little embarrassed that her emotions had been so clear, “I don’t know what it is but something about that song rubs me the wrong way.”

Margrove did not respond to her comment, he simply waited for her to begin.

With a sigh, Grace acquiesced to his request, “It starts with a race between the Kings and Queens. They are running from some witch.”

“Our Kings and Queens were racing against the Witch who encouraged fear,” Margrove recited.

“Yes,” Grace nodded, “They came across who I can only assume to be Santa Claus?”

“Santa Claus?” Margrove’s brow raised quizzically.

Grace shrugged, “The man who brings toys to children at Christmas time. I’ve never heard him called Father Christmas before but I assume they are one and the same.”

Margrove’s head tilted to the left, “I suppose that sounds correct.”

“Santa gave them gifts, however, they were not ordinary toys I assume. Unless ‘a dagger made of bravery’ is literally an invisible dagger.”

“You are correct, they were not toys. They were tools meant to assist out Kings and Queens in the recovery of Narnia,” Margrove affirmed.

“Queen Susan obtained a horn and archery equipment,” Grace listed, counting each of the siblings off on her fingertips, “Lucy received a dagger and a healing cordial, High King Peter received a sword and shield and King Edmund…”

The words of the song skimmed across her mind in agitated repetition. What had King Edmund received? She couldn’t remember if the song had said as such.

“What did His Majesty receive?” Grace asked the Faun.

“By my knowledge of The First Gifts of Christmas, King Edmund received nothing,” Margrove edged. There was a glint of knowledge in his eyes that he chose to withhold, a glint which Grace didn’t have the mental space to focus on. The very notion that the King would be singled out was inconceivable to her.

“But that can’t be,” Grace protested softly, “It hardly seems fair to give the other children gifts and leave him out.”

There was nothing worse than the feeling of being unwanted, except for when it was confirmed before your very eyes. Such an act was not unknown to Grace who remembered the cold embrace of that loneliness well.

King Edmund was not alone, however, and judging by the regard his siblings held for him, she doubted they would let such an act slide. No, there was no situation in her mind in which would warrant such an act to go without retribution...

Unless the reason was that King Edmund was not there to receive one.

As the pieces slotted together in her mind, she had the pleasure of watching her expression shift to understanding in the black mirrors of Margrove’s eyes.

“He wasn’t there was he.”

The Faun maintained a stoic expression. It was similar to the one he’d worn days ago when he’d assigned Grace the music, yet somehow it was warmer and kinder, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

It was the second time he’d denied her information, however, in around a bout way Grace knew he was trying to tell her something. Memories trickled from their initial conversation on the topic, the sentence ‘There are some things we do not speak of’ imprinted firmly amongst it. At the time, Grace had seen it as a cold rejection, something she had not expected of her friend. Now, she understood.  

Whatever had happened thirteen years ago was simply not spoken about. Either because it was too horrible to voice or because someone highly revered by the Narnians had forbidden it.

Or perhaps even both. The thought came unbidden to her mind and she shuddered at the implication.

The days, months or hours preceding the ascension of the Kings and Queens to their thrones seemed to be filled with trials that no children should ever have to face. For King Edmund’s part, Grace wondered exactly what that entailed.

What was so horrible that no Narnian would dare speak it aloud?

What was so terrible that it needed to be silenced in the first place?

What was so vicious that a foreign King would hold it over the Just King years after the fact?

Threads of blood red wove between images in her mind and Grace could feel herself reaching conclusions that she dared not speak aloud. She felt like a mad woman, drawing circles and arrows between characters on a whiteboard as if the whole matter was a conspiracy theory.

The circles and arrows led scenarios of the most horrible nature that if they were true would most likely hinder any source of friendship to the King as she now sought.

She pushed them from her mind firmly, refusing to delve deeper into a hole which would only see her harmed. Besides, had she not promised him only that morning that she would not ask for what he did not wish her to know? Did questioning Margrove not go against the promise she had made?

When Grace returned from the trenches of her mind, she found it clear. Any unwanted thoughts or misconceptions filed away. If she needed to, she knew they could be drawn upon later. An ever-growing list of evidence that King Edmund was not as good as he seemed ready to use at her will.

The thought was quite nasty and Grace reproached herself for it. Fervently wishing that she would never need such a thing.

“I think,” She began unsurely, catching the curious dark squint her companion was throwing her way, “That I have learned enough about this song.”

The Faun’s cheeks stretched into a relieved smile, “Perhaps we might withhold a performance of this song altogether. It is quite old and not to the current taste of the Court nor that of the Kings and Queens.”

Grace mirrored the expression of her friend. The cabinet in her mind was shut firmly and locked as she allowed her shoulders to relax, “I am inclined to agree.”

-

Amongst the dim light of the morning, everything was still. No dust swirled with the movement of the breeze or could be seen within a beam of light. It was too early for that.

As the sun clawed its way over the horizon of the Eastern Sea, none stirred within the walls of Cair Paravel… none except two.

Grace trudged behind her guardian, eyes still crusted with sleep as she donned her earthy cloak like a blanket. She hadn’t bothered to buckle it at her collarbones, instead opting to hold it together by the sheer will of her fingertips.

Casys clip clopped in front of her steadily. He did not do her the disservice of checking on her progress, they were long past that. Besides, through the fog of tiredness there was a curiosity within Grace which kept her from wondering off.

She was surprised when the Centaur had pounded on her door that morning and ordered her to dress warmly. There was no explanation, no apologies for the intrusion, only the advice that she had been summoned and must answer immediately.

Summoned by who? Casys did not say. Nor were her requests for more information from him answered.

Grace yawned and rubbed at her eyes. In truth, she would usually be up somewhere in the next hour in any case, and with a month of early mornings up her sleeve she’d found it much easier to rise at the crack of dawn.

However, the night before had found Grace neck deep in the pages of Is Man A Myth, a book which she found more interesting the further she got. The candle on her bedside had all but depleted before she realised how late it must be, her eyes sore from both tiredness and the dim light to read by. It seemed that her poor decision had left her with little sleep to speak of and so it crusted stubbornly on her eyelids. Impossible to remove, no matter how she swiped at it.

It was hard to remain alert under its weight and as they walked Grace would often blink and find herself in new surroundings. She wasn’t entirely sure how she got there, the soft scrapes of her shoes on the stone floors melding with the brief intervals of dreaming she fell into. Is this how people began to sleepwalk?

The cold morning air brushing over Grace’s face turned out to be the remedy she required. It wrenched her mind to alert and caused her teeth to chatter. She pulled the cloak tightly around herself, grateful for the minor shield against the breeze.

“Why on Earth are we out here?” She called to her Guardian.

Casys did not answer, his expression stoic as he continued moving westward of Cair Paravel.

Grace had never been in these surroundings before, the unfamiliar landscape making her uneasy as she followed the Centaur forwards.

Perhaps this was it? Was she heading towards the secret prison the Kings and Queens kept underground? If she was lucky, there would be a quick and easy death waiting for her at the end of this walk. If she was not, she might find herself in some dingy cell for the rest of her days.

The dramatic thoughts were shoved to the side, partially due to the anxiety they stoked within her. It couldn’t be helped, a lack of sleep and unknown surroundings would make anyone paranoid.

“Are we close at least?” Grace pressed, “I’d like to make it back to bed before my limbs fall off.”

Casys shook his head, “Keep your peace, Grace. It will not be for long.”

Grace huffed and readjusted her cloak over her shoulders, “How long are we talking here? Three? Five?”

But the Centaur need not reply, for the sight of the Stable rooftops began to peer over the green hillside. Grace gasped and rushed ahead, vaguely noting Casys’s laughter as she passed.

She was right, it was the Stables! Built of wood and straw and painted with various intricate works of art. Grace spun on her heels to face Casys, a wry grin on her face, “Why did you not say we were coming here? I would have moved a lot quicker.”

“It is not I who requested secrecy,” The Centaur returned. He looked past her, his dark eyes zeroing in on the building over the hillside, “I trust you can make the last of the journey on your own?”

There was a similar crustiness in those eyes that reminded Grace of her own, the dark pools of tiredness nearly overshadowed by the bruises that sat between his eyes and nose.

“You go back to bed,” Grace ordered, “I’ll be fine from here.”

Her Guardians grateful smile would have been thanks enough but Casys took it further. In a slow and deliberate movement, he pressed one arm across his chest and bowed.

Grace responded in kind, nearly dropping her cloak in her attempt to curtsey.

The two parted ways; The Centaur heading vaguely back in the direction of the Cair whilst Grace descended at maddening speed towards the warmth and company that lied in the stables.

As she crossed the threshold of the rolling doors, she nearly tripped over the landing. Her yelp immediately making herself known to all beings inside. The simple horses made startled snorts, whilst some of their Talking counterparts peeked their muzzles out of their stalls to look at the clumsy human.

From the furthermost stall on the western side of the stable, came the sprightly form of King Edmund.

He had dressed down that morning; a simple shirt, grey vest, riding pants and boots being his only shelter from the cool weather. Grace looked down at the new dress she was wearing with slight embarrassment, though she supposed that everything she owned was new at this point.

There was a small consolation that the dress was much simpler than the others Queen Susan had ordered made. If this one was ruined, she would not feel as worried of retribution from the beautiful dark-haired Queen.  

“Good, you made it,” The King nodded. He began unravelling the leather bridle in his hands as he crossed the stable alleyway, “I was beginning to think you’d never show.”

“It takes me a minute to wake up,” Grace admitted sheepishly, “And to get dressed.”

At her comment, King Edmund’s eyes lowered. The deep sunlit brown assessing as they trailed from her hair to her toes.

Grace shivered and fought the urge to pull her cloak tighter over her shoulders.

“How are you keeping warm?” She demanded, “It’s freezing this morning.”

The King provided a strained smile for her benefit, “It was much warmer in Phillip’s stall but I have a cloak for the journey ahead.”

The journey ahead? Did that mean they would be riding this morning? There was a mixture of dread and excitement as Grace considered the prospect. Honestly, she’d assumed to be summoned in order to groom Maiden before returning to the kitchens for her usual routine.

“We’re riding?”

King Edmund turned back to her, now five paces in the direction of Maiden’s stall with the bridle in hand, “Of course. I didn’t bring you out here just to look at the horses.”

“But I have duties in the Kitchen this morning?” Grace protested.

“I sent word that you would not be in today,” The King explained, his eyes assured as he looped the leather bridle in his hands, “I hope that is alright?”

Grace stared at him, her mind moving as slowly as the steam that rose from the stable floor, “But the bread?”

A small smile cracked against the King’s features, “I think you’ve made enough bread, don’t you?”

Not a single coherent thought passed through Grace’s mind as she stared after him. He had returned to his previously laid path towards Maiden’s stall, only stopping to usher her forwards once he reached its wooden gate.

“Come on!” He urged in a short whisper.

She did, albeit slower than the King seemed to wish. He was antsy this morning, fingers fiddling with the leather bridle in his hands as he waited to shut the door behind her.

The smooth click knocked Grace into to her senses momentarily, the feeling quickly receding to the warmth and comfort of the inside of the stall. King Edmund was right, it was much warmer in here.

Through the thick fog of her mind, she could recognize his voice but could not pinpoint the exact words spoken. The King moved this way and that, in his element as he coaxed the Mare into first, the bridle and then the tethers to the corners of the stall.

He talked throughout the entire operation, most likely explaining his actions, the reason behind them and the effect they had on the horse. King Edmund was anything but undescriptive.

Instead of focusing on his in-depth instructions – as she should be – Grace found herself focusing on his face. There was so much to it, the lines and appendages moving just so to convey their wielders thoughts and emotions.

In the warm glow of the morning sun, it shone with more than its usual gloomy seriousness. There was some definite excitement and a pride of the knowledge of his teachings. If the act itself brought him half as much joy as teaching it did, Grace could see why riding would be so important to him.

Her eyes continued to trace The King’s features, despite the pull towards reality that drifted naggingly in the back of her mind. As much as she disliked to admit it, it wasn’t a bad face. A trait she put down to genetics since it seemed all the Kings and Queens had been blessed with beautiful features.

There was something different about the King’s beauty, however.

From Grace’s impressions, each of his siblings held comforting features; the kind that could put you at ease by their simple presence. There was no strain or pretence between the three, they all seemed an open book compared to the shadow-bound and buckled one before her.

King Edmund held a natural intensity that few of his siblings could replicate. High King Peter had come close on the two occasions she had spoken to him, yet there was always some kind of tell in the set of his face or the glint of his eyes that let Grace know he was testing her.

With the Just King, Grace had no idea. It was part of the reason she had become outraged at finding her original work was for naught. The King certainly had a part to play in the ploy but Grace had become an unwilling participant in being unable to perceive it.

It was infuriating. The moment Grace thought she might finally be catching onto his thoughts he shifted direction. It was as if King Edmund had built a mental tactic in order to keep his enemies on the fritz.

As she stared unseeingly at the spattering of freckles across King Edmund’s nose, she realised that might be exactly what he was doing.

“Grace?”

Her eyes blinked back into focus, “Huh?”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

Nervously, Grace glanced between the bare sandy back of Maiden and the large saddle in his hands, “No. I’m sorry, I get spacey when I’m tired.”

The King sighed with disappointment, “I’ll saddle her for you today. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”

Grace nodded, somewhat relieved that he hadn’t taken the trouble of chastising her. The behaviour was odd and disconcerting. It made Grace wonder if this was another switch up tactic to keep her on-toed.

“How are you so chipper?” She asked, the words fuzzy amongst the yawn that fought its way past her lips.

The King paused to look at her pointedly, the rear buckle latched in his hands, “It helps when one has a good night’s sleep.”

Grace returned the look in kind, noting the purplish bruises which were darker than the one she’d seen on Casys’s face earlier, “And did you?”

King Edmund returned to the second buckle, his voice light in answer, “It was better than usual.”

Grace hummed with suspicion.

When the front facing buckle was fastened the King stepped back to admire his work.

“All done,” He commented as he began loosening the Mare’s tethers, “Do you think you can get her outside?”

Grace took the offered reins hesitantly, pleased when Maiden did not protest against her grasp, “I can try.”

The King’s smiled at her encouragingly, “I’ll meet you just outside the doorway. Don’t let her run off.”

With a tug on the leather, Grace began leading her charge out of the stalls. Maiden followed her willingly, the rise and fall of her head with each step moving in comfortable stride with Grace’s own.

The air outside was bitterly cold, a thousand knives on each breeze battering against her nose and the safe barrier of her cloak. It chipped away at the last dredges of sleep in her mind, firmly tugging it to alert as her eyes followed her own misty breath.

If horses could feel the cold, Maiden did not demonstrate it. She too stood against the frigid breeze, her hot breath releasing in short puffs that wisped away as fast as the Mare made them.

The only warmth that could be found was that of the sun. Grace could see it now, drenching the highest treetops of the Cair’s woods in golden light. It was not yet high enough in the sky to cover the stable with it’s warm glow as the walls of Cair Paravel stood firmly between it and the horizon of the Eastern Sea.

What light there was seemed to suffice in bringing the world to life once more for the sweet dissonant whispers of bird calls had begun to reverberate from the branches. There was so many songs, and all of them were so different. It was amazing that such discord could sound so beautiful.

“Would you mind?”

Grace turned; one hand still firmly grasped on Maiden’s reins. In the shadowed doorway of the stable stood King Edmund, only now he looked much more prepared for the cooler weather. A cloak of deep leafy green had been draped over his shoulders to stave off the chill, the thick velvet material looking enviously warm. One hand stood to hold the material in place, the other offered a small silver broach which would ensure it stayed there.

Grace felt one of her brows arch soundly at the request, “You’re not worried I’ll stab you with it?”

The King’s hand withdrew on instinct, the peaceful expression he had worn just moments before dissolving immediately into concern, “Well I am now.”

An unbidden laugh bubbled past Grace’s lips at his expression, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of being pricked by a needle?”

“You would be too if you saw the face that was wielding it.”

Her cheeks widened to a wicked grin as Grace drew closer to the wary King, “Don’t worry, there are far less tedious ways to kill you than a needle to the eye.”

An awaiting hand bridged the space between them but King Edmund only looked at it through guarded eyes and did not move a muscle.

Grace sighed wearily as she urged her hand forward, “Give it here before we both freeze to death.”

There was a moment of hesitation, followed by a very telling dark glare as the King deposited the broach in her hands. Grace caught it easily, the cool silver metal somehow warmer than the air nipping at their skin.

She turned it over in her hands, her keen eyes inspecting the intricately forged and engraved piece of metal work. The broach was in the undeniable shape of a leaf, almost lifelike in its texture and the veins that ran through it. The strip of metal was thin and curved yet seemed sturdy enough to do the job of holding a cloak together.

Grace looped the hard leather of Maiden’s rein through one arm – she only needed one short tug to pull the Mare forwards so that she might reach the King. He stood stock still as she approached, not a muscle out of place except for his eyes which followed her every breath.

If she made one move out of place, Grace was sure he would take the broach immediately. She wanted to laugh at him, the serious set of his features and concern in his eyes over a broach of all things.

Gently, Grace released the needle from its holder. The design was quite easy to understand and the movement only required a quick push and glide from her fingertips.

At the sight of something sharp, Maiden stirred at her side.

Grace froze, only allowing her lips to move in an attempt to calm the Mare, “Maiden.”

It seemed to work, the beast halting in her attempt to flee from the shiny metal object.

The broach was lowered to her side and out of sight as Grace took the opportunity to loop the Mare’s reins around her wrist more securely. All the while attempting to calm Maiden with soft looks and whispers, “It’s ok, it’s not for you.”

Grace returned her sight to the King, pleased to see that he had also relaxed minimally.

Her hands joined his at the haphazardly folded material on his shoulder. It was not done particularly artfully, in fact Grace thought it might unravel as soon as she stuck the needle in it. It would need to be draped correctly in order to avoid it falling off on their ride.

Thoughtfully she looked between the material, her hand atop it and the other which held the unclicked broach tightly and carefully.

She didn’t have enough hands.

“Has this fallen into the dirt or anything unsanitary before?” Grace asked as she clicked the needle back into the safe space and held it at eye level to the King.

His thick brows furrowed at her question, “No, why would it have?”

“Good,” Grace then firmly tucked the engraved metal betwixt her lips. She would have laughed at his bewildered expression if the movement would not end with the polished metal in the dirt but she did not have the time nor the mobility for any humour at that moment.

Impatiently, Grace batted his hand out of the way. Her hands barely catching the soft material before it fell to the ground. Immediately setting to work tugging it into place.

It was much better when she was finished with it, draped perfectly so that it would not fall off his shoulders and would provide adequate shelter from the frosted air. Grace held it in place with one hand as she deftly released the needle and threaded it into place with her other.

“There,” She grinned, stepping back to admire her work.

King Edmund eyed her self-satisfied expression, face torn between apprehension and awe.

“Is it secure enough do you think?” He commented whilst tugging at the material near his throat.

Grace eyed the fold of the green velvet through narrowed lids. In truth, there would be no telling until the King actually mounted a horse. The tips of her fingers felt fuzzy, like a fire had been set on the numb skin. Grace did not know if it was the effect of the icy air or if the Just King had burned her yet again; either way she did not wish to remove them from the warm confines of her cloak to find out.

“Seems fine to me,” Grace shrugged.

The King’s face stretched in a scarily wide grin, “Good, because today I’m teaching you how to canter.”

Chapter Text

XXXIV

EDMUND

Touch the Sky – Julie Fowlis

“Stop fretting,” Edmund chastised as he saw Grace reseat herself on the saddle for the umpteenth time, “It’s better to learn sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not fretting,” Grace scowled as she readjusted her hands on the reins yet again, “And I don’t see why I have to learn this right now. I’ve been on horseback barely a day.”

“If you don’t learn now, you’ll keep putting it off,” Edmund warned.

Grace gave him a worried look, “I’m only asking if it’s a bit soon.”

Beneath him, Phillip chimed in, “His Majesty learned the very same day he first mounted a horse.”

Edmund grimaced at the memory. Fresh off the back of his rescue, he had not found a moments peace between horseback lessons, sword mastery and general training. At the time, Edmund remembered feeling relief at simply being alive, that paired with the sheer force of his will to do better provided just enough to fuel him forwards.

His first riding lesson had been the greatest example of this, in an endeavour to show his worthiness Edmund had thrown himself onto the horses back – literally.

Phillip had reacted as expected, taking the energy of his King’s perseverance and pushing it to its absolute limits. The first time Edmund experienced cantering was only the beginning of the adventure.

“I think you could do it,” Edmund encouraged, knowing from his own experience that it was possible and in fact, wise to face your fears head on.

Edmund had thought she would have jumped at the chance of something like this and the misunderstanding of her character troubled him some. It seemed at the very moment he thought he understood, Grace drew out another facet of her being to throw her whole image into confusion again.

The Daughter of Eve in question still remained unconvinced, eyes dodging between Edmund and Phillip as the horse and rider attempted to convince her. It seemed that reason would not override fear in this case.

There was something that Edmund had not tried. Usually he only reserved it for dire situations lest he fall into the traps of his predecessors. Manipulation was not a tactic which Edmund used lightly, however, with Grace he wondered whether it might work.

“Well if you don’t believe you can handle it…” He trailed off, watching the Daughter of Eve mindfully in his peripherals for any change in her expression.

He was gratified with a furrowed brow and the curvature of her lips straightening into a firm line.

“I never said that,” Grace snapped.

Edmund schooled his expression for fear she’d catch on, simply sitting straighter on the smooth line of Phillip’s back, “You said so yourself, it’s too soon to start cantering. We can practice a little trotting today and then return to my study for work.”

Her stony blue eyes glared at him, their stubborn glint as clear as daylight, “Now, wait a minute.”

Edmund urged Phillip forward with a light pat on his chestnut coated shoulder, “Shall we begin? The sooner we finish the sooner we can get to work.”

“Stop,” Grace called from behind him. Her voice teetering on the edge of haste, “Would you just wait a minute?

Phillip paused, nickering with a soft laugh as he turned them both to watch Grace cross the distance they’d marched.

“Teach me to canter,” She resolved, pulling Maiden to a stop just before the Mare met Phillip’s behind.

Edmund pinched his brows together in mock concern, “You said you weren’t ready.”

Her short and fettered nods did little to convince him otherwise, “I am now.”

“You’ve barely begun to trot,” Edmund persisted, his concerned tone even convincing himself, “You don’t have the right experience.”

“Don’t need it,” Grace returned, the determined light of blue fire in her eyes burning away the fear, “As Phillip said, you did it on day one. So why can’t I?”

Edmund pretended at undecidedness, a practiced movement for when he wished to keep his enemies on the rope. He looked back to the stables, then to the Cair, then back to Grace, “Only if you’re sure?”

Her nod only strengthened the triumphant air in his lungs, Edmund tried to pass it’s release off as a bolstering of courage.

“Alright, first we’ll practice what you have already learned,” Edmund leaned backwards to wrap his fingers around the reins of Maiden. The horse was tugged forward, now carrying a slightly less wary Daughter of Eve upon it as it reached the invisible starting line in Edmund’s head.

“See that tree over there?”

Grace looked away from him, her eyes instead focusing on the red flowered tree he pointed to at the edge of the forest line, “Yes.”

“Go there and back,” He returned the reins to her awaiting pale palms, “You do remember how to steer?”

The look of her indignation would be laughable if Edmund had not been asking a legitimate question.

“Yes,” Grace replied pointedly.

“Off you go then.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. At his assent, Grace urged Maiden forward. They started slow, the walk allowing her to settle into a comfortable rhythm atop the soft leather of her saddle.

“Good work on convincing her,” Phillip murmured when the Daughter of Eve was far enough away, “If she hadn’t, I might have suggested nipping at Maiden’s heels to give her a push.”

Edmund rolled his eyes at the thought, “You and I both know that would be a terrible idea. It would traumatise them both and set us back days.”

The Talking Horse made a noise of barely concealed suspicion, “You say ‘set us back’ as if there is a time limit to these lessons.”

“Is there something wrong with wanting her to learn?” Edmund defended.

“No, but there is something concerning about pushing her before she is ready,” Phillip edged, “Why the rush?”

Edmund sighed, mindful of Grace as she egged Maiden into a trot, “She expressed a need for an outlet. I thought perhaps that she could join us on our morning rides?”

If Phillip could shrug without throwing his King off balance, Edmund was sure he would, “It does not worry me if she does. Though I do consider whether it might concern you.”

“It was my idea.”

“We so often speak of matters outside the scope of Grace’s-”

At the mention of her name, Edmund returned his eyes to the fast moving form atop the sandy horse. She was too rigid in her seat and it was causing Maiden discomfort.

“Loosen your hips!” Edmund called across the grassy hillside, relieved when his words took root immediately.

Phillip looked back at his charge with narrowed eyes.

“Sorry,” Edmund repented, “You were saying?”

The Talking Beast snorted aggressively, “Grace is not a party to the matters of which we discuss and from my understanding, you wished to keep it that way, your Majesty.”

Edmund shrugged, “Things change.”

“You were adamant two days ago that they wouldn’t.”

A wry smile wrapped Edmund’s lips, “I was convinced to the contrary back then.”

Grace had reached the tree now, the change in her grip near imperceptible in their distance, however it did the trick as Maiden looped the red flowered tree on the hillside.

Edmund shouted praise towards the rider, the wry smile stretching to a broad grin at her achievement.

“Should I be concerned?” Phillip asked lowly, clearly fearful of offending his King.

“I’m not bewitched,” Edmund murmured, unwilling to speak the words any louder lest he manifest them into existence.

The Talking Beast snorted, “Could have fooled me.”

This time, the pat of Edmund’s hand on the chestnut coat was a little harder than necessary, “I merely saw reason to not hold Grace in the highest suspicion.”

“You had good reason to hold her in such regard to begin with,” Phillip returned, “Don’t forget.”

Edmund’s heart grew gentle. Of all the beings in his life – of whom he was not related to – Phillip had been his greatest supporter. In all aspects except physical, he and the horse were of one mind. Edmund knew it went further than the bond of King and subject or horse and rider. It was the bond of a true friendship.

Their agreement had allowed the Talking Horse intimate access into Edmund’s mind. Often full of rational thought and a questioning line of thinking. Lately, however, his mind had been the scene of a battleground, only recently emptied with the stalemate of sandy shores and Grace’s unnervingly calming voice.

Whether Phillip agreed for Edmund's benefit or because he truly was on side, the King did not know. Either way, the two always ended up seeing eye to eye. Edmund chalked it up to the unlimited nature of their acquaintance and the talent he held in talking people to his view.

“I fear I may have been harsher with my words than necessary,” Edmund reconciled, “My actions even more so.”

Phillip tilted his head to assess his rider. When it became clear that Edmund was sincere, he returned it just as quickly, “Your trust is my trust, sire. I will follow your lead.”

Edmund felt his lungs deplete unexpectedly, “Thank you.”

There was no time for anything else to be said, for Grace came towards them at speed.

She delicately pulled Maiden to a halt, giving the duo a once over as she adjusted her seating again.

“Is there something wrong with the saddle?” Edmund asked.

“No,” Grace replied, it was quick, defensive and from the way she cringed, Edmund could tell that she didn’t even believe it herself.

His eyes narrowed in a knowing manner, “You’ve adjusted yourself once every ten minutes at least.”

“It’s nothing,” Grace replied, “I’m still a little sore from yesterday is all.”

This time Edmunds concern was genuine, “If you need to stop-”

“No,” Grace refused adamantly, “I’ll be fine.”

Beneath him, Phillip tilted his muzzle back to murmur, “She’s nearly as bad as you were.”

Edmund fought back a cringe, the clear memories of stubbornness and a bruised backside haunting him, “There is no shame in pausing progress. I wouldn’t wish you hurt for the sake of it.”

Not to mention Lucy would throttle him if she came back to find her friend bruised back and blue.

Grace avoided his gaze, “I said I’ll be fine.”

The tone of her voice stirred something that made Edmund sit straighter and assess its cause.

Her posture was straight, shifting as necessary to the movement of the dumb beast below her. She seemed comfortable atop the saddle, emotionally that is, physically she was nursing her bruises and shifting accordingly. Her warm eyes were set in a spot of distance, Edmund followed the gaze to the tree-line but saw nothing that would be so captivating.

There was a simple reason to her behaviour, he was sure of it. It danced on the tip of his tongue with maddeningly light footsteps and refused to travel further in. Just as all things to do with Grace did.

As Grace unknowingly awaited his verdict, she fiddled impatiently with Maiden’s leather reins. Repeatedly she folded and unfolded, wrapped and unwrapped. The motions repeating with no pattern or reason to them.

“What is it?” Edmund asked, soft frustration leaking into his words.

“I’m not ready to go back yet,” Grace admitted, “I like it out here.”

The comment earned her an arched brow, “I’m glad, but I don’t see why that makes you so eager to learn cantering today?”

“You said if I didn’t learn today that we’d go back to the Cair,” Grace accused.

Edmund cringed internally; Grace taking his challenge as an ultimatum was not the result he’d hoped to achieve.

“I didn’t think you’d take it literally,” he voiced.

“Well I did,” Grace huffed, pausing to settle Maiden as the horse reacted to the shift in her mood, “I do.”

Ploys and schemes were completely out of the question where Grace was concerned then. Noted.

“We’ll keep walking then,” Edmund proposed, “There’s a trail Phillip and I usually take in the mornings.”

“If we’re lucky we might get a glimpse of some wild animals,” Phillip added.

Grace’s brows rose, “Isn’t the one you see in the mirror enough for you?”

Phillip snorted, “I am a talking beast, wild animals are dumb. I would thank you to know the difference.”

The attempt Grace made to conceal her humorous smile was poor at best, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

The Talking Beast grumbled an undecipherable reply before yanking both he and Edmund in the direction of the Eastern Woods.

Behind them, Grace laughed softly and urged Maiden onwards.

The path was easily found; whilst there were no signs as to its location, the dirt worn divots in the ground gave it away from a fair distance. Phillip took the lead, being the only sentient horse of the two.

Edmund tried not to look back to make sure that Grace had not made a run for it. His only reward was the tell-tale noise of Maidens tread on the dirt. She remained two to three paces behind Phillip, her rhythym vastly different to the purposeful steps that the Talking Horse made in stride.

A still silence settled over them all, only broken by the whisper of the trees and the songs of birds, high pitched and overlapping in constant changing harmony.

Another voice joined them, though it was no bird song that passed from their lips. The hum of Grace’s voice could be called anything but dull. It was oddly out of place in the serene surroundings of the Eastern Woods.

There was an eerie familiarity in the melody and Edmund got the sense that he’d heard the song somewhere before, though, he couldn’t place when or how.

“What is that?” He asked, the words unintentionally to the point and brash. As almost all his words when it came to Grace were.

“Hm?” Grace voiced behind him.

“The song you’re humming,” Edmund clarified.

Grace didn’t respond at first, her the vibrations of her throat catching on her closed lips as she ran through the song once more. When she finished, her voice held more confidence, “Humpty Dumpty.”

Edmund’s sight narrowed under the deepening set of his brow, “Humpty who?”

Her responding giggle was both charming and irksome, “Humpty Dumpty. It’s a children’s song.”

To his disappointment, the name didn’t ring any bells. There was no forthcoming of memories in Spare Oom, like Susan said she sometimes came across. Only the whisper of the melody remained, present and beckoning to an emptiness of recollection.

“I see,” Edmund acknowledged outwardly. Inwardly, his curiosity clawed at the empty space, “Are there many songs in Spare Oom?”

“As many as there are here in Narnia, I’m sure,” Grace replied.

Narnia held a great many songs – more than could have been perceived during the reign of Jadis. The culture of music running so deeply that much was uncovered after her defeat. Both from the souls who had been turned to stone and deep in the depths of many a Narnian home.

At this point the pathway grew wide enough to comfortably walk two, and in an effort to be polite, Edmund urged Phillip aside to allow Maiden into the spare space. He looked back, just in time to catch Grace’s grateful look with his own.

“How many have you managed to transcribe?” Edmund asked as she and her horse joined their side.

“A fair few,” Grace allowed, her face scrunching in thought, “That’s what I spend most of my time doing nowadays. As soon as I leave your office of writing I am swept into a different kind for the Orchestra.”

Edmund gave a wry smile, “Sounds like you write as much in a day as I do.”

As if remembering that the appendages were there, Grace flexed and unflexed her hands around the leather reins, “Your hands must be just as sore then.”

Edmund looked at his own, they were comfortably laid palm down against Phillip’s chestnut coat. When he’d first started taking on duties involving paperwork and the like, his hands had hurt for days. The strain of the repetitive movement for hours on end proving tiresome. Edmund refused to stop, however, determined in his quest to prove himself to his people by flying high above their expectations.

On days were the pain became too much, he often sent to the kitchens for a cut of meat or something colder to ease the pain. It was through time and endless effort that he slowly found release from the pain altogether.

“You get used to it,” Edmund murmured, the imprint of his pale freckled hands embedded in his sight.

Grace made a noise. It lied somewhere between understanding and disgruntlement, however Edmund couldn’t pinpoint exactly where.

He smiled to himself, her reaction was expectedly unexpected. It was something he was growing used to.

At least in the shared experience of hand pain and writing they could have some common ground to speak of. Although, Edmund could remember what precious little he knew about composing music and doubted that discussions on that topic could lead anywhere.

There was something about her circumstances that he did find quite odd, “You don’t dance?”

Grace looked to him with wide blue eyes, taken aback by the sudden question.

“You mentioned spending the whole of your time with the Orchestra reconstructing the music of Spare Oom… do you not also dance?” Edmund clarified.

A gentle breeze rustled the branches at the tops of the tree’s, the whispering between the leaves prevalent amongst the silence of her thoughts.

“I haven’t needed to lately,” Grace replied. There was a comprehension in her eyes that she did not own before, it was as if she had not realised it until the very moment he asked.

“Why not?” Edmund pressed.

The Daughter of Eve shrugged, “The preparations for the Christmas Ball have taken up most of our time. Music from Earth – pardon me, Spare Oom – has been requested and so I’ve focused on that.”

“But won’t you need to perform at the Christmas Ball?”

It was another statement that drew her to pause, “Yes, I suppose I will. Though, it would be more important to have the music finished before I tried dancing to it. Don’t you think?”

At this, Edmund felt a little sheepish, “There are other songs than that of Spare Oom.”

Grace shook her head, “I’ve only learned one dance and I wouldn’t touch another Long Trot with a ten-foot-pole.”

“Why not?”

Was he the reason? As Edmund glanced sideways at her discomforted face, he began to wonder at the weight of such a thought. Grace’s lips had twisted around the name of the dance as if it was taboo in her unconscious mind.

She gave him a meaningful look, her greying eyes flickering pointedly towards his leg and back again.

Oh, Margrove.

Of course she would hold herself accountable. Susan had told him that Grace had presented the song that had inspired the Faun to take on the Long Trot.

Edmund supposed that it was unsurprising that she would come to such a far-fetched conclusion. Her compassion was as commendable as it was overbearing.

Truth be told, Margrove had been pushing for the Long Trot for years. Susan always came up with an excuse; the music is too difficult, the dancers will be too tired. Edmund had been surprised when she’d allowed it this time, until it was revealed that the twist that his sister so loved to add was the new music.

He remembered it now, the curiosity laid in her warm blue eyes as she described it to them all over breakfast, the excitement she so rarely displayed nearly bubbling to the brim of her sensibilities at the prospect.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Edmund resolved, also refusing to speak plainly of the subject in case it would set Grace off.

The reality was that no one was to blame for the matter. From what Edmund had seen of Grace’s spirit, however, he was certain she wouldn’t accept his words at face value. Grace was not the kind to accept resolution, she needed to be convinced.

“I do blame myself,” Grace returned stubbornly, “There is no use fighting me on it.”

Edmund hid his pleased smile. For once, he’d made an accurate prediction.

“I wasn’t planning to attempt such a feat, I assure you. However, I don’t think it right to sequester yourself from dancing from one fall. A fall which was not even your own, might I add.”

“A fall which cost a friend their leg,” Grace returned evenly.

Edmund rolled his eyes. It was always the dramatics with this one, “He will recover. Margrove knew the risks when taking up the dance, as did you.”

The sigh from her lips broke haggardly against the lilting chirps of the sparrows in the tree tops, “You seem awfully interested in my dancing career. Should I be concerned?”

“I couldn’t imagine why you would be,” Edmund shrugged, “As a friend, it would be odd if I didn’t express concern for your daily exercise or lack thereof.”

Her mouth flew agape, an incredulous heat colouring her cheeks as she rebuked him, “I exercise!”

“You just told me that you spend all your time writing,” Edmund deadpanned.

Grace glared at him, her knuckles pale in comparison to the flush in her hands as she gripped Maiden’s reins, “Travelling across the Cair is exercise enough.”

“The areas you frequent are close together, as set by the orders I wrote.”

The comment earned him a set of narrowed and very grey eyes.

Edmund felt a little colour drain from his cheeks but refused to let his calm expression falter. He hadn’t meant to mention the orders, especially since the scroll of parchment had turned out to be so detrimental to both of their existences.

The words had slipped from his lips as easily as they might have if he’d been discussing the weather with his siblings. It was lapse in his usually well filtered speech that Edmund found concerning.

“Would you say this is exercise?” Grace asked. Her face had smoothed again, as if he’d never brought up the subject of her imprisonment to begin with.

Edmund watched with a pointed look as she adjusted her seat again, “You’ve only gained two days of experience on horseback. I wouldn’t count this just yet.”

Disappointment crinkled at the corners of her eyes; they were now significantly less grey, stripped of her indignation and excuses to reveal the fear beneath it all.

Edmund sighed. Somewhere between his first enquiry to now, they’d gotten lost. A mix of subjects and back and forth marring his original intention just short of repair.

“In any case, what I have been trying to get at,” Edmund tried again, “Is that you’re a wonderful dancer, Grace. It would be a shame to let that talent go to waste.”

He kept his eyes stubbornly forward facing as he avoided her reaction. Simple compliments were just that; a charming smile, the inflection in his voice. It all came easy to him.

But this compliment was genuine and raw. There was more than appreciation for the art behind it, there was an envy. Many of his first nights in the Western Woods saw Edmund at the sidelines of The Grove. Not as an outcast or an outsider – no Westerner would ever allow that – but as a simple clumsy boy.

It had taken years for the Young King to obtain the lightness of step required to master the dance of his people. Even more so to learn to draw their songs from an instrument – and even then, there was only one instrument he had grown comfortable with, the lute.

This wasn’t the first time Edmund had mentioned her dancing. He’d appreciated it once before – or at least he had tried to on the balcony that night. There was no mistaking the eerie grace he’d worked so hard for, the tenuously fragile movement which came to her naturally. He could feel his eyes move with the ghost of her form, dancing around him in circles like she had at Susan’s birthday ball. Appreciation and envy the muscles behind their tilt.

A flicker of his eyes was enough to gage her expression. She was looking at him, her eyes soft and appreciative. It was much unlike the responses he’d grown used to; Susan would often wave him off, murmuring about some hair out of place and Lucy would beam brilliantly and latch onto him in a matter that was endearing and slightly embarrassing.

Grace gazed at him with an appreciation that saw the effort behind the compliment alongside its basic meaning. It was if her blue eyes saw him, instead of the value he provided.

Her appreciation was not overbearing, not judgemental, it simply was. Difficult to wrap your mind around yet somehow conceptually simple.

It was odd, the feeling of relief that replaced the embarrassment swelling in his cheeks. It soothed the dizzying pink from his skin and replaced it with cool understanding.

Grace’s own clear cheeks stretched into a smile, it was simple yet abashed in the light of his compliment, “Well, if you’re going to say something like that, I guess I have no choice.”

Edmund’s heart swelled.

“But if I break a leg, it’s on you,” Grace added.

A bark of a laugh escaped Edmund’s throat. He attempted to look serious – though, he was absolutely certain that Grace was more than capable of keeping herself in one piece.

“Then I’d better take the trouble of choosing your dance partners myself,” Edmund’s lips lifted into a wry smile, “We wouldn’t want one of them to trip you up.”

Chapter Text

XXXV

EDMUND

Touch the Sky – Julie Fowlis

As Edmund sat at his desk he could feel the seconds pass by in sluggish progress. It was as if time had found itself drenched in a mud swamp and had decided on the slowest possible route to claw itself free.

The strong morning sun beamed coloured light onto his back, light which had travelled just as slowly; creeping from his bowed head to his hunched shoulders then finally to his curved back. He’d poured over his desk in an effort to distract himself but his work did little effort to stifle his only companion, impatience.

It had been an hour at most since Edmund had left Grace in the stables, the latter staying behind to tend to Maiden before joining the King in his study. It did not take an hour to groom a horse. Or did it? Edmund was used to grooming a Talking Horse, not a dumb one. Perhaps there was something Phillip did which make the task easier.

Hand in hand with impatience was a twinge of fear. Easily hushed but nonetheless present. It whispered in the opposite ear, coaxing images of Grace halfway to the Western Wood, the same sun that filtered upon his back, shining on her hair in full force as it billowed in the wind.

But Grace didn’t know how to gallop yet and in any case it took far longer to reach the Western Wood than that. She would – at most – have cleared the Eastern Wood by this point and likely with little provisions to sustain her journey.

No, there was simply no way that she had run. Edmund forced his eyes to refocus on his handwriting, it was sloped and as neat as the mind he’d had when writing it yesterday. On the other hand, his notes in the margins we’re the near opposite. Scribbled and hasty, a clear reflection of his current state of mind.

When Edmund had first agreed to teach her to ride yesterday, he had made a small incursion on his proposal. Unbeknownst to Grace, he’d enlisted the help of a Stable Hand to watch from a distance and report her movements back to him.

He’d felt a little guilty when Arasavus had informed him that Grace had groomed the horses then alighted straight for the Music Room in Cair Paravel. No detours, no whisper of treachery. Silently, Edmund had cursed the voice in his mind that persistently argued that she was playing the long game. He’d hoped that their argument on the cliffside had signalled the end of his internal struggle. Clearly, there was still more work to be done to trample the voice entirely.

A clear knock reverberated from the other side of the Study Door.

Edmund jumped, the unexpected noise jarring his corrupted state of mind. All at once, relief began to pump in his veins.

Grace was here. She hadn’t run away. He hadn’t made a mistake.

“Enter,” Edmund called, the silence of an hour making his voice crackle slightly. He coughed to clear it.

Seconds passed; Edmund could feel the air returning to his lungs in a steady flow, the quill in his fingertips no longer bending under the weight of his grip, the devils on both shoulders quietening at the arrival of their point of torture.

When the door opened, however, Edmund was not greeted by billowing locks of auburn hair.

The locks were golden and significantly shorter. Swept in wispy waves over his elder brothers skull like woven thread.

He tried to breathe, to remain calm as Peter crossed the dark carpeted floor.

Where was Grace? Had Peter come to announce her departure? He did not look frantic as his boots treaded in equal rhythm. A stack of cool crisp sheets of parchment in his calloused hands.

Peter stopped at the edge of the desk, holding a single page aloft to his younger brother, “Lucy’s daily letter.”

Edmund took it eagerly, “It’s shorter than yesterdays.”

“I think she’s running out of things to write about,” Peter replied pointedly, “There’s only so much that can happen in a day.”

As Edmund’s eyes swept over the familiar bubbly cursive of Lucy’s hand, he hummed in agreement, “Still, it is better to know she is safe for another day.”

If it was all that was available to her, Edmund would take a scrap, a corner of a sheet even. Anything to confirm she was alive.

“It came with this,” Peter continued, holding the remaining stack aloft.

Edmund eyed the topmost page carefully as it was placed upon a desk. Upon the sheet, in lightly sketched pencil was a map – it was well positioned and tiled. Each square relative to the space of ten miles.

The sheet was moved aside to the next, similar in quality and positioning. The sketch marks were different here, the edge of one sheet matching like a puzzle piece to the one that had been placed beside it.

More sheets were moved. The knowledgeable hands of Edmund and Peter placing them across the desk in order. Like a giant puzzle of straight edges. When the last sheet was placed, it became clear what the sheets were.

A map of the land space between the Stone Hills and the Northernmost Reaches of Narnia.

Edmund sighed, “She’s supposed to be there to establish the medical tent, not to interfere with the Cartography team,”

Peter crossed his arms, clearly also perturbed by their sisters defiance of orders, “Her letter says she’s dabbling. Apparently there isn’t much else to do.”

A grumble of annoyance reverberated in Edmund’s throat. It was just like Lucy to do something like this. She always found a way to get what she wanted whilst managing to align it with what everyone needed simultaneously.

Peter eyed him knowingly, “Who’s being the worry wart now?”

Lucy’s letter was bunched into a ball which was then launched precisely at Peter’s head.

As the High King moved to retaliate, another crisp knock broke the heavy air in two. The brothers both paused, with the elder looking to the younger in question.

“Enter.”

Edmund was greeted by the sight of an auburn braid catching the light of the hallway as its owner slid into the room. The tension in his shoulders released minimally at the sight, still holding worry for the fate of his younger sister.

There was no offer of apology or explanation as Grace closed the door behind her. There was, however, an expression of slight shock as the study door clicked to a close behind her. She stared between the brothers, the unexpected presence of the High King throwing her pupils wide.

“Where have you been?” Edmund chewed out. He was still stung from her lateness, Lucy’s defiance and his older brothers teasing. There was little room for kindness in his heart at that moment.

Grace had the temerity to look surprised as she dropped into a curtsey, “Seeing to the horses, your Majesty.”

“For an hour?”

Peter gave him a warning look from the other side of the desk.

Grace’s head shifted between them nervously, “I had an agreement with a friend to see too and needed to clean myself up afterwards.”

She didn’t look untruthful. A wide honesty held her eyes in a manner which Edmund had begun to pick up on – or at least he hoped he had.

He sighed as he instructed Grace forward with a silent wave, sharing a look with Peter as he did so. The High King did not show any signs of disapproval, nor any emotion for that matter. Peter’s face was schooled in the manner it always was at Court. Relentless in its indecipherability.

Grace came forward, stopping only briefly to retrieve the balled parchment of Lucy’s letter on the floor.

“My Royal Brother and I were just reviewing some maps which have been recently drawn,” The High King invited her closer, “Tell us, what do you think of them.”

The Daughter of Eve paused, an unsure look on her face as her eyes flickered between Edmund and his brother. Eventually, they stuck to the Just King; her questioning gaze was decipherable to him only in that moment.

Is this okay? She seemed to ask.

Edmund was touched by her consideration. The emotion washing over the irritability he was still holding. He let the wave take him, feeling any aggravation fizzle away under the surface of cool rationality.

He supposed there was no harm in telling her now. Lucy had all but announced there was trouble in the North when she’d barged into the study that day. Not to mention Casys was at the forefront of training the new recruits to Aslan’s Army.

It was only a matter of time that she became aware of the situation with Ettinsmoor, and Edmund would prefer it if he were the one controlling the facts.

The voices of his mind protested. Surely he was not considering trusting Grace with this so soon after he’d started teaching her to ride. It was like setting up a line of domino’s, the expectation being that they would eventually fall.

Edmund pushed them down, the task less simple than he’d found it on Emperor’s Beach the day before but it’s management became easier under the concerned weight of Grace’s gaze.

“Come and see,” Edmund consented.

He should have felt happy when Peter gave him a proud look, but Edmund found he had little space for it aside the anxiety he felt.

Grace’s shoulders lowered, as if she’d been bracing them for the worst. The movement softened the lines of her neck and collarbones which peaked minimally from the top of her dress. She stepped forward, hesitantly at first then with a new boldness when Edmund did not stop her.

As she leaned across the desk, Grace was careful not to touch the sheets with her fingers directly for fear that she might smudge the pencil marks. Her curious eyes swept over the parchment slotted map at a speed which should have generated enough breeze to whisk them away.

“It’s well drawn and precise. Like a map should be,” Grace commented, “I can’t speak much to its accuracy as I’ve never seen the place. Where is it supposed to be?”

Peter circled the lower area with two fingertips, “The Northernmost Reaches of Narnia,” then he circled the area above the line running through its centre, “and Ettinsmoor.”

Grace nodded slowly, “Ettinsmoor is the land of the Giants?”

“It is,” Edmund confirmed, unsurprised that she had pieced together the information.

“We are trying to establish a border between our two countries, due to some rebellion in the Northern Reaches,” Peter explained.

Grace’s shadowed brow furrowed, “But, if you are two countries, then how do you not already have a border?"

Edmund and Peter shared a look, the elder clearly signalling for the younger to take the lead. As Edmund had been appointed the Daughter of Eve’s supervisor, the choice was up to him.

He began delicately, “The lands of the North used to reach much farther than they do now. During the Hundred-Year-Winter, the Ettins would consider themselves a part of the Narnian Kingdom.”

“Oh,” Grace’s lips pursed in thought, “Why would they decide to rebel now, then?”

Peter took over, “The change in leadership has caused a stir over the last thirteen years. They feel their ways have been overlooked.”

A spark of knowledge lit behind Grace’s stony irises, “A change in leadership? You mean when that Witch lady was killed and the four of you ascended?”

Edmund felt his blood run cold at the mention of Jadis. Claws of ice wrapping around his shoulders as they hunched against the feeling. There was no fear, at least, not of the White Witch herself – Edmund was well beyond that. The panic that gripped him lied in another thought entirely.

He looked to Grace’s knowledgeable eyes in search for a specific kind. But there was no sign of it in her deep grey irises, no glare in his direction or look of disapproval. She simply looked to the High King for affirmation of her suspicion.

There was an ease to Peter’s face which Edmund found he could not replicate as he confirmed, “Yes.”

Grace’s expression smoothed into that of understanding, before she returned her focus to the map upon the desk, “Is there no way that you could be amenable to their ways so that they do not feel the need to rebel?”

“Their ways involve the killing and consumption of Talking Beasts,” Edmund frowned, “The Law of Narnia considers both acts abominable.”

Her eyes flickered to him in shock, then Grace began to look a little green. Edmund could understand the feeling. To think of any Talking Beast harmed was sickening and the act of eating one was unthinkable.

She didn’t speak again, disquieted by the explanations they had provided. Peter droned on to fill the silence, listing places of note which could be used to mark the border.

The idea of a wall was left in the dust as they assessed the unstable terrain of the Stone Hills. In order to place such a thing, the area would first need to be levelled and that would take too long to see through.

Edmund’s eyes were once again drawn to the line running between the two lands. It could not signify the top of the map, for it curved and weaved about multiple pages in heavily covered pencil. It also could not signify the border, for there was not yet one.

“Do you know what this is?” He asked Peter.

Peter leaned forward, eyes wrinkled as he squinted at the small text, “The River Shribble.”

“It seems to run through the whole terrain,” Edmund added thoughtfully, “Perhaps it would be an adequate marker.”

His elder brother hummed noncommittally. He traced his finger lightly over the line, as if testing the true length of the waters by memory. Edmund supposed his brother would be the one to know, having visited the Northern Reaches many times over the last thirteen years.

Peter’s fingers stilled at a small dot, planted just over the River Shribble into what would be the land of Ettinsmoor, “There is a village here. I remember passing through it a few years back. There are one or two giants among its population but the majority are Narnian.”

Edmund drew a deep steadying breath at the implication.

“That’s on the side that would be Ettinsmoor,” Grace voiced, her concern laced with startling realisation, “If the River Shribble is the border, they will be on the opposite side.”

“They will need to be uprooted to a settlement close by,” Edmund inserted.

Grace looked between the two brothers, “But that’s their home. You wouldn’t ask them to leave, would you?”

“Sometimes, difficult decisions need to be made for the greater good,” Peter resolved, sharing an understanding look with Edmund as he straightened, “We’ll need to determine if the village has already been evacuated.”

“With its proximity to the previous attacks, I would be surprised if it hadn’t,” Edmund rubbed at his face tiredly, “I’d order a scout party just in case. If these are the complete maps then I’d imagine a cheetah or two could be spared to clear the village.”

Grace’s mouth held agape but she did not speak. The only tell of her inner turmoil being the incredulous look she threw between the brothers.

Peter sighed as he rolled the tension in his shoulders, “I’ll write to Lucy, if you could deliver the map pieces to Mascan for formal printing, I’d appreciate it.”

Edmund nodded, already gathering the rectangular sheets in his hands.

His elder brother turned to Grace, an expectant hand in her direction.

It took her a moment to understand, to look at the crumpled ball in her palm and drop it hesitantly into the High King’s hand.

In return, Peter took the hand and politely brushed a kiss atop her knuckles.

Edmund scowled.  

Little else was said as his brother left the study, the air settling over Edmund and Grace filled with contemplative silence.

Grace stared after the study door long after it closed, her hands at her middle wringing in unease.

As Edmund watched her, the sheets of parchment continued to collate in his hands. Their silent scratch the foot hole that kept him grounded amongst the myriad of thoughts in his skull.

When they were all collected, a mismatched order of left to right, top to bottom, Edmund straightened them atop the desk. The tapping motion finally breaking Grace from her reverie.

“The High King said the Giants are rebelling,” Grace entered softly, “I assume things like bombs and riots would be inconsequential to them?”

Edmund puzzled at her words, bombs – he’d heard of such things before but he wasn’t quite sure when.

“They are attacking villages in the Northern Reaches,” he explained.

Grace looked to him with fear drenched irises, “Are they moving further south?”

“They were. The attacks underwent a brief hold until the one Lucy mentioned a few days ago.”

Her focus returned to the map sheets in his hands, “Should I be concerned?”

“You shouldn’t be,” Edmund’s face crinkled in concern, “Not unless you mean to travel to the Northern Reaches yourself.”

Grace was not comforted by his words. A more solid question persisting in the wring of her hands and the fear in her eyes. She looked as if she would flee the room, or more likely the Cair itself.

“They won’t make it to Cair Paravel,” Edmund added resolutely, “Not whilst I live.”

It worked minimally, her hands stilled to a white knuckled grip as she nodded.

Edmund placed the stack of map sheets atop the desk, silently vowing to deliver them later. For now, he and Grace had work to complete and a bargain to uphold.

As Edmund began rustling through the wooden drawers of his desk, he let his lips steer the topic, “Besides, if it’s death you are afraid of there are much closer evils to fear.”

Grace’s intrigue peaked, “Like what?”

And there it was, wrapped in bright blue ribbon – the colour he used to mark and track matters of trade – sat the most recent letter from King Ventotene. He figured it was best to start on a topic she knew well and if Edmund was honest, he was interested to see how her diplomatic ideas would be greeted by the cold-hearted King of Terebinthia.

The small stack was slapped upon the desk with gusto, “Boredom.”

The Daughter of Eve only stared at the stack warily, the size and volume clearly putting her off. Edmund wanted to grin, was she having second thoughts already?

“This is the true most recent correspondence from King Ventotene,” Edmund continued as he planted his palm atop the neatly tied ribbon, “Still sealed. Not even I have opened this yet.”

The wry smile upon Grace’s face was unmistakable, “Scared of what you might read?”

Edmund shrugged, “I’ve been putting it off. King Ventotene may always be late on his deliveries but I am always late in my letters.”

The sheets were deftly plucked from beneath his fingers, “Seems the two of you are a match made in heaven.”

“Don’t even joke.”

Grace met his gaze, eyes half shrouded in fear that he was actually upset. Only when it became clear to her that Edmund had not taken it personally did she relax and tugged on the ribbon.

It fell into a soft blue pile upon the desk, barely making a noise as it did.

Edmund breathed deeply, the softer of the two voices battling to keep it’s oppressor at bay. It was worth it – the lapse in his strict morals – to see the soft crinkled interest on Grace’s brow.

“He’s calling you out for your lateness,” Grace murmured as she flipped the top sheet.

Edmund plucked a pencil from a jar atop the desk, “An oversight you’ll need to remedy.”

Grace’s softened blues flickered warily from the letter to the pencil, “You would have me draft something without you reading the base material first?”

The smile on his face came easily, “I would.”

“How will I know what to say?”

“You’ve drafted five fake letters by my count and they were all satisfactory,” Edmund encouraged, “I think you can handle it.”

His words took root in the form of a sparkle in Grace’s eyes, “Right, thank you.”

This bright flicker lasted only a moment, before Edmund felt his anxieties tug on his mouth strings to sour it, “As a token to our vow of transparency upon Emperor’s Beach, I feel I must warn you that if any of your work were to leave this room there would be dire consequences.”

Grace cocked her head in an insincere manner. Her face a faux mask of heightened concern, “But then how am I supposed to ferry this business to your enemies?”

Edmund rolled his eyes, “I would suggest that you keep that line of humour to yourself, lest I take you seriously.”

“Or what?” Grace continued in her unserious tone, “You’ll lock me in my room? Take away my horse-riding lessons?”

Edmund caught the end of her jeers with interest, a reminder of a thought he’d had earlier that day, “That is another point I wish to speak to you about.”

Grace’s humour turned to ashes on water, “Wait… You aren’t actually going to take away my lessons, are you?”

“No, but we will need to discuss their priority in your daily routine,” Edmund answered, “It takes many hours to become an accomplished rider. A feat which I’d imagine you’d want to complete as soon as possible, correct?”

Grace nodded eagerly.

A sheet of scrap parchment was plucked from the desk drawer on his right. On it, Edmund began scribbling down a list of to-do’s.

“I normally take my rides in the morning. If you want me to teach you, you’ll need to do the same.”

Grace shuffled nervously on her feet, “But I have kitchen duties in the morning, your Majesty.”

“I know,” Edmund agreed, adding another prominent task to the list, “Which is why I am pulling you from them until further notice.”

Grace’s mouth fell agape in his peripheral vision but Edmund did not let it deter him.

“I’ve already made enquiries with Mrs Badger and she’s assured me that Kit is up to the task of taking on your work.”

“But I can’t just leave,” Grace protested.

“Why not?” Edmund challenged, “It’s the perfect excuse. You need time in the mornings to learn to ride or else you are never getting any farther than ten steps from Cair Paravel.”

“I made it farther than ten steps that night,” Grace grumbled.

Edmund chose to ignore the statement, “There’s no time after your kitchen duties as you are working with me and the rest of your day is filled with Orchestra work.”

The Daughter of Eve’s mouth twisted uncomfortably as she weighed his words.

“Face it, Grace,” Edmund concluded, “You have overbooked yourself.”

Her answering glare had told him all he needed to know of her surrender.

“Cutting my kitchen duties will ensure I learn to horse-ride faster?” Grace asked in a small voice.

Edmund grinned brilliantly, “If I have it my way, we will have you galloping before Lucy returns”

Chapter Text

XXXVI

GRACE

Second Child, Restless Child – The Oh Hellos

Grace knew she could do this. She had to. The pride in her soul would not allow any different.

The feeling of the wind through her loose tresses was exhilarating as she urged maiden forward. The brown hood of her cloak had long since fallen over her shoulders, allowing the sun to hit her scalp with the full blast of the mid-morning sun.

A feeling of urgency pushed her forward, her legs applying just enough pressure to Maiden’s sides to drive the mare faster.

Grace and Maiden moved as one, horse and rider long bonded through many hours and lessons under King Edmund’s instruction. The pounding of the Mare’s hooves on grass matching the steady rhythm of Grace’s heart.

They were gaining on them now, just out of reach of their dark-haired opponents galloping in stride. Phillip was faltering – Grace could tell – with each second that passed his strides became shorter. His energy giving way to the old age he would over dramatically complain about.

This was their chance! Grace squeezed Maiden a final time as her hands tightened on the reins. One last push was all it should take, Maiden being much spryer than the old Talking Beast.

With every second that passed the distance lessened but perhaps it wouldn’t be enough? Grace eyed the finish line they’d outlined, the space between two outlying trees of the Eastern Wood growing closer and closer.

There was nothing to do but hold her breath and hope, knowing already that she’d pushed Maiden her limits and could not ask for more. Anticipation and fear of failure clawed at her chest in a bloody tug of war.

Grace and King Edmund were neck and neck, the King only briefly throwing her a look. It was too quick for her to see, too unknown for her to confirm his fear of loss. At the very least, he seemed to be enjoying himself. The grin of sparkling teeth he bore was unmistakable, even from a blurry distance.

Grace began to wonder if there was enough space between the two trees to fit them both. If there was not, one of them would need to give way to the other to avoid crashing. As expected, her sidelong glances told her it would not be King Edmund.

The air shifted around them, the full force of it shifting from Grace’s front to her behind. It was as if the breeze was egging them on. Pushing both riders to their inevitable end – wrapped around a tree or worse, around each other.

For a brief second, Grace considered letting up – the idea of being lodged in a King-sized pretzel unappetizing to say the least – however, something quickly changed her mind.

Maiden’s head surged forwards with a new energy, quickly surpassing Phillip’s own and bringing her rider one step closer to winning.

With a renewed strength, Grace wrapped the reins once more around her hands, prepared for the moment she would need to slow the Mare to a halt. The sight of the growing trees was more promising now and for the first time in three days, Grace thought she might just get there first.

Her efforts were rewarded when Maiden swiftly passed the markers, yielding almost immediately to her riders tugging commands and in the moment of exhilaration, Grace made a noise she’d never heard from her lips before.

She didn’t care for she had won!

There was a triumphant glean in her eyes as she turned her head towards King Edmund. Expecting to find a man who was nursing his worn-out friend and bruised pride. Instead, she was greeted by a proud man, his grin brightened by the fruits of his efforts and her labours.

“Well done! A good show of your riding prowess indeed!” King Edmund cheered. Phillip was heaving deep breaths of air and so did not have anything to add.

Grace guided Maiden back to their side, “Thank you! I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“I dare say you couldn’t,” The King nodded, “However, you should give yourself credit where it is due. No one could have learned to ride in two weeks without a thorough determination.”

A wry smile tilted the corners of Grace’s lips, “You’re being awfully generous about this.”

King Edmund’s head tilted oddly, “I’m sorry, is it incorrect of me to praise you? Was there some other way you expected me to react to your accomplishments?”

Grace shrugged, “Perhaps not. I only thought you might be a little sore about losing our race.”

The King laughed heartily, “That is because you are making the assumption that Phillip and I didn’t let you win.”

As the huffs from Phillip continued below him, Grace found that hard to believe.

“Don’t get used to it,” He continued, “We fully intend on cleaning house in the next one.”

“Which is when?” Grace challenged. Her hands rewrapping themselves in the soft leather reins of anticipation.

King Edmund patted Phillips neck in a calming manner, the motion rhythmic in nature, “Right about… now!”

The two took off at breakneck speed towards the stables, leaving Grace and Maiden stunned in the settling dust.

A fierce grin stretched across her face at the sight of their shrinking form, the challenge of another race urging she and Maiden forward at a matched pace.

This time, King Edmund won, but it was not without the healthy dosage of snide remarks which Grace threw his way. ‘Cheater’, ‘swindler’ and ‘con artist’ were only a few of the many jeers she had come up with.

The King wore it well, the cheeky smirk on his face being telltale enough that he was pleased with himself, no matter what she thought of him.

When Phillip had seen them, he was still heaving but now it was in a completely different nature.

“You actually believed I was tired,” The Talking Horse wheezed between nickering laughs and joyful digs at the dirt floor.

Grace gave him a narrowed glare, “It isn’t fair to play on someone like that in order to win.”

“I think you’ll often find that life isn’t fair Grace,” King Edmund popped his head over Phillips back, “One must use all tools and knowledge at their disposal.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in disingenuous behaviour,” Grace bit, her arms folded in an unimpressed manner.

The brush in the King’s hand halted, the soothing scratching noise ceasing with it, “In the context of getting ahead in life, yes. But if it comes down to life or death, all avenues must be explored.”

Grace didn’t have an answer for that, sufficiently disciplined by his serious tone of voice. It had become clear to her by now that the King did not like to be questioned, which honestly made her want to do it all the more.

“Shall I tie Maiden up in her stable, Grace?” A kind faced Stable Hand asked, “Or do you wish to ride some more?”

Grace’s eyes flickered to the top of King Edmund’s dark head, “Please tie her up, I couldn’t ride more, even if I wanted to.”

The Stable Hand nodded, gently tugging the reins from Grace’s grasp as he led the horse further into the darkened hallway.

“You could ride more, you know.”

Grace jumped, startled by the unexpected voice of the King, “What?”

“You could continue to ride if it suited you,” He clarified over the scratching brush he rubbed against Phillips behind, “There has been no response from King Ventotene and I could easily manage the stack of paperwork due today.”

There was an unease that spiked uncomfortably at her insides. The thought of riding alone unsettling to Grace for more than simple safety reasons.

“I don’t think I am ready to ride alone,” She voiced unsurely.

“I do,” King Edmund returned, his eyes earnest pelts of sun-warmed fur.

In response, Grace’s brow rose, “You aren’t worried that I would make a run for it?”

The King faltered, the warm brown cementing to stoic bark, “Well, I am now. Thank you so much for reminding me.”

“You’re welcome,” Grace replied in false cheer.

With a shake of his dark hair the King returned to brushing Phillip’s coat, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Remind me,” the Just King muttered, “I am offering freedoms Grace. It’s nothing to turn your nose up at.”

The sting of her petulance burned fervently in his words and Grace regretted her own immediately.

It was common for her to joke about her freedom or lack thereof and the King’s part in it, sometimes she caught herself mentioning it before the words fully formed in her brain. It was like she unconsciously thought it an inside joke between them, rather than the hurtful truth it had truly become.

“I’m sorry,” Grace whispered, “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. I would love to ride more, it’s only that I’ve become accustomed to being around you whilst I do it.”

There was a kind understanding in the sigh that left his lips, “Did you never think that you might need to learn to ride without my assistance.”

“It isn’t your assistance I seek,” Grace said, the words tumbling from her mouth like beads on a string. They scattered to the air before her mind could catch them, “Though I’m beginning to think that’s all you’re here for.”

The scratching noise of the soft brush stilled halfway across the Phillip’s chestnut back, “It isn’t.”

The noise continued as quickly as it had finished, with the King focusing on the task more vigorously than he should. Phillip didn’t mind, muzzle locked determinedly in the bucket of oats he’d been given as a bargain to keep still.

“I originally offered to teach you to ride as a form of solace, Grace. I’d imagine you wouldn’t find much around me.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed at the King’s back, “Well, you’re wrong.”

Truthfully, she enjoyed his presence during their morning rides. King Edmund had proved a contemplative riding partner – when he wasn’t correcting her form in that annoying know-it-all voice of his.

King Edmund didn’t turn at her comment, he didn’t even acknowledge it. The brush gripped firmly in his hands continued to scratch in small circular motions against Phillip’s side.

He always did that. Whenever Grace showed an ounce of honesty towards her regard for him or after he complimented her in any manner, he wouldn’t linger. There were no comforting looks or small smiles, he simply looked ahead of him in that stoic practiced manner he looked at everything.

It didn’t trouble her, not really. Grace had never known true companionship until her friendship with Lucy and found the ground she now stood on was fresh, promising even, but unknown all the same. Who was she to know what was right or wrong in these circumstances?

She opened her mouth, a jeer in mind to return the air back to their usual banter but the words died on her lips at a voice from the darkened interior of the stables.

“Your Majesty!”

King Edmund perked from his stupor, leaning backwards to peer around Phillips neck.

The rhythmic hoof steps of a centaur were keenly recognised, even to Grace who had only attuned to them over the past month or so.

They were steps she knew well, for when the dark curls and furrowed brow of the Centaur in question trotted into the sunlight, it was no other than Casys himself.

“Sir Casys,” The Just King greeted as the Centaur lowered his head in respect, “What is your business?”

“I have just come from the Cair Courtyard sire, where a number of your subjects are gathering at this moment to greet the Queen Lucy,” Casys explained civilly, his hooves stamping against the dirt with excitement.

“Lucy?” Grace whispered, relief bubbling to her shoulders and threatening to lift her into the air.

King Edmund looked as though he may slump with relief at the news, “Thank you, Sir. I shall meet with her directly. Is there an estimated time of arrival?”

“The Watch Tower sighted her party over the farthest hill but twenty minutes ago,” Casys confirmed.

“Very well, I shall return with you,” The King grinned, hastily throwing the brush into a bag and patting Phillip on the side, “I’m sorry, I would do more but-”

The Talking Horse cut him off with a snort, “I wouldn’t let you, My King. Go to your family, there is nothing for you here.”

King Edmund nodded gratefully as he peered over the chestnut beasts back, “Are you coming Grace?”

Grace looked between his expectant gaze and the empty darkness of the stable entryway, “I uh-”

She wanted nothing more than to agree on the spot – to run to the Cair Courtyard and see for herself that her friend was alright.

Filly wouldn’t mind would she? Surely not when Grace told her of the circumstances. The Talking Horse had heard much of Grace’s friendship with Lucy during their daily brush. She was sure Filly wouldn’t mind.

It was only the firm and dampening image of Maiden tied up in her stall that held her back now.

“Give me a moment,” She breathed, picking up her skirts and charging towards the familiar stall. She found the stable hand there, elbow deep in the Mare’s saddle as it was hoisted from her back.

He nodded respectfully on her arrival, the motion pausing all other movements including his arms holding the leather seat, “Miss Grace.”

Grace heaved a steadying breath, the words releasing in one fell and tangled swoop, “Can-you-groom-Maiden-for-me-this-morning?”

The Faun raised a thick and pointed brow, “I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry,” Grace wheezed, the sentence had depleted her air supply, “Theres something I have to do, could I ask that you groom Maiden this morning?”

The brow did not lower as the Stable Hand replied, “It is my job.”

The relief was instantaneous and threatened to carry her off before she could show any semblance of manners, “Great! Thank you, I owe you one!”

The Stable Hand stared after her oddly as she alighted, unsure what ‘owing one’ meant to begin with.

-

By the time the trio reached the outskirts of the Cair’s Courtyard, Grace found herself out of breath. She leaned against the stone entryway, the air heaving from her lungs too noisy to hear anything else.

King Edmund and Casys walked on, unknowing that their charge had stuck behind to recover.

Grace – too out of breath to protest – eyed their backs through narrowed slits as they sifted through the crowds. Casys had not lied, they were thick. It seemed that all manner of creatures had come to welcome their Valiant Queen home.

As Grace began to follow the King’s path she stopped at the edge of an emptied semi-circle. The area which surrounded the gateway had been left bare to allow room for the party’s entrance.

She couldn’t find the courage to step across the emptied stone the way King Edmund had, his stride just as sure and true as that of Casys who walked beside him. He joined his older siblings at the edge of the Cair’s steps, slotting himself on the other side of Queen Susan as if he’d always belonged there.

Grace, however, did not. She was not family and probably could not boast a stronger acquaintance to Lucy than any other in the Courtyard could. So she remained put at the very edge of the circle, bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

They did not have to wait long, cheers of joy sounded from the overhanging Watch Tower and further than that were the cheers of those that had lined up beyond and along the edges of Gate Bridge.

Cheers travelled in a wave, each creature picking up the energy of the one before them as the Party came into their sight. Grace found herself clapping with them, the exuberant smile on her face as wide as any of the others.

The Party returned the cheer in kind, with broad grins and waves to their fellow Narnians. They looked a little worn, a few scuffs on cheeks and elbows and their weapons had clearly seen better days, but all in all they were safe and that was all anyone who cheered on the cobblestone could have wished for.

When Lucy came into sight – her deep golden hair catching the morning sun as it bobbed back and forth on horseback – the cheers grew louder still. They were nearly deafening as all voices conjoined into one.

The Youngest Queen held a few scratches of her own, though none as substantial as those of her guards. She beamed pleasantly at her subjects, her wave exaggerated in a much like Lucy fashion. She was open and honest, beautiful and kind, and in certain lights utterly feral in her joy.

When the party halted, neither of the King’s or Queen’s wasted a moment. Lucy was immediately unhitched from her horse, the Eldest of her brothers tugging her into a bear hug the moment her feet touched the ground. Queen Susan joined them, then King Edmund too – although he was slower than the others. The three made up a singularly mismatched huddle of an emotion that Grace could dare not name. It was hard to watch.

The members of Lucy’s guard split into the crowd, swerving well-wishers and friends for families of their own. Similar mounds of creatures began to huddle everywhere, the small groups heart-warmingly bound in relief.

Lucy was indiscernible from her siblings now, the trio sheltering her within arms and cloaks, but it was not long before she shoved them off. Grace could her our outburst for air from where she stood and held back her humorous smile at the rant that followed.

The Valiant Queen turned to the Just King, a silent question upon her lips. At this, King Edmund looked amongst the crowd. It was as though he’d lost something… or someone.

His dark eyes continued to scan, furrowed behind deep set brows until finally, they locked with Grace’s own.

Her breath caught in her throat as the Just King pointed her out, the sight of Grace causing Lucy to brighten exceptionally. The Valiant Queen picked up her skirts and raced across the Courtyard, stopping for nothing, not even when she collided with Grace herself.

“Oomph,” Grace muttered when the unstoppable force met the unmovable object, immediately feeling the grip of her friends arms around her back.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Lucy cried into her shoulder.

Grace felt her shoulders relax for the first time in an age, the knowledge of her friends safety finally sinking into her bones and soothing her soul. She gripped Lucy’s shoulders tighter and whispered, “I’ve missed you too.”

Lucy let go – all too soon in Grace’s opinion – but she didn’t move far. She leaned back and assessed her friend with vibrant blue eyes, “So much happened! I met a Marshwiggle and saw my first Wigwam. Oh, if only you could have been there, Grace! Narnia has no limit to her beauty nor to the wonderous friends she provides!”

A fond smile stretched Grace’s cheeks, “You will have to tell me all about it.”

Lucy’s ecstatic nod of agreement was only marred by the sidelong glance she threw to her siblings, “Perhaps not right now, though. I’m supposed to provide a status report on the Northern Reaches and my brothers tend to be impatient with military matters.”

“Of course,” Grace agreed, eyes catching the exasperated stare of King Edmund, “I wouldn’t want to delay important matters of state.”

The Valiant Queen grinned as she took Grace’s hand in two of her own and gripped it with promise, “I’ll send for you later.”

Grace nodded, releasing her friend easily as she watched Lucy return to her siblings across the cobblestone courtyard.

Before she could get too far, however, Lucy was sure to call over her shoulder – unknowingly embarrassing Grace in front of the crowd of Narnian onlookers, “I want to hear everything that is happening with you also. Be ready for my man, I’ll send for you later today!”

-

It was two hours before Grace was summoned. A long, painstaking purgatory filled with Orchestra instruction and ink-stained paper.

Grace was on edge, impatient to hear the news of her friend. In an effort to remain available, she had not immersed herself fully into any task, only keeping her distance and offering pointers as necessary.

It was for the best, Margrove had been metaphorically and physically tugging his hair at the root about the Christmas performance. There was still a few weeks before said event would take place, however, the knowledge did nothing to lessen the Fauns panic.

Before she had left, Grace stopped the Faun to make sure he would be okay. Her contributions were minimal but all the same, she did not want to leave her friend bereft of assistance. Margrove had only shaken his head, black eyes wild with anxiety as he muttered something about the song being out of key and a letter he had to deliver.

Queen Lucy the Valiant had a number of rooms aligned in the East Wing of Cair Paravel. The hallways were bathed in sunlight every which way as it refracted through the spattered colours and textures of its glass roof. It was as if one had stepped onto a rainbow.

The Page who had been sent to retrieve her kept exactly five paces in front of her and no matter how Grace quickened or slowed, he remained just so. His legs were a little different to other Faun’s she had seen, and it made Grace wonder whether he was a different kind of related species.

Instead of having horns and legs coated with goat fur, this Narnian’s legs were more like a horses, covered in a soft coat of deep brown, the tail also mirrored this with long strands of blackened hair which matched the wavy mess atop his head. Grace hoped that Lucy would not mind her asking about it later.

Just as the curiosity began to eat at her, the Page stopped unexpectedly. Grace made a noise as she bumped into him, startled by the sturdiness of the creature.

He looked at her through cold dark eyes – darker even than Margrove’s coal black ones. The Page didn’t look pleased, the frown set on his small lips downturned as he glared.

Grace stepped back, head lowered in shame as the Narnian knocked on the door.

“Enter,” The comforting singsong of Lucy’s voice filtered through the painted wood.

The door was opened and the Page moved to the side as Grace entered, his glare never leaving her hunched form.

She did not feel the weight of the goose pimpling gaze leave her until the door clicked firmly shut behind her and even then she was aware of his displeasure through the wood.

Grace shuddered to shake the feeling, choosing instead to venture further into the small sitting room.

It was beautifully decorated, the furniture, windows and setting all similar to her own room. Lucy must have had a hand in decorating it, she assumed, remembering the Valiant Queen’s proud claim on her first day in Cair Paravel.

The Queen in question sat comfortably on a chaise, her legs elongated under a plush robe as she nestled her back into its corner. Her hair was wet, the spun gold threads clinging to each other atop her forehead as her face was stuffed into a book. Grace was not sure as to the subject as it was unlabelled, the black leather binding plain and wrinkled in the sunlight through the windows.

Lucy peered over the book for a brief second, “I’ll be with you in a moment Grace, I’m just catching up.”

Grace nodded, taking the liberty of sitting herself in the opposing armchair. Between them sat a small coffee table, or perhaps it was that the coffee table only looked small due to the large platters of food sitting upon it.

There were trays upon trays of sandwiches, meats and cheeses alongside a lovely selection of creamed cakes and savoury muffins. Grace’s mouth watered at the sight, only minimally noticing the amount of food that was missing from the still – overflowing trays.

This must have been where the King’s and Queen’s held their meeting.

Grace could see it, the exact positions each monarch would take in such a place. She imagined that Queen Susan would have sat in this armchair, the scent of her perfume still lingering on its cushions. The High King Peter would have undoubtedly been at Lucy’s side, where her feet now sat – a conclusion easily drawn from the number of sandwiches missing on that side of the table.

There were only two seats, however, and Grace puzzled over just where King Edmund would have taken up residence. That was until her eyes locked onto the roaring fireplace. There was not a single doubt in her mind as she imagined him leant against the mantel piece, attempting to draw as much heat from the fire as possible – for Lucy’s fire was much calmer compared to his own and the difference in the air was palpable.

Winter was most definitely here.

As Grace giggled at her inside joke, Lucy looked at her curiously from atop the book.

“What’s so funny?” The Valiant Queen asked.

Grace shook her head, “It’s nothing, just a little joke about the winter.”

“Oh,” Lucy said, “If I were you I wouldn’t mention such things around Edmund, he can be a bit touchy.”

“I’ve noticed,” Grace answered wryly.

Lucy sighed as she rubbed her eyes, the black book closing in her other hand, “I hope you found my rooms easy. I did send my Page to be sure.”

“I did,” Grace edged, unsure whether to mention the particularly hostile behaviour of the Narnian.

Lucy was shrewd as ever and picked up on her discomfort immediately, “Was he nice to you?”

A short shrug was hopefully enough to diffuse matters, Grace did not want to get between the Queen and her staff, “He got me here.”

“He’s like that. It’s nothing personal I promise you. Verdan isn’t particularly fond of people in general, let alone strangers. It’s an odd trait of his… No other satyr I’ve met is quite like him,” The Valiant Queen sighed before adding, “Sometimes, I think he only likes me.”

A Satyr, that was new. Grace only barely recalled their existence in Greek Mythology and had nothing to compare them to description wise. There was no clues as to his cold demeanour or why he would favour Lucy.

An unintended smile warmed Grace’s face. Regardless of Mythology, Lucy had a talent for endearing herself to all – the idea that she could break down even the coldest of hearts felt unsurprising.

“As he’s your Page, I’m sure that serves you well,” She commented as her grey gaze caught on a particularly appetizing triangle cut sandwich.

Lucy followed her line of sight, giving a small giggle as she offered them to her, “Please, eat it all if you can. Susan grossly overestimated how much our brothers would eat.”

Grace took the triangle gingerly, eyeing the ham and cheese mixture with joy. It looked like the cheese had partially melted in the window refracted sunlight, the sight of the gooey mess making her ravenous and homesick at the same time.

The black book was dropped unceremoniously atop the chaise cushion as Lucy pushed her legs to the side. Grace eyed the book as it sat teetering on the cushions edge.

“That book is unmarked,” Grace began when she could not hold her curiosity any longer, “Does it come from your personal library?”

Lucy shook her head, “It’s a journal of work that my Royal Siblings and I keep between the four of us. It tracks tasks, significant changes or conversations. Anything crucial to the care of Narnia.”

When Grace did not question further, Lucy filled the air with further explanation, “We normally go through one tome a year by limiting ourselves to information of the utmost importance.”

“I get it,” Grace nodded, “I’m sure it would be difficult to keep track of everything you each do separately. Having a written record would be valuable.”

Lucy smiled fondly as she stroked the black leather binding, “It was Edmund’s idea.”

Grace didn’t doubt it.

“You should see the ones from our first years in Narnia, we went through so many!” Lucy reminisced, “Sometimes I’ll go back and look through the pages. Run my hands over our old handwriting.”

The fond look of familial love in Lucy’s eyes made Grace’s heart ache, “That bad?”

Lucy grinned at her, “I was terrible at first.”

Their laughter filled the air alongside the crackling roar of the fire, eventually Lucy returned her eyes to the older ink-stained pages of the book, “Look! You’re in here.”

Grace joined her side at the invitation, curiosity far outweighing the dread of what could have been written.

“See,” Lucy pointed as Grace settled herself on the plush cushion, “Dies Veneris, October, 8 days before the Kalends, Unknown Party taken aboard the Splendour Hyaline – Calls themselves ‘Grace’. Further investigation required – to be undertaken by Edmund.”

There it was, the first record of Grace’s appearance in Narnia. She knew the handwriting of King Edmund well but seeing the way his ink curved around her name was inviting in a way Grace couldn’t name. It was as if she was reading a secret, forbidden to her eyes yet too tempting to withstand.  

“The only word I understand in that sentence is ‘October’,” Grace muttered, eyes still fixated on the elegant scrawl of the King.

Lucy latched onto her arm in disbelief, “You mean, you’ve lived here for over a month and you’ve still not learnt our Calendar? How on earth have you been helping Edmund with his work?”

Grace shrugged, “I normally leave the dates blank and hope he fills them in.”

“Grace!” Lucy scolded lightly, “I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned this before now.”

“Well it’s too late to learn a new system now,” Grace joked loudly, “I learned my days and months of the year in Primary School. My perception cannot be changed.”

Lucy laughed, the sound light and breathy as she leaned onto Grace’s shoulder, “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

Grace leaned into the embrace, thrilled to have her friend back again.

The hesitant hand of the Valiant Queen ran along the page, “This is the first time I’ll be adding something substantial to the book.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed on a particular point of text, “Isn’t that your name just there?”

Lucy sighed, “Yes, but it’s not for anything as great as this. My time in the Northern Reaches will be instrumental if there is a battle to come.”

Grace stared at the sombre expression of the Valiant Queen, a confusion tugging at her mind. She was sure she’d heard that Lucy had fought her fair share of battles as a Queen of Narnia, she couldn’t imagine what could be more substantial than that.

“How was your trip to the Northern Reaches?” Grace asked.

Lucy sat straighter, her bold blue irises practically buzzing at the chance to recant everything, “It was wonderful! Dangerous, but wonderful. We rode every day from dawn ‘til dusk and I got to see place’s I’ve not been to since I was a child!”

Grace’s soul warmed at the sight of her friends excitement as Lucy spoke in a most animated manner. Her expressions shifted with the fluid motions of her hands as she explained the journey in great detail.

“The nights were lovely – though a little chilly if you ask me. For the first few, we were able to light a fire. There would be no Ettins that far past the border and so the smoke wouldn’t alert anyone to our presence. Sir Cesone would tell us stories over it. Oh, how I wish you could have been there to hear them! I already know some of them myself, but I do not think I could do them justice the way he does!”

“I can believe it,” Grace agreed, “Casys would tell stories to pass the time in my first few weeks here. He had such a way about telling them, I have to admit I was a little jealous of it.”

Lucy took her hand cheerily, “I wholeheartedly agree. Though, if you thought Casys’s retelling impressive, just wait until you experience it under the open space of starlight with the warmth of a campfire at your knees. There truly is nothing like it.”

Grace grinned at her friend’s enthusiasm, “I can’t wait to see it.”

Lucy’s face lit up at the prospect, “I can’t wait to show you. If only there was a way to bottle such a thing and take it home with you! I spent much of my youth under the night sky, falling asleep to the stories of Narnia. Now, I seem to find less and less time for such adventures.”

“You seem to have traded them for adventures of a different kind,” Grace offered.

“I suppose I have,” Lucy agreed, “I must confess this adventure was new in all kinds of ways. I’ve been into battle and fielded negotiations with other countries but never have I journeyed stealthily before.”

A familiar sense of anxiety crept across the Grace’s cloth covered shoulders.

“At first I thought I might not see any action,” The Queen continued dejectedly, “What with Edmund’s orders to have the Healers Tent moved into the Marshwiggle territory.”

When Lucy noticed Grace’s blank expression she explained further, “The Marshwiggle territory lies in the North Easternmost region of Narnia. It’s largely composed of marshlands. The Giants would not make it far into them without sinking, you see?”

Grace nodded vaguely, her mind still hung on Lucy’s phrasing of the sentence, “But you did see action? Despite being so far into the Marshlands.”

Lucy’s lips twisted in a familiarly guilty manner that made Grace wince.

“Lucy-”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” The Queen explained hurriedly, her hands raised in a peaceful gesture, “Oh… Well maybe it was – a little – but it had to be done.”

“What did?”

The Valiant Queen’s expression faltered, her lower lip quivering smally as she muttered her next words, “Ritilian’s funeral.”

Oh.

Grace vaguely recalled the healer who had been killed in one of the Giants attacks. The event which had forced Lucy through the Study Door that morning. She now looked much like she did then, her big blue eyes brimming with unshed tears as she held her lips in a firm line. It was the stitch to hold herself together, nothing moving past those lips, not even air as the Queen calmed herself. Grace took her hand in solidarity until it had passed.

Lucy released a shuddering breath at the contact, “Marshlands are too soft to bury in, we had to take it further inland. I found a hillside with a Juniper tree – Ritilian always loved those,” She sniffled, “It was hard to find space amongst the roots but eventually we dug deep enough.”

In a kindness similar to Lucy’s that day on the beach, Grace placed a soothing hand upon her friends back.

Lucy gave her a watery smile, “Did you know it is a Narnian custom to be buried under a tree?”

“I didn’t,” Grace replied soothingly.

“Some believe that if you are not yet ready to face Aslan’s judgement that he might show you the kindness of a second chance. Many Sentient Tree’s in Narnia claim a soul has been buried under their roots.”

“Do they also claim to be that soul?” Grace asked curiously.

Lucy shook her head, “None have any memories of anything other than the life they currently live.”

“Then, how do people believe in it?”

The Valiant Queen’s eyes burned, but it was not fury that lay encapsulated in her irises, rather a different fire, “They believe in the goodness of Aslan.”

Aslan, there was that name again. In her time upon Narnian shores Grace had heard it often in passing with greetings and exclamations of a Great Lion commonplace alongside it. It had happened so often that Grace had begun to think the two were one and the same.

“You mentioned danger?” Grace prompted, the ache in her heart unbearable as she watched a lone tear slither down Lucy’s reddened cheek.

The Queen hastily wiped it away, “Yes, we were attacked just after the dirt was replaced. I don’t think it was intentional as they were not heading in our direction, but they found us all the same.”

Grace’s concerned gaze drew to the small scrape on Lucy’s cheekbone, when the Queen noticed her look, she angled her chin to show it off.

“Fell flat on my face as we tried to escape,” She explained, “There were three giants and not even I am foolhardy enough to attempt to fight that large a foe at the risk of my friends.”

Grace watched Lucy’s expression shift from to pain to anger, anticipation laced itself tightly around her throat as she waited for the next words she knew would come.

“We had made it halfway to the tree line before they tried to uproot the juniper tree.”

Grace gasped, her hand stilling upon Lucy’s back.

The Valiant Queen’s head shook with disbelief, “I had heard that the Ettins held no respect for our customs, but to see their blatant disrespect for one right before my eyes. I couldn’t let it stand.”

“What did you do?”

“I shot one in the eye.”

Grace’s eyes widened at her acclaimed archery prowess, “From what distance?”

The Queen considered her response before replying, “Maybe a hundred yards?”

“A hundred?” The feat was near impossible; a target so precise could not be achieved at a hundred yards with a crossbow, let alone an unsighted longbow. Not without an insane amount of luck.

Lucy’s easy shrug only served to amaze her further, “I can’t really claim the credit for such a shot. I used Susan’s bow.”

Grace stared at her friend dumbly, unsure what correlation Queen Susan had to the matter. A bow was a bow, no matter who owned it. She voiced her thoughts with the assertion of a professional.

Lucy only laughed, “I would take your logic as fact, friend, but logic has no hand in this scenario.”

“What do you mean?” Grace demanded.

“The bow is magical,” Lucy explained obviously, “Given to my sister by Father Christmas himself.”

Magical? Grace’s mind struggled to wrap around the word. Watery sheets, talking beasts and sentient trees seemed to be the limit to which her belief had reached already.

“I still remember what he said that day,” Lucy continued, “‘Trust in this bow and it will not easily miss’. I can tell you from personal experience that he did not lie.”

“But does that mean the item is magical? I’d just as soon believe that you and Queen Susan are simply excellent shots,” Grace reasoned.

The fierce determination in the Queen’s eye was not tolerant of Grace’s antics, “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in magic?”

“I wish I could believe in magic,” Grace defended, “But there’s been little I’ve seen in my life to evidence its existence.”

Lucy’s head was shaking in denial before Grace had finished, “I cannot believe you have experienced the feat of entering Narnia firsthand and yet still do not believe in the existence of magic.”

Grace felt her lips curdle at her tone, “Enough, I want to hear about what else you did with this magic bow.”

“You could try to sound a little less sarcastic than that,” Lucy scolded but then sighed continued all the same, “The fight was not much to linger on. I shot some arrows, Sir Cesone managed to scare them back to whence they came. Their easy defeat is what makes me believe they had not come looking for a fight to begin with.”

“And after that?”

Lucy shrugged sombrely, “We returned to the Marshwiggle territory. There was another friend who I tended to there, I oversaw the better part of his care.”

“Maltooth, right?” Grace asked, the name successfully retrieved from the trenches of her memory, “How is he faring?”

“He will be fine,” Lucy said, “Another week of rest and he’ll return to his work. I’ve asked to be kept informed of his progress, just to be safe.”

Grace nodded, her hand falling from the Queen’s back.

“I just wish I could do more,” Lucy voiced fervently.

Unintentionally, Grace’s right brow lifted with sarcasm, “You stuck the equivalent of a needle into a giant’s eye and scared off the other two. I think that’s plenty for the moment.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, “You’ve clearly been spending too much time with my brother, you’re even starting to sound like him.”

“What did he have to say about your little misadventure?” Grace asked pointedly.

Lucy looked at her, the deception in her half-circled irises perfectly clear.

Grace sighed, “You didn’t tell them.”

“Not about the giants,” Lucy confirmed.

The implication of the Queen’s words hung heavily through the room. Of course, Grace would not reveal her secrets – it was not her place – but there was something that curdled within her at the thought of lying. Worse, of lying to King Edmund.

The ice Grace had once been living on had thickened considerably due to their close proximity. At this stage in their acquaintance, Grace would even venture to say their banter was friendly rather than pointed. There was a very high chance that thickness would melt under the heat of her fiery pants.

She would have to just grit her teeth and hope he didn’t ask. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

Lucy straightened as she stretched against the backrest of the chaise, “It’s your turn now! I want to hear all about your adventures whilst I’ve been away!”

Grace frowned, “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell.”

But the Valiant Queen was insistent, “Don’t give me that! What about your duties in the Orchestra and to the Kitchens?”

“My Kitchen duties have been postponed until further notice,” Grace shrugged.

At the unexpected news, the Queen gripped her arm, “What?! Who sanctioned that?”

“Your brother did.”

Lucy did not need to be told exactly which brother that was, “Of course it was Edmund, why do I even bother asking?”

“It wasn’t a bad thing,” Grace tried to reason, “They were postponed in favour of riding lessons.”

The oddest expression came across Lucy’s face, “Riding lessons?”

Grace nodded, “They commenced a few days after you left.”

“Well, I suppose that’s different,” The Valiant Queen murmured, “How far along are you?”

“I can gallop, I even beat your brother in a race today – though he claims to have let me win.”

Lucy snorted, “Figures, he was always a sore loser.”

Grace shrugged, “I don’t know… He and Phillip did beat me on the race back to the stables.”

A perfectly groomed brow arched upon the Queens face, “Did he cheat?”

“Yes,” Grace recalled with irritation.

“How typical,” Lucy grinned.

“How very unchivalrous,” Grace countered lightly.

The Valiant Queen laughed, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve become fond of him.”

Grace’s glare could have scalded ice, “I have given no indication of that.”

“But you don’t deny it,” Lucy rebuffed, “He’s growing on you!”

“He is not,” Grace denied, “I mean it, Lucy. Your brother is great and I mean no disrespect but he has got to be the biggest snarkiest know-it-all I’ve ever met in my life.”

Thankfully, Lucy did not look offended at all. Her knowing eyes only served to irritate Grace further as she whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll find his snarkiness quite charming eventually.”

“I think I’d sooner strap a dumbbell to my foot and drown.”

Lucy laughed, “I must admit, you fared better without me than I dared to hope.”

This time, it was Grace’s perfectly ungroomed brow that rose, “You call my possession of a pity win a success?”

“I told you,” Lucy chastised, “Edmund is a sore loser. He doesn’t even like to lose insincerely.”

Grace stared blankly at her friend, the point of the statement completely lost on her.

Lucy groaned, “Don’t you see? His admission of defeat is a step forward in the right direction. Edmund is very picky of whom he bestows his pity wins.”

“I guess a step further into his pity might mean I can guilt trip him into showing me the Wardrobe later on,” Grace shrugged, the hope was feeble at best due to the feeling that the King could not be guilt tripped into anything.  

Lucy only confirmed this, “I’m afraid you’ll have little luck there. I barely scrape by on the good will of being a younger sister – you, however, have no such connection.”

Well there went that plan. It seemed Grace would need to continue to build trust with King Edmund in order to see the unfiltered light of her homeland ever again.

It wasn’t such a bad prospect. The past two weeks had honestly proven pleasant. Between the banter and the silence, Grace and King Edmund had begun to build an acquaintance based in trust and openness. Exactly as they’d planned.

The King had taken the oath of open tactics very seriously, going as far to explain everything to her to a detail which Grace sometimes found uncomfortable. A particular example of this had been when the Just King had told her Shese would be inspecting her rooms for any stolen papers. When Grace asked how long this had been going on, King Edmund had admitted – with a slight bashfulness – that it had been a few weeks.

Least to say, Grace preferred it when their conversations were not focused on the terms of her imprisonment.

Apart from the brash words and straightforward tactics of the King, there was a gentleness she had not expected. It was there when they spoke of subjects softly under the filtered light of the leaves. It was apparent in the genuine look of the King’s eye when he complimented her dancing. There was a glimmer of it in those same eyes whilst they bantered in the sweltering heat of the study.

It was the glimpses of this gentle demeanour continually pulled Grace off balance. Her opinion of the King Edmund slowly shifting every time she saw it. Could a man who looked such a way wholly be bad?

There was some darkness alongside the silver lining, to be sure. Grace did not doubt what King Edmund was capable of… but what if that was not who he was?

What if she had taken the one side she’d seen of him and condemned him for it?

If that was the case, Grace was interested in remedying her mistake. The tug of curiosity at her core becoming hard to ignore. She wanted to know more about the dark-haired King with bark walled eyes, and it was beginning to seem that no amount of information would satiate that feeling.

Grace sighed, “I suppose, then, it is best to stay the course. Good behaviour and all that. Just like we spoke about on the beach.”

The look Lucy gave her was sympathetic, “Has there been any new information on the Wardrobe?”

“None,” Sighed Grace, “Margrove’s Uncle was supposed to return to him with stories but apparently all of his replies haven’t mentioned a drop of it. It’s like King Edmund has managed to interfere through the sheer will of thought.”

“I think you’ll find that it is not only thought my Brother works by,” Lucy murmured.

Grace had feared as much, the ugly head of her indifference towards Lucy’s brother rearing itself with a fury. She shoved it down, King Edmund had promised her clarity. Grace had to trust he’d kept to his word.  

Then, Lucy whispered a blood chilling thought, “What happens if we can’t find it?”

Grace cast a wide-eyed stare at her, “Pardon?”

“What happens if we can’t find the Wardrobe?”

What would happen if they couldn’t find the Wardrobe? Would Grace be stuck here? The uproar in her body fought against the very idea, battled against the thoughts it did not want to acknowledge out loud.

And yet…

There was a part which did not cry out. A part of her which had already considered this possibility. A part of her which had begun to accept it.

“I don’t mean to overstep,” Lucy began gently, “But have you given any thought to staying?”

“Staying?” Grace echoed emptily.

The thought was strange but tangible, an emotion which was mirrored equally in the alternative choice.

Grace could stay or Grace could go home.

One hand held the warmth of friends, of positions she held with honor and joy. Of a country – and a King – whose stories were yet to be uncovered.

The other was her world, her home. The life she’d endured in the past, fought against in the present and dreamed for the future.  

Both plans sat in the palm of her hands. Equal weight and warmth between them, though both were flawed in different fractured ways.

Narnia was not Home and Home was not Narnia.

The more Grace weighed, the less she could tell the difference between the two, the only unique string tethering her to Earth being the strength she clung to since she’d first washed aboard the Splendour Hyaline.

But would it be enough to sustain her decision when she finally reached the Wardrobe?

The answer tumbled from her lips, “I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

XXXVII

EDMUND

Breakaway – Kelly Clarkson

The peace and solitude the study provided was broken intermittently by the comings and goings of staff. Naturally, the process was quick; a delivering of parchment, a second to stoke the fire or return books to their shelves. None would linger longer than a few moments, completing their task and leaving silently.

Edmund had never allowed any staff in his workspace for longer than necessary, finding that the less distractions there were, the better his focus became.

That is why when the fourth knock of that day ricocheted across the book filled shelves, Edmund did not bat an eye and bid the company enter.

He did not look up as the rhythm of a Faun’s cloven footsteps trampled across the carpeted floor. Not even when they stopped just short of the desk did Edmund stop his haphazard writings. His intense focus on the pencil markings he made was all encompassing as he attempted to catch up with his work.

Attempted being the main word here, there was not a chance on Narnian soil that he would be able to make up for the lost time of his Sisters return – not that he would ever trade those moments. What he would have traded, was the current emptiness of the room. He’d much prefer Grace be here doing something to help him steady the swaying tower of parchment that had been steadily growing.

A gruff sound of a cleared throat reminded him that the room was in-fact, not empty.

Edmund’s neck creaked as he met the narrowed black eyes of the Faun.

In a sign of respect, Margrove lowered his head as he offered a square of parchment towards the King. There were no words from the Faun’s lips and as Edmund eyed the lantern wax crest upon the parchments opening, he realised there did not need to be.

Edmund took the square gratefully, his pencil unceremoniously dropped in his haste. An abandonment that he didn’t linger on as he shoved a reckless finger through the crest and unfolded its contents.

As he read, Edmund could feel the black eyes of the Faun upon his face, pointed and heavy like a dagger hanging on a thread above him. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the favourable words of Mr Tumnus.

Varying words caught his attention as he proceeded to skim the remaining pages, stories of the Lantern Waste and his siblings which he knew would be paramount in the weeks to come, should he play his cards correctly.

When the stare became too difficult to bear with indifference, Edmund allowed himself to meet it with an even grace, “Is there something bothering you, Margrove?”

“No, sire,” The Faun returned, though there was an edge to his tone which made Edmund doubt his words.

Nonetheless, Edmund proceeded as if he had not noticed it. Knowing the Faun, it wasn’t long before the truth would rear its head, “I see. Well, I thank you for the deliverance of your Uncle’s letter.”

The dismissal may as well have been useless. Words spoken into the air with little meaning to the Leader of the Orchestra.

“If I may, your Majesty?” Margrove deferred, eyeing one of the seats across from the large desk.

Edmund motioned approvingly.

The Faun sat wobblingly on the edge of a long chaise, shoulders steeled despite the determined look upon his face, “I wanted to enquire into the stories regarding the land of War Drobe. My questions to my Uncle have remained unanswered, however he continues to use our correspondence to reach you.”

One of the letters in question flopped forwards in Edmund’s hand, “What did you wish to know?”

Margrove shrugged, “Anything you can tell me.”

A long-winded breath drew from Edmund’s throat as he considered. It was clear that the reason for Margrove’s questioning was to do with Grace and whilst her knowledge of her plans would not bother him, there was a part of Edmund that feared the consequences of releasing information too early.

“There is still so little we know about the Wardrobe,” Edmund corrected softly as he folded the letter back onto itself and out of the view of the Faun’s prying eyes, “But your Uncle has confirmed that his first encounter with my Royal Sister, Queen Lucy was by the pillar of the Lantern Waste.”

Margrove nodded, his dark eyes less narrowed now as they flickered about making connections.

“And you believe that this Wardrobe-” The word was caressed oddly in the Faun’s mouth, “-May be found near the Lantern?”

Edmund nodded, “There is hope. Though, without further investigation there is no telling how far it may be. Queen Lucy was quite adventurous as a child, she could have walked for hours before coming across it.”

A familiar sensation tickled the edges of his mind as he imagined his sister trudging through the snow in her summer clothing. Materials of colour and texture that were a distant dream to him now. There were some memories of Edmund’s own trek through the forest, bleak and bleary amongst the falling snow as he shivered in his own summer wear.

It had felt like he’d searched for Lucy for an age that first day; his line of sight full of nothing but snowflakes and pine trees as far as the eyes could see, until…

The memory was shaken immediately and any image of blindingly bright snow was replaced by the burning coal of the Orchestra Leader’s eyes.

“Have you shared this information with Grace?” Margrove asked, his mild tone again tinged with something that Edmund could not glean for it was too quick and sharp.

There was a moment where the Just King entertained the idea. He could only guess at how Grace would look when he told her; how grateful she would be that he made such an effort on her behalf. She would be surprised – above all else – for he’d told her nothing of his letters to Margrove’s Uncle or the intent that they bore.

The idea of such emotion upon Grace’s face made Edmund wish to see it. To feel her appreciation rather than her cautious curiosity. The longing for a positive connection between them almost faltered his resolve.

But there was no denying the cold hard reality of the situation. They knew so little of the Wardrove and what they did at this point was guesswork. The chances of failure were much higher than success.

How would Grace react if they should not find the Wardrobe? How would her face crumple when their only lead to Spare Oom turned out to be fruitless. Would she blame him for filling her with false hopes?

Edmund did not think he could bare to disappoint Grace without knowing all of the facts, nor could he bare the weight of his sisters’ disapproval from such a foolhardy venture.  

“No,” Edmund resolved, “And neither shall you.”

At this, the narrowed anger of Margrove was clearly read, the hidden emotion blazing from the frustrated flicker it had been, “Why not? Has she not proven herself to you, your Majesty?”

Edmund’s sharp glare cut against the Faun’s own, “It’s no longer proof of Grace’s innocence I am looking for.”

“I do not wish to lie to her any longer,” Margrove insisted.

“Which is why I shall tell you no more,” Edmund groused, irritated by the Faun’s impertinence, “Save you the trouble.”

A hairy hand came down hard upon the edge of the desk. Edmund did not know at what point Margrove had stood – as he’d been too tied up in his own emotions to keep track.

“That isn’t good enough,” The Faun seethed, “She has a right to know what her options are. Either through you or I it does not matter but it must be done.”

Edmund could see it then; behind the aggressive coal irises sat a burning of a different kind. It was similar to a look he’d seen in Lucy’s eyes on many occasion when her injustice of a situation was fuelled by the care she held for their people. It was for this reason only, Edmund softened towards the Faun.

“You are teetering on insubordination, Margrove,” Edmund warned, “Be careful.”

The hard coal split into sections, the light between the cracks that of Margrove’s care for his friend, “I am sorry if my words are seen as such your Majesty but as you have directly involved me in this matter I see no other choice than to speak frankly. Grace has done everything you have asked and proven herself over and over again. I don’t understand why I must be forced to hide this from her.”

The Just King leaned back into his chair with a slow and deliberate grace, placing his hands folded over his lap in a diplomatic stance, “It is not a punishment on you or Grace that I withhold this information. As I have said, I am no longer asking Grace to prove herself.”

Margrove’s eyes crinkled with the confused set of his lips, “Then why?”

“Because I do not know where this road may lead, or if the end of it will have the satisfaction Grace requires,” Edmund admitted, “And I do not wish to disappoint her without knowing first.”

They were clearly not the words the Faun had expected, for as soon as they left Edmund’s lips, Margrove seemed to settle into understanding. The light of his care cracking through dark irises spreading around the explanation Edmund had provided.

“I see,” Margrove echoed his King’s earlier words. Eventually, he calmed enough to seat himself upon the edge of the chaise again, the motion less wobbly than it had been the first time.

“I do not intend to leave her in the dark forever,” Edmund continued, “But to formulate an appropriate plan I need to know all of the facts.”

What Edmund would not admit was that a plan was already half formed in his mind. He’d been turning over the idea of a visit west for over a month now. He knew that he must go himself – as he had described to Susan when Mr Tumnus’s first letter had been delivered – for Susan and Peter were far too busy and Lucy… Well Lucy was the first to stumble into Narnia and Edmund would do his darndest to ensure she was not the first to stumble out of it again.

As he thought, Margrove continued to stare. It held much less weight now that there was no anger within it, however, the Faun still looked uneasy at the prospect of lying to Grace – no matter what Edmund’s reasonings were.

The Just King could tell that his open request to lie to Grace may have bruised the trust Margrove held towards him. It would take time to mend whatever bond this Westerner held to their King, time which Edmund would serve faithfully in penitence, after the matter was settled and done.

“Do not worry yourself over this for now,” Edmund attempted to comfort the Faun, “I swear by the Lion’s Mane that I will do everything in my power to see our friend safely home.”

The words were odd on Edmund’s tongue; not because they were a lie, but rather the idea of Grace returning to Spare Oom – of her having no presence in Narnia at all – was odd to him. He who spent as much time in her company these days as he had his own family.

What would life be like when it was only Edmund and Phillip on their morning rides, when Edmund was alone and isolated in his work once again?

The thought was shaken from his head as Edmund plucked the forgotten letter from the smooth wooden desk top, “If your Uncle’s letter proves half as fruitful as the last, Grace will be home in no time.”

-

The crisp air of the morning found little purchase on Edmund’s skin as he sat atop Phillip’s back.

He’d learned his lesson over the past fortnight, each day adding another layer atop of clothing to help stave off the chill. It was at its worst during the first dark dim hours of the morning, the cold air only amplified by the darkness and the silent tiredness between him and his riding partner leaving little else to think of.

He was grateful when Phillip chimed in, making comments on the different bird songs they heard as they trotted through a worn pathway. The Talking Beast would throw pointers in Grace’s direction every now and then, taking up Edmund’s position of instructor when his mind was otherwise occupied.

Edmund’s thoughts were twisted around the letter he’d received the day before. It held enough information for a scout mission of sorts, one that Edmund knew he would undertake personally.

The question was, would he take Grace with him?

Any argument towards the negative seemed a farce, even to him. It was as if his mind kept on coming up with lacklustre reasons to keep her away from the Wardrobe. Not all of them based in mistrust or pity of her circumstance.

Edmund shoved them all away. None were a match for the simple truth that Margrove had slammed upon the table; Grace deserved to know. She deserved a chance to find out for herself and Edmund would not begrudge her that right.

It was that thought that spurred him into action, “How are you feeling about your riding skills?”

Grace’s bleary eyes snapped to him, “What do you mean?”

“Are you comfortable on the saddle? Is there any part which still causes you hesitation?” Edmund questioned her.

As if reminded, Grace resettled herself on her saddle. The motion spurred Maiden’s hooves forward at a faster pace, however, her rider had the foresight to predict this and easily soothed the Mare back to a walk.

It was a skill Edmund was more than pleased to see. Grace may have been hesitant at first, but she was willing to learn and that nerve had clearly served its purpose in bolstering her confidence as they continued her lessons. Now, Grace was clearly comfortable atop the dumb beasts back, her posture matching the many hours she’d put into learning the trade.

“I think galloping is still a little outside of my scope,” Grace admitted, “I’d imagine that’s nothing that a few more hours of lessons won’t fix, right?”

Edmund nodded, “All skills come with time, practice and a steady hand to guide them.”

His words made her eyebrow quirk sarcastically, “The steady hand in this instance being… yours?”

“Clearly.”

Grace laughed, the sound harmonising with the emerging songs of the woodland birds, “I would call your approach to teaching anything but steady.”

Edmund frowned, “I beg to differ. I have been more than patient whilst overseeing your tutelage.”

There was a small and fond smile on her face which reminded Edmund not to take her words too seriously, “If you call throwing me into cantering on my second day of riding patience then I am afraid you and I have different understandings of the word.”

“You never would have learned otherwise,” Edmund rebuffed.

Grace pretended to muse on the matter a moment longer before assenting, “I suppose you’re right.”

A beat passed before she continued in a most dramatic and Grace-like manner, “What would I have done without your excellent tutelage, your Majesty?”

Edmund tried not to smile as his dark eyes turned skyward, “You’d still be on that beach, threatening to swim back to Spare Oom, I’d guess.”

“And what a fine job I do,” Grace remarked, “I bet I’d make it back before sun down.”

A small glance was all it took to see how her expression had narrowed. Grace’s features were a mixture of thought and yearning in the intermittent sunlight with filtered through the treetops.

“Do you think it would actually work?” Edmund mused, mind whirring with images of the Daughter of Eve floating in the middle of the ocean.

One image was of her floating upon her back, waiting patiently for the ocean to transport her home. The other was abhorrent, her fragile body lying face down, wispy strips of auburn hair darkened by the weight of the sea as it coaxed her lifeless body deeper.

Grace shook her head as she whispered mournfully, “I wouldn’t even get close.”

It seemed her fear of water would save her from either fate. As much as Edmund disliked her look of despair, he was glad that Grace did not willingly run to the end of her life.

Beneath him, Phillip chimed in, “I don’t much like the sea water myself. I much prefer to stick my hooves in the low swelling end of a pond or river. Much less salty and much safer.”

Grace seemed to perk in interest at the omission, “But I thought horses could swim?”

“We can,” Phillip confirmed, “But this Talking Horse in particular prefers the peace of a trickle, rather than the roaring sea. There are many to be found within Narnia, though one must take great care to ask the Naiad of the Water before proceeding.”

Edmund could see the questions piling atop each other in Grace’s mind. She opened and closed her mouth in a manner that was so similar to a fish that Edmund had to hold his lips together to stop his laughter.

Eventually, she settled on one, “Did you have a favourite? Stream or Pond, that is.”

The Talking Horse nodded enthusiastically, “I have a favourite in each region of Narnia I frequent. Whilst we remain at Cair Paravel, I prefer the Sweet Pond for bathing.”

“And the others?”

Phillip did not need to be asked twice, “When I am in the South, I find the Dancing River quite nice. The North can find me amongst the Misty Waterfalls, though, her Naiad is quite feisty. I would not recommend crossing her unless you want to end up with a face full of running water.”

A nervous giggle escaped Grace’s lips in response.

Then, Phillip sighed longingly, “My favourite amongst them all is the Saddling Stream.”

Grace leaned forward in interest, “The Saddling Stream?”

Edmund interjected here, fond memories of his own of the stream in mention, “So named for the oddly shaped rocks that are littered across its surface. They are all worn through the middle by the rush of the water so when they are viewed from a certain angle, they take the shape of a saddle.”

“They’re also quite useful in cleaning ones shoe,” Phillip added lightly as he made an effort to display the shining metal on his sole whilst still walking.

Grace stared after the sun sparkled metal in wonder, “How on earth do you see what needs to be cleaned from it?”

“He doesn’t,” Edmund replied wryly, “Phillip often scratches his hooves past the point he should whenever we visit the stream. The stable hands complain of it endlessly.”

“I feel far cleaner when I complete the scraping myself, Son-Of-Adam,” Phillip chastised.

Edmund grinned at the familiar snooty tone of his friend, choosing  to let the matter drop lest they both show Grace a side she might find uncivilised.

Instead, he shifted the topic slightly leftwards, closer to his original intent, “Perhaps you’ll get to see it in action one day. Though, I doubt you’ll be able to stop Phillip from over chipping himself. Not even I may manage that.”

At this, the Daughter of Eve regarded him curiously, “See it myself? You mean… If I go West?”

“Perhaps,” Edmund edged with false cautiousness.

The half-hearted hope in Grace’s eyes was fleeting and quickly replaced with apprehension, “When would I have the chance to do that?”

The Just King shrugged, “There may be a party gathered soon for such a venture, should you wish to join it.”

“A party?”

“It has become a tradition of mine; To invite Westerners to join me whenever I should choose to visit my Dukedom,” Edmund explained, “They join to see their families, visit their trees or some simply for the sake of pleasure. There’s nothing quite like a summer bonfire in the Dryad’s Grove. I think – should you have the chance to see it – you should like it very well.”

Grace gawked at him in a manner that was unbecoming of formal company. The picture painted by his words clearly enticing to her – even beyond the promise of the Wardrobe in the West which he knew she had an inkling of.

It was better than he’d anticipated. Without the promise of freedom and the honesty of his plan, Edmund did not know how successful he would be in enticing her West. The most obvious solution would have been to reveal all and let the chips fall where they may, but the King still struggled with the unreliability of the situation and the consequences of Grace’s mind should they fail.

But as her blue eyes glistened and her lips parted at the prospect of bonfires under starlight, he became more assured that this course of action would prove the most fruitful. She looked the very picture of a fish ready to bite and Edmund readied his hook in preparation, “In fact, the more I think on it the more I believe it might be quite prudent to go West before the snow sticks to the ground. I do so hate travelling in winter and there are matters that must be settled before the dawn of a new year.”

It wasn’t a lie. There were many matters to be settled and most of them would need his personal attention. Alongside the promise to escort Mr Tumnus to Cair Paravel for the Marriage Treaty talks, the Beavers had put forth a petition for an incursion on their land. Not to mention the tree rot which was spreading throughout the Dryad’s Grove. Perhaps it might be prudent to invite Lilis, considering her own tree was affected.

But there was no easy agreeance or curiosity on her features. In fact, Grace’s face displayed the most infuriatingly confusing expression that Edmund had seen. He could not make head or tail of her emotions from it, other than the obvious internal argument in her mind.

He tried again, voice lofty as if he’d not noticed her hesitation, “I expect it will be a large group. These trips are quite rare so the opportunity is usually seized with gusto. One more human would not be a burden amongst the fray, should you wish to join us.”

There was a flicker which made Edmund believe that she would like to join them, however, it was almost immediately smothered.

“With the Christmas Ball so soon, I’m not sure it would be wise for me to leave right now,” Grace grimaced, “Margrove is relying on my organisation of three performances.”

Edmund’s brow furrowed as his back straightened in inquisition, “Does the Leader of the Orchestra truly rely on you so heavily?”

“Well,” Grace bristled, “I wouldn’t say heavily, per se, but I do have commitments to the Orchestra that likely won’t be dismissed until after Christmas.”

That was far too long. The Just King shifted on Phillip’s back in an effort to dislodge feeling of impatience bouncing between his ribs, “Can nothing be done to remedy the situation? Surely the Orchestra holds others who may undertake the Faun’s will.”

Grace shook her head adamantly, “It wouldn’t feel right. To abandon him now would be like abandoning our friendship. Especially for a holiday.”

Edmund suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, her dramatic conclusion was expected at this point in their acquaintance.

Instead of voicing the thought, Edmund chose a different path of persuasion, “Perhaps I will speak to Margrove myself and see if my Royal Sister, Queen Susan will be an adept replacement during your holiday.”

At Grace’s command, Maiden halted immediately. The Mare made a noise of disapproval, one foot swiping at the dirt pathway with impatience.

Phillip lurched to a sudden stop upon noticing it, the movement thrusting Edmund forwards and nearly onto the Talking Beasts neck.

“You seem awfully concerned with my attendance on this trip, your Majesty,” Grace’s words edged on annoyance, “May I ask the reason.”

Edmund attempted to feign indifference, “Is it so difficult to believe that I simply wish to show you my country?”

“If it was as simple as that then you would just postpone the trip until after Christmas, or perhaps even organise a second one after the Ball has passed?”

“There is a reason these trips are rare,” Edmund argued, “They are no meek feat. It takes days to reach the West with a small group alone. The number of Narnian’s this trip will muster will be twice the size and much slower.”

Maiden shuffled uneasily under her rider and Grace paused briefly to comfort her, “How long?”

Edmund shrugged, “A week there and a week back if the trip proceeds as usual.”

Grace’s brow furrowed with realisation, “We’ll barely make it back in time for the Christmas Ball.”

“But we will make it back,” Edmund enforced. It would be a close call, but if it really came down to it, he would find no qualms with letting Grace ride ahead. That is, if she made it back.

The iteration did nothing to comfort the Daughter of Eve who was shaking her head even more fervently than before.

It seemed beating around the bush was having little effect. If Grace was to agree to such an adventure, she would need to be coaxed appropriately.

“You’re hesitating and I don’t understand why,” Edmund accused lightly, “Is this not what you’ve always wanted? A chance to explore Narnia and attempt to locate the Wardrobe?”

Her stony blue eyes whipped to him, “You don’t know what I want.”

“Oh, but I do, Grace,” Edmund replied, “You’ve stamped your feet behind every order I’ve enlisted to prevent you from your freedom. Why is it now that you balk from it?”

Stone melted under the waves of incoherent emotion and it became apparent to Edmund that not even Grace could answer that question. He softened, feeling any irritation towards her shift as he wondered at the implication of those eyes. Of the mind behind them that seemed to be fighting amongst itself. He knew the feeling well.

Edmund sighed lowly, the sound covered by the now boisterous sound of bird song wafting from the treetops.

Maiden snorted, the Mare’s impatience at her rider clear as a summer sky. Grace urged her forward automatically, her sight still focused unseeingly as she did.

Phillip fell into stride with the Mare wordlessly and Edmund was grateful for his friend’s silence. The peace between the three sentient beings lasting long enough for him to formulate his next steps.

“If I put it to my Royal Sister and she agrees to take over your Orchestral duties, will you come to the West?” Edmund asked with finality.

Grace held still while she thought, the only tells of life being loose strands of auburn hair on the breeze and her hips moving in rhythm to Maiden’s walk. When she emerged from the stand off there was a surety to her face.

“Only if you can convince Margrove to release me.”

It was not smug, but there was a clear resolution that hung in the air between them. She believed the Faun would say no.

Edmund supposed he should be grateful then, for the one card up his sleeve which would ensure the Faun’s agreeance.

Chapter Text

XXXVIII

GRACE

Breakaway – Kelly Clarkson

The wispy crackle of Grace’s voice breaking for the umpteenth time threw her into a frustrated frenzy.

“It’s not use, I’m never going to reach the level we need to perform this correctly!” She ranted into the empty air of the balcony.

Beside her, Lilis stirred from her comfortable lean on the railing, “Perhaps you’re right, it sounds like your voice is straining. Margrove was sure that the change in air might help but I don’t think it is.”

Grace suppressed the slight sting at her friend’s truthfulness, “This song isn’t meant to be sung by a frail human. It’s meant to be a majestic harmony of otherworldly tones. We cannot continue with just yours, one voice will not be enough.”

The Dryad hummed in agreeance, “But there are little left who have the time to learn the song before the ball and of those that are available, there are none that will match your need. You may need to tell Margrove it is a lost cause.”

“How can I?” Grace sunk her forearms onto the marble railing of the balcony, “This is the only song from Spare Oom appropriate for the ball.”

Lilis followed her lead, leaning into her friends side comfortingly, “I’m sure we’ll think of something. Perhaps the song can be reworked into a solo piece.”

“No, it must be sung with at least two voices, I would prefer three or more but as it is we will have to stretch it to two. If only we could find another voice like yours, but fuller somehow – not that your whistly tone is not beautiful,” Grace added the last hastily to not offend the Dryad.

Lilis waved her off, “Then perhaps that would leave you free to support the lower parts.”

Grace nodded, “Are you sure there are none you can think of?”

“It is said our Queen Lucy has the voice of an angel, and considering your friendship with her Majesty…”

Grace’s head shook fervently before Lilis could finish her sentence, “Lucy is as wrapped up in organising the ball as Queen Susan is. There’s Buckley's Chance of that ever happening on such short notice.”

Lilis shook out her vine strung strands of green, one of her long-wrinkled fingers catching a strand to inspect it’s leaves, “Then you will need to apologise to Margrove and admit defeat or convert the song to a Solo.”

Neither option was appealing. Both shrouded with a layer of failure that Grace was not yet ready to admit.

“I’m freezing out here. Let’s go inside.”

The Dryad smiled knowingly as Grace tugged her back to the warmth of the Music Room. Nothing further was said as the symphony of the Orchestra wafted through their ears. The unfamiliar tune was a new masterpiece of Margrove’s own making.

The Faun in question stood at the apex of the semi-circle, his hands waving about in gestures and rhythms of which Grace could only stare at in awe. He’d promised to teach her how someday – only after she had obtained the required knowledge of music.

The Dryad and the Daughter of Eve seated themselves slowly on a padded bench, moving slowly as to not disturb the piles of Sheet Music sat atop the small coffee table at their feet.

“I don’t think I’m ready to give up yet,” Grace whispered as she ogled Margrove’s movements from their seat, “There has to be someone out there who can do it. We simply need to find them.”

Lilis looked to her with bolstering confidence, “Well, if you’re not ready to give up then neither am I. What kind of a friend would I be to leave you in need?”

Grace grinned gratefully as she leant her head tiredly upon the Dryad’s shoulder, “I would not blame you for abstaining from my stubborn foolishness.”

“Why in the Lion’s Name would I abstain when I could join you? One stubborn fool is mad, but two are unstoppable. We’ll search the country if we have to.”

At the proclamation of her faith, Grace felt her heart swell. Her arm entangled with the rough bark of her friends as she joked, “Lord help Narnia.”

They laughed, hearty and tinkling in effortless harmony amongst the array of instruments filtered in the air.

However, all noises were cut short when the door to the Music Room was unexpectedly and most unceremoniously opened.

All eyes turned toward the interruption. Some in accusation, some in curiosity. Any noise dying on the open ends of instruments with a haphazard twang.

Off against a distant wall, a thicket of Dryad’s bubbled with excited voices of various tones. The wispy voices all whispering similarly of the Kingly presence at the door.

King Edmund stood in the opened doorway, fingers on the brass handle as he towered confidently over the threshold.

At once, all in the room stood. Even Grace managed it in her addled state, the removal of Lilis’s shoulder jolting her to attention. There was the sound of shifting fur and paper sheets scraping against stands as the crowd lowered in respectful submission.

“Rise,” The King’s confident voice cut against the awed silence. He regarded the room with a cool calm as the Narnians rose in unison. When his dark eyes at last landed at last on the Leader of the Orchestra, he ushered the Faun forwards with a beckoning hand.

“As you were, everyone,” Margrove called as he hastened towards the King.

The room did as asked, though their curious eyes did not cease to flicker between their work and the conversation happening under the shade of the doorway. Grace was unsure if this was a trait of all Narnians or if it was just the Orchestra that were particularly nosey.

The thicket of Dryad’s were a lost cause, albeit they had not been set to work before the interruption and had no work to return to. They huddled so closely their skin began to mesh together like one robust tree trunk covered with multicoloured moss and vines. The only tell that they were sentient being the giggles and demure glances they threw over their shoulders.

“Perhaps we might run the bridge again?” Lilis suggested, firmly planting herself in the way of Grace’s own view of the King.

Had she been gawking? It was hard to tell amongst the millions of thoughts littering her mind.

She was befuddled by his presence, furthermore the fact that he had undertook a journey to the music room in order to speak to Margrove and not her. What could be so important that it reserved an impromptu audience with the Faun? Surely the trip West was not that important?

When Lilis interfered with her sight again, Grace realised she had moved to continue gawking at the conversation between the Faun and the Just King.

What she had seen was not comforting, for they both shared fleeting looks in her direction; the urgency of their conversation clear in the set of their jaws and the look in their eyes. Whatever the matter was, it certainly concerned her.

“It’s rude to stare,” Lilis admonished, her eyes glistening in warning.

“It’s also rude to interrupt,” Grace returned with a pointed stare at her friends hinderance of her view.

The Dryad did not pick up on the subtlety, “I hardly think anyone can fault a King for an abrupt appearance in his own kingdom.”

As Grace continued to watch what she could behind Lilis’s head, she felt her blood churn and thicken, “I can.”

Margrove took the King’s hand warmly, the smile on his face relieved as the King spoke softly to him. After that, the two parted; Margrove returning with a slight hobble towards the Orchestra seats and King Edmund strutting determinedly towards the exact spot where Grace sat.

She gasped, ducking behind Lilis’s head to shelter her surprise, “He’s coming.”

The Dryad rolled her eyes, “So much for ‘I can’.”

“I can and I will but not right now,” Grace bit back half-heartedly, “Hide me!”

“Grace?”

The two friends froze as if they’d been caught in a misdeed. Grace bristled, the familiar sound of King Edmund’s voice both unexpectedly soothing and terrifying. Hesitantly, she let her eyes meet him, her neck craning with the effort.

She didn’t know what she expected on his features. Whilst the King had become easier to read with their close acquaintance over the past two weeks, Grace still found there were ways he could stretch his face that she did not know of.

The expression he wore now was known to her, though she’d seen little of the warmth in his molten dark eyes during their time together. Any time she might have, the King had been staring ahead in an attempt to avoid any eye contact.

The full brunt of the warmth had coaxed itself gently into his other features; a small crinkle at the corner of his eye that was reminiscent of the Gentle Queens, the light upturn of his lips which was his and his alone. In a word, he looked hopeful.

A sheet of parchment was proffered towards her, it’s smooth texture littered with ink markings of all shapes and sizes.

“I have spoken to my Royal Sister and she has agreed to take over your duties with the Orchestra until your return,” The Just King’s dark eyes flickered briefly to the group of musicians who continued to blow, strum and stroke noise from their instruments, “Margrove has also agreed to your release.”

So it was regarding the trip West. A heavy pit began to form in Grace’s abdomen as she took the sheet, “Well then, it seems you’ve ordered things nicely, Your Majesty.”

The King did not pick up on the uncertainty in her voice as he responded with an easy smile, “I will expect you in the Courtyard at dawn tomorrow, then.”

Grace gaped in surprise, “Dawn?”

King Edmund eyed her meaningfully, “If our departure is delayed we may not make it back in time for the Christmas Ball. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll return.”

At the thought of yet another early morning, Grace visibly slumped. It would not be so bad if she could muster the appropriate enthusiasm for the journey but as it was…

When the Just King had first proposed the trip yesterday, something hadn’t sat right with her. It was upon further inspection and his insistence that she realised that she didn’t want to leave yet.

Grace was not ready to face a return to Spare Oom where she would have been declared missing for months now. Grace was not ready to leave a litany of untied matters in her wake of departing Narnia. Of course she still wanted to go home, that much remained mostly clear to her but was there something wrong with wanting to live in the reality she’d turned into home for a little while longer?

Spare Oom could wait, Narnia still had so much to offer.

The thought churned at her mind in an uncomfortable way. It was as if she’d been stirring the contents of her thoughts in one direction all of her life and then suddenly changed. It was not an easy victory. The current of her mind continued to flow in its old direction, fighting vehemently against the spoon which had begun to force the other way.

The task was becoming easier; with the promise of long nights spent humming and composing with Margrove, the moments Lucy would steal with her where they would vent until the stars we’re overtaken by sunlight, the mornings spent exclusively in the complex and shifting presence of King Edmund the Just.

The King in question who was now speaking to her friend, “You are welcome too, Lilis. I’d imagine you’ve wanted to check on your counterpart for a while.”

The Dryad nodded fervently, “Oh, may I, your Majesty? I would like to see how the tree rot is healing.”

“Of course,” King Edmund agreed warmly, “Then perhaps whatever the two of you are working on may be continued?”

At the prospect, Lilis gripped Grace’s hand with realisation, “Perhaps we might find the voice we are looking for?”

Grace nodded automatically, the joy upon the Dryad’s face barely touching her own as her thoughts continued in a downward spiral, “Perhaps we will.”

If the King noticed her absence of mind, he did not comment upon it, thought it was clear he had noticed something from the concerned look he threw her way. Nonetheless, he didn’t press the matter in a public space. For that Grace was grateful.

“I’ll leave you to your work then,” King Edmund nodded, “See that everything on that list is packed if you own it. If there is anything you don’t own, please advise me immediately.”

As quickly as the King came, he left. Leaving the Daughter of Eve and her Dryad companion reeling from the fleeting conversation and its implications.

Lilis attempted to pry Grace from her shell, “This is good, isn’t it? You and Margrove have spoken repeatedly of the land of War Drobe and it’s connection to the West… Perhaps you might find it?”

The thought bolstered the current fighting against the spoon of her will.

“Perhaps,” Grace echoed emptily as her eyes fixated on Margrove’s back, “I wouldn’t want to hold out any hope.”

Lilis scolded her, but the effect held little on Grace’s muted senses as her vision tunnelled on the Faun. What had King Edmund said to make him agree? She could feel the curiosity and irritation ball her hands into fists, her overgrown nails cutting against the soft pads of her hands.

“Will you excuse me, Lil?”

Grace did not wait for her friends answer, barely registering the feeling of the edge of her skirts hitting the floor as she stood from the cushioned bench. Within ten seconds her hand was wrapped halfway around Margrove’s forearm and another ten next saw them both in the chilled air of the balcony.

Grace shivered but did not retreat from the icy breeze. The privacy the outside air provided would have to be borne if she did not wish to announce her thoughts to the entirety of the Music Room.

“You agreed?” Grace demanded upon releasing the Faun’s arm.

Margrove grimaced, one hand rubbing over the skin as he replied, “Yes I did.”

Grace groaned, “You were supposed to say no.”

At this, the Faun’s brow furrowed, “I was supposed to? When did we discuss that? Do you think I can read minds, Grace?”

Grace ignored the question, a rant building precariously like a tower of cards upon her lips, “Why on earth would you agree to my departure when we’re two weeks from the Christmas Ball and well behind on the schedule?”

“Why would I?” The Faun spluttered, “What do you mean ‘Why would I’? Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I am needed here,” Grace explicated, “You have been tearing your hair out over planning this for weeks. I can’t imagine it will be any easier for you with me gone.”

“You are overestimating your value in this matter,” The Faun attempted to soothe her.

The words did little to soothing Grace’s anger, if anything they plunged her into a darker mind then she’d previously been in, “I am overestimating my value?”

Margrove’s coal eyes widened, immediately fixating upon his mistake. He held up a finger, “Wait, you know that isn’t how I meant it. I’m sorry.”

The feeling of hurt held aloft in the air, not entirely settled but not removed either.

“Explain,” Grace gritted through clenched teeth.

“The music is set. You and I have worked on it as much as possible,” Margrove turned his palms inwards, placing them upon his chest, “Now the matter of teaching it to the orchestra lies with me. I know that you are still working with Lilis on the song from Spare Oom but His Majesty, King Edmund advised she would be joining you on the journey. Surely you can take your practice abroad?”

His expression was much like Lilis’s had been moments ago. There was the shared look of concern, of bargaining. Grace was beginning to wonder if this whole matter was turning her insane. She felt it, the tumultuous battle which had raged in her mind ever since Lucy had planted the idea of staying. Now that the opportunity to imagine such a life had fallen out of the box, it had become difficult to return it again. It was as if it fought, scratching its fingers at her sanity as she tried to imprison it.

“We can,” Grace acceded, “But there is more work to do that just that.”

Margrove sighed softly as he grasped both of her hands in his thick calloused fingers, “Yes there is. Work that Her Majesty, Queen Susan has enlisted to help with.”

“Queen Susan has far more important matters to deal with.”

“I think you’ll find there is little below Her Majesties nose when it comes to hard earned work. The Queen is a pillar of the South where such things are celebrated. She has been in your position long before your arrival,” Margrove tilted his head as he eyed Grace knowingly, “And she will remain long after you have returned to Spare Oom.”

Grace tried to hold firm against the emotions inside her. The stress of it made her feel ill and it was at that moment she was glad to be near an edge where there would be little consequences should she need to empty her stomach.

Despite the green tint to his friends skin, Margrove continued, “We will be well looked after. This leaves you free of any obligations which could get in the way of you returning home.”

If the first was a reminder the second was a blow. Grace head shook as she gripped the balcony railing. The cool marble doing very little to sooth the heat of her palms.

“I don’t understand,” Margrove’s cautious tones could barely be heard over the buzzing in her ears, “I thought this is what you wanted? Why are you upset?”

“I don’t know,” Grace breathed a deep and shuddering breath, “I’ve been here for months now Margrove. What if there is nothing waiting for me when I get back. What if I regret leaving Narnia?”

“What if you- what?” The disbelief was clear in her friends voice as he placed a hand upon her clothed shoulder, “Grace, do you not wish to return home?”

The Daughter of Eve leaned heavily upon the banister, “I told you, I don’t know.”

“But you still wish to find the Wardrobe, right?”

The idea was equally resented and yearned for. The emotions pulling Grace so far within herself she could only manage another dull response, “I don’t know.”

At the third repeat, Margrove had enough. The sharp yet muted feeling of the smack upon her dress covered shoulder brought her eyes to the incredulous fire behind the Faun’s.

“Come to your senses,” He scolded, “What do you mean by whispering forlornly like that. ‘I don’t know’, what a poor excuse.”

“Mar, I-”

“No,” The Faun cut her off, “You be quiet, it’s my turn to speak. What do you mean by this behaviour? You’ve done nothing but cry about Spare Oom ever since you’ve set foot on Narnian soil and now you’ve somehow managed to flip it the other way around. By the Lion’s Mane, I can’t imagine what has altered you so suddenly.”

“It isn’t sudden,” Grace defended, “I’ve been here for nearly two months.”

Margrove shook his head, “Since our initial conversation of the Wardrobe you have returned to me six times asking after my Uncle’s response. The most recent was a few days ago. Whatever has happened has taken place since then.”

“You said your Uncle has given no reply on those matters,” Grace returned.

“But we know the Wardrobe is in the West,” The Faun rebuffed, “The very place that King Edmund is taking you. Why aren’t you seeing this for the opportunity that it is?”

Grace’s denial felt stronger than it actually was, “We don’t know the Wardrobe is in the West, those are only rumours. If your Uncle had confirmed such a prospect then maybe I would be more inclined to feel excited but he hasn’t and the King has not said anything about his intentions to let me go. Why would I allow myself to feel hope over nothing? Why would I give up the life I have built here with you, Lil and Lucy over a rumoured portal.”

“It’s not rumoured,” Margrove rolled his eyes, “The Kings and Queens have travelled through it themselves.”

“And not even they know where it lies,” Grace whisper screamed, her eyes wide and pointed with incredulity.

“Careful,” Margrove warned, “Remember where you are.”

Grace took a deep breath, “I can’t allow myself to hope, Mar. I have worked too hard to keep my expectations low and have only just begun to come to terms with the idea that I may never return home. This all feels too sudden.”

The Faun’s onyx eyes crinkled with concern as he gently wrapped an arm across her back, “You have fought against hope because previously there was no chance of your return. Now, you’ve managed to worm your way past the defences of the one monarch who stood in your way. The board has changed, there is no reason for you to hold on to fear any longer.”

Something in Grace scoffed at the idea of King Edmund trusting her. He’d yet to officially say as such, regardless of the animosity which had dissolved between them. Further to that, there was no such look in his eye – not that Grace would know it if she saw it in their dark depths.

Perhaps there was something to what Margrove suggested. Whilst she had not seen flat out trust, there had been warmth, interest and – if her assumption of their earlier conversation was correct – hope.

Margrove watched her expression with deep seated knowing. Sometimes, Grace swore the faun could see directly into her soul.

“Your choices are not as limited as you believe them,” He continued, “You should take the King’s offer. Go West, see my home. Who knows, perhaps you’ll stumble across my Uncle. I’m sure if you ask him kindly enough he would show you to the Waste where he first met the Queen Lucy.”

Grace could envision it; a thick blockade of trees, just like Margrove had described to her, broken into a precarious circle. The pillar at the middle of living iron. The details were vague as Margrove had only heard the story whilst young, choosing instead to study the older histories of Narnian lore in his later youth.

It was there, so clear in her mind’s eye, yet somehow frosted like she was seeing it through glass. The glass of her prison.

Grace’s hair bobbed in the wind like dying flames, “The King has still not advised that I can leave. He has only offered to show me the West. Unless there is something that you know and I don’t, I refuse to hope that I’ll even be allowed to leave if we do find the Wardrobe.”

A flicker of emotion crossed the Faun’s face, barely perceptible before his expressions closed off again. Though she did not catch it, the brief hesitation was enough to make her question him.

Grace’s grey eyes narrowed, “Do you know something?”

Margrove’s expression softened into an easy smile that did not reach his coal eyes, “There is no way I possibly could. Of the two of us, you are the one that holds the King’s intimate attentions. You are alone with him far more often than I.”

“You’re dodging the question,” Grace observed.

“No,” Margrove rebuffed, “I’m simply not giving you the answer you want.”

Another evasion. It became difficult for Grace to see through the blur of her lashes, her eyes narrowing far into the suspicion she felt. She could question him, try to find some way to trick the answers out the Faun. Try being the operative word, in a lot of ways Margrove was just as stubborn as she was, if not more. She’d have better luck getting the information out of King Edmund, himself.

She supposed if Margrove was hiding something, the only way to find out the truth would be to follow his advice and go to the West. One answer lied in finding the Wardrobe, the other was tethered to her inevitable return when she would hound him for an answer to no end.

The first jolted against the old current of her mind. The spoon faltering slightly as she considered the outcome openly. She could go home, if that was what Margrove was so secretly trying to tell her. Within two weeks from now she could enter the doors of the Wardrobe and end up somewhere on Earth.

There was little hope in Grace’s mind that she would return back to her bed, considering how far she’d travelled from her initial entry point. Is that how it worked? Was there some kind of multiversal distance that was linked between worlds. Where would she end up when she entered the Wardrobe?

The spoon rattled, a sharp reminder of the alternative. If she chose to stay, what would her life be like? Endless evenings discussing music over plates of food with Margrove? A litany of balls and processions of Queen Susan’s making? A lifetime under the watchful eyes of both Kings of Narnia? There was one point that stood out amongst the rest, one that she actually felt herself yearn for.

“What happens if I get to the door and I can’t do it?” Grace voiced.

The hairy arm across her back gave her a comforting squeeze, “When you reach the end of this road, I think we both know the choice you will make. Perhaps it might reinforce your decision if I were to remind you that none of us would blame you for it. Not I or Lilis or Queen Lucy the Valiant,” Margrove leaned in to whisper the last, “Not even his Majesty, King Edmund.”

Grace scoffed, “I don’t think King Edmund will feel any kind of way about my departure apart from relief. I’d imagine he’d watch me leave personally just to ensure I’m not harbouring any confidential information regarding Narnia.”

Margrove fixed her with a stern look, “If it were two weeks ago, I might agree with you… but it isn’t. Time has passed and you both have come leaps and bounds from where you once were. He’s trying Grace, perhaps you should let him.”

An unintentional brow rose on the Daughter of Eve’s disbelieving face, “Let him? How on Earth do I let a king do anything?”

“By obeying his wishes,” Margrove began obviously, “And following him West.”

Grace sighed, a long and drawn-out noise. Perhaps it would be fine. Perhaps they would go all the way there to find nothing and Grace would be free of this troublesome stirring of emotions.

Or maybe they would locate the Wardrobe and upon seeing it Grace would know immediately what her decision was.

Either way, there was nothing to be gained by siting at Cair Paravel, wringing her hands for the rest of her life over ‘what if’s’.

“Fine,” Grace relented, “But I still remain that if we find the Wardrobe, I will be the one who decides. Not you or the King or anyone else.”

Margrove looked at her like that much was obvious, “I do not believe that even Aslan himself would take that right from you.”

Grace watched as the mention of the Great Lion alighted the Faun’s features with something otherworldly, something she still could not understand.

She was shaken from her gawking when Margrove clapped his hands together.

“Now,” He settled, “I’m afraid I will be little to no use on the steps of Cair Paravel in my addled state and as it is, you will need to sleep soon if you are to wake up at a reasonable hour.”

Grace grumbled hopelessly at the thought, unsure how she was supposed to sleep with such an adventure on the tide of the morning.

In a fit of thought, the Faun hobbled back within the archway of the Music Room, the only tell that he would be returning being the finger he pointed in her direction as he disappeared. When he reemerged, it was with pink cheeks of effort and a very familiar looking instrument in the palm of one hairy hand.

Grace eyed the instrument interestedly, was Margrove going to sing her a good bye song? Given the emotion of the moment, she wasn’t sure she could take such a thing without tears.

It turned out the gesture was far worse.

“Here,” Margrove said, holding out the smoothed and strung wood in the air between them, “I want you to have this.”

The burn of Grace’s eyes was nothing compared to that of her chest as she stared at the instrument like it was a foreign entity, “Mar-”

The Faun shook his head stubbornly, “I will not take any refusal from you, Grace. It is a gift, one you will accept.”

When the lute was thrust forwards again, Grace took it, the familiar warmth of the wood on the pads of her fingertips causing tears to well over her lashes.

“I don’t know how to play,” Grace whispered as her fingers ran over the grainy wood.

Margrove leaned forwards as if he meant to tell her some great secret, “Then you’ll need to find someone to teach you.”

Through the thick fog of sadness, Grace knew there was no one on Earth who could probably teach her to play with the same accuracy as one in Narnia. She then made a silent oath to herself to learn before she left. At least then, Grace would have something to take home with her. Something to remember this country by.

“Thank you,” Grace choked as she clawed the bulbus bottom of the lute closer to her chest, “I don’t know if it will follow me to Spare Oom, but if it does I will treasure it always.”

The small smile Margrove gave her was watery too, “I won’t be there tomorrow to say goodbye. If it suits you, I will say it now-”

“We don’t know that I’m leaving. I could come back in two weeks just the same as I am now,” Grace protested.

Margrove took her softly by the shoulders, “But we cannot be certain and I could not forgive myself if you left before we had the chance.”

Grace’s tears were well and truly falling now. The Lute remaining cemented to her fingers as it was thrown across the Faun’s back. She burrowed herself into her friends shoulder, the whispered goodbyes and thank you’s too painful to commit to memory permanently.

When they parted, both were teary eyed. A remarkable mixture of coal in the ocean as each committed the other to memory.

“I wouldn’t be sane if it weren’t for you, or Lucy or Lilis,” Grace whispered, “How on earth will I survive without you?”

Margrove’s lips pressed into a firm line to keep the lower from wobbling, “You will survive in the land you call home. The place where you belong.”

His words elicited an instinctive tug. It was almost physical in nature, like someone had tied a string to an organ just below her lungs, a string which tugged her backwards with vehement fury.

Something inside Grace revolted against the sentence in a way that couldn’t be denied, “I’m not so certain that is true anymore.”

Margrove knew it, Grace could see it in his eyes. His words had felt just as untrue to him as they did to her.

There was no need for pretence between them, the Faun clearly saw her struggle between the person she was on Earth and in Narnia. To speak it a loud however, would be a crime to both for it was not his choice, but hers to decide.

Grace wiped at her cheek with a hasty sniffle, “Since we’re sharing gifts, I have something to offer.”

Ever curious, Margrove could not hide the interest that sidled aside the sadness of his features.

“There is a stack of unfinished music in my room,” Grace described, “It is kept in the locked drawer of my left bedside table.”

As her friends excitement started to bubble, Grace lifted a finger in warning, “It is not to be accessed unless you know for certain I am gone.”

“You have my honor as your Orchestra Leader. The music will not be touched until you have left Narnia permanently.”

But Grace could see the impatience in his eyes, something which she knew would probably give way nearly immediately.

In a last-ditch effort to assure her things would not be in an absolute mess when she returned, Grace levelled a final warning towards the Faun, “I mean it Margrove. I’m giving the key to Lilis. When she returns without me, she will give it to you. But if she finds that you have broken into my personal things again without my consent I will tell her to…”

The words died on her lips. There were images of things Grace could threaten him with but she knew somehow they would have little effect.

Margrove eyed her impertinently, clearly interested in whatever on earth she could threaten him with, “To… what?”

The cheek made her want to wring his neck, to tie him up with his own lute strings and hang him from the balcony. Then, Grace caught sight of the lute in question, the thinner end gripped in her palm perfectly shaped for one particular threat.

“I will tell her to shove an instrument so far up your behind you’ll be screaming in G Minor for a month.”

Chapter Text

XXXIX

GRACE

Breakaway – Kelly Clarkson

As Grace descended the courtyard steps, she couldn’t stop shivering.

She didn’t understand how; Lilis had to have helped her into at least three layers of clothing and a cloak that morning.

The deep brown material fluttered behind her with the air of her movement. Perhaps it was the movement that was causing any warm air to escape? In response, Grace gripped the trim of the cloak together with her frozen fingers.

The shadowed frigid air of the courtyard did little to help the temperature and since the morning sun still sat behind the bleached golden stones of Cair Paravel, there was no help to be obtained there either. Grace doubted there could be any reliance of its warmth until they were out of the Cair’s shadow completely.

The stone steps boasted many Narnians of all shapes and sizes. Some friends bidding Westerners farewell as they joined the visit to their home. For Grace it was a heartwarming view, if not a little overshadowed by the similar yet more permanent goodbye she had shared with Margrove the afternoon before.

The haphazard strap attached to her bag slipped from her shoulder as she reached the gravel of level ground. Upon her steps disturbing it, Grace searched for sight for Lilis, Lucy or King Edmund. Disappointingly, none were in sight.

Well.. at least she was not late for a change.  

Her eyes at last landed on the familiar sight of Maiden, who had been saddled and groomed and currently had her face stuffed in a bucketful of something held by a Stable Hand. Her sandy coat looked odd in the dim purplish light of still morning, yet somehow it was the brightest thing that could be seen in the courtyard.

Grace nodded to the Stable Hand gratefully, knowing that the beast was meant for her. Well… she hoped it was. There wasn’t a chance that King Edmund would make her walk to the West… would he?

When she caught sight of the familiar swishing black tail of Phillip, Grace sighed in relief. If he was riding, then there was little chance he’d submit Grace to walking.

Slowly, Grace began to lift the sack to the Mare’s back. The Stable Hand called out to her, giving soft instruction on how to attach it to Maiden’s saddle. Grace followed it easily, allowing the material to split evenly and prevent an unbalanced journey.

When Grace turned to thank the Stable Hand, she found him bent low in respect to something behind her. She whirled, the motion causing the brown fold of her hood to smack against her cheek; but instead of the perceptive dark eyes of King Edmund, she was met with the clear blues of someone else.

There – somehow still shining and magnificent despite the lack of sunlight – stood the High King himself, watching her with that same effervescent glint in his eye that he always seemed to hold.

“I do hope you were planning to say good bye before your departure,” King Peter arched a brow, “I’d imagine Lucy would be heartbroken to be bereft of the opportunity.”

Grace lowered her eyes as her body followed into an automatic curtsey, “Of course.”

“Rise,” The High King ordered softly, only continuing once she had, “I was rather pleased to hear you would be joining my Royal Brother on this trip. Perhaps you might be of some use to Us by ensuring he makes it to the Western Woods safely.”

“I will endeavour to assist,” Grace replied wryly, “But I don’t know how much help I’d be.”

King Peter leaned towards her, “Then perhaps just make sure he actually makes it there within the week. Edmund is so often late coming back from these trips and our Royal Sister is quite concerned that he won’t return in time for the Christmas Ball.”

Grace nodded, “That, I think I can help with.”

The answering smile was brilliant, “Good. In saying that, I think you are to be congratulated. You’ve handled the situation with my Royal Brother very well. Despite his every dispute on the matter, might I add.”

Grace returned his happy expression, “Well, I wish I could take all the credit… but I think I had help in high places.”

The glint brightened at her recognition, “You’re welcome. For my and both of my Royal Sisters parts in the matter.”

There was a shared look of understanding between the two. Stony, grounded blue against that of the wide-open sky. Grace wouldn’t want to get too ahead of herself – considering this was the member of the Tetrarchy of whom she had the least acquaintance to – but there was an odd sort of comradery that had built between them. She wouldn’t necessarily call it friendship but the High King’s efforts in shepherding her towards the position she was in today was certainly not nothing.

The High King offered a hand in the air between them, “Farewell, then.”

Grace took it and the squeeze offered from his calloused grip with a sad smile, “Thank you for allowing me to stay here.”

“You are welcome anytime,” King Peter grinned, “If you ever find yourself in Narnia again, please do not hesitate to come back. I’m sure Lucy would be overjoyed.”

Grace’s smile faltered at the idea, the weight of the decision she would face at the Wardrobe still lying heavily on her shoulders.

If the High King noticed, he did not comment on it. He simply lowered his head in a nod of respect before stalking off. Grace followed his form as he marched determinedly in the direction of Phillip and his rider who was now saddling various items upon his back.

“I told you this would be you soon enough,” A bright and cheery voice entered from behind her.

Grace did not need to whip around this time, she did not start at the smooth and comforting voice of her friend.

Lucy looked as she always did, dressed in bright and cheerful colours despite the hour of the morning. At her side, Queen Susan watched on with a sleepy sincerity.

Grace curtseyed again, if only for Queen Susan’s benefit, but it was not to last for the bone crushing hug the Younger Queen tugged her into.

“I’m so sorry to see you go,” Lucy whispered mournfully, “But I know this is what you have wished for.”

A lip quivered on Grace’s face as she gripped her friend with equal vehemence. She would miss Lucy more than anyone or anything. Her first friend in Narnia and by no doubt the truest.

When they parted, it was with wet cheeks and glisteningly red rimmed eyes and Grace almost laughed at her perfect mirror.

“If I could stay forever I would,” She whispered in return. There was no buts ands or ifs, for she knew that any reason she had to return to Spare Oom was faltering under the weight of the life she had built in Narnia.

“We would have you,” Queen Susan claimed from Lucy’s left, “If you chose to stay here with Us. Please do not think we wish for your departure.”

The open and earnest look in the Gentle Queen's eyes made Grace’s heart swell as she swore, “I could never.”

Queen Susan smiled sadly and in a motion much softer than her sisters, pulled Grace into her arms. Her warmth was comforting and unexpectant and for a moment Grace allowed herself to relax.

The moment was fleeting however, and when the Gentle Queen pulled away, Grace found her mind swirling with its regularly scheduled nonsense.

Queen Susan let them alone after that, sweeping off after the High King to see off their brother.

Lucy continued to watch Grace with a sad expression, her big blue eyes welling with unshed tears. The sight was heartbreaking.

It couldn’t be helped when Grace pulled her friend into a bone breaking hug of her own. She wished that there was some way to convey the depth of gratitude she felt towards the Valiant Queen.

“Now now,” Lucy sniffled as she drew back from the embrace, “We can’t be shedding too many tears. For all we know, you might not even be leaving for good.”

Grace dragged an already wet sleeve over her eyes, her head bobbing in a jittery nod, “You’re right.”

The two held fast, staring at each other with equally welling eyes.

“Is that bad?” Lucy whispered lowly, “That I want you to stay?”

Grace shook her head, “Absolutely not. We all have a right to our wants, the fact that you respect mine so well only shows that you are good.”

The Valiant Queen smiled wobblingly, “I wouldn’t say that I’m so good. I did consider crashing your trip with an emergency.”

“Oh really?” Grace’s brows rose in interest, “What were you planning?”

“I was thinking a small fire in the music room or Edmund’s study. Something that might set either party back enough where you’d have to stay and clean up the mess,” Lucy grinned devilishly.

The brief image of the fire Grace had smothered but two weeks ago made a raw entrance into her mind. Perhaps the Valiant Queen would not need help in burning down King Edmunds office.

Grace laughed, “That’s terrible! Poor Margrove is already tearing his hair out from stress and don’t even get me started on your brother!”

Lucy joined her, both laughs turning to mist in the morning air, “That is the only reason I didn’t go through with it.”

The moment passed and both women were faced with the reality under their thick soled feet. Grace settled immediately into mourning for her friend, but Lucy didn’t quite meet her there.

Instead, the Valiant Queen’s face thinned in thought and hope, “You know, I don’t think this will be the last time we’ll see each other.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, “You don’t? How could you know?”

The determined blue of her friends eyes was unmistakeably exact, “I just do.”

In the moment of perplexed confusion, Grace could only stare after her friend and her unwavering faith.

“It’s not a vision,” Lucy explained, “But I just know that somehow, someplace, we’ll be together again.”

Grace nodded, though only in following for what the Queen muttered was inconceivable… unless she could return to Narnia after she’d settled things on Earth…

That image was shut into a box as soon as it was opened as Grace refused to let her hope dangle on such an extreme outcome.

“Perhaps it will be in Spare Oom?” Grace suggested before adding hastily, “Not that I would ever wish for you to leave your people.”

Lucy shrugged, a sign there was no offence, “Perhaps it will be. The will of Aslan is difficult to predict, but we must accept it with grace when it comes.”

That otherworldly look that Margrove bore the day before was mirrored in the ocean waves of the Queen’s eyes. There were so many emotions Grace tried to pair with it – awe, hope, faith, righteousness – but none seemed to fit exactly.

The light dimmed, but did not dissolve completely. Instead, it sidled behind a gaze of serious schooling.

“Now,” The Valiant Queen began, “If you’re going to be travelling anywhere there is one thing you absolutely must learn.”

Grace blanked on what such a lesson could be, “Which is?”

Lucy’s knowledgeable look gave way to the obvious, “Navigation.”

She pointed to the sky, lowering it in the direction of where Grace knew the Eastern Ocean sat behind the Cair’s walls, “This is East. It is the way the sun rises.”

In a similar motion in the opposite direction Lucy described the West, the direction in which the sun sets.

“And here,” She described as she followed a trail between the two points, “Is the line in which the sun travels. If you are heading towards that line, you are going North and away is South.”

Grace nodded as she committed the lesson to memory, noting that the line Lucy drew was slightly off centre in the sky, a trait which she assumed was due to the Winter season.

The Valiant Queen took a hold of Grace’s shoulders. The motion looking very close to one that might be taken when trying to knock some sense into someone.

She spoke very seriously, “If you get lost, follow the morning sun eastward. From all of the eastern points in Narnia you can see Cair Paravel. Come home to us.”

Grace nodded again, wordless in the face of her friends seriousness. There was doubt in her thoughts however, for why on god’s green earth would Grace get lost? Were they going to gallop all the way to the West?

Lucy shook her gently by the shoulders, “I’m going to need a vocal response Grace. If you get lost, promise me you’ll return to the Cair.”

“Alright, I promise,” Grace returned quietly, still perturbed by the idea of being left behind by the group.

A sigh of relief left Lucy’s lips as she pulled Grace into another hug, “Good. On that note, I expect to see you back in two weeks’ time and if I don’t, I look forward to the day we’ll meet again.”

It was oddly comforting, the Queen’s certainty that they would see each other again. That she would be just as ecstatic to see her in this world or in the world she used to call home. It settled something within her. Both the spoon and the current slowing for a brief moment of peace.

When Lucy pulled away, she took Grace’s hand. Using the linked appendage to pull them both towards the trio of monarchs chatting amiably by Phillips side.

The Just King stood with his head level to a point on the Talking Beasts back, buckling leather strap into place.

Grace blanched and before she could stop herself, uttered, “I thought it was looked down upon to saddle a Talking Beast.”

“Don’t fret Daughter of Eve,” Phillip called back towards her, “It’s more for my benefit than his. The human tends to chafe my back on longer rides.”

Lucy grinned as she linked an arm through Grace’s, “No doubt you’ve noticed these two hold a special bond. I wouldn’t try to understand it, we barely do and we’ve watched it grow over these past thirteen years.”

King Edmund slid back from underneath Phillip, taking a moment to rattle the leather strap to test its security, “I don’t believe even we understand it, do we Phil?”

The Chestnut Talking Horse knickered a laugh in response.

When everything was situated, the Just King stepped back to admire his work.

Grace admired it too, it was the first time she’d seen him handle a saddle, though she felt she shouldn’t have been so surprised that he’d wrangled it into place so easily.

When it was clear nothing out of place, King Edmund exhaled deeply and ran a hand through his hair, “Alright, is there anything I’ve forgotten?”

To Grace’s right, Lucy made a subtle noise to obtain her brothers attention.

The King grinned, his arms open and ready for her when she launched into them.

Grace looked away from the show of affection – she felt it wasn’t right to watch such an intimate moment between siblings.

It was a good thing she did, for if she hadn’t, Grace might have missed the stark white coat of the beast galloping across the courtyard.

The stark white talking horse who was galloping towards them.

“By the Lion’s Mane,” Gasped Queen Susan as the horsed stuttered to an unsteady stop just short of Grace’s face.

Someone tugged her back by an arm – Grace didn’t have the time to look but the grip was insistent enough that she did not question it.

“Ho there, Filly!” The High King called in a boisterous tone, “What has you in such a rush this morning?”

“Begging your pardon, your Majesties,” The Talking Horse replied as she bowed her head in respect. Her glittering silver hair falling swiftly across her muzzle and back again as she raised it just as quickly, “I was just notified of the planned trip West and wished to lay a petition to join it.”

“But you hold no ties to the West,” King Edmund spoke questioningly, his deep voice reverberating against the back of Grace’s head, “Why should you wish to undertake such a venture?”

Then, Filly looked directly towards Grace. Her sparkling clear eyes alight with determination, “At first I did not think to come, sire. It was only upon hearing that my friend was to undertake such a journey, I decided to claim my right to shepherd her.”

Phillip made a noise of outrage from his stance ten paces away, “What utter nonsense! Please pay her no heed, your Majesties for the filly does not know what she asks.”

Filly stamped her foot stubbornly, “I do know what I ask and I demand my rights be agreed to in accordance with the laws of Narnia,” Then, she muttered petulantly, “If Phillip gets a human then so do I.”

“You do not get a human you silly foal,” The chestnut Talking Beast reprimanded her, “The bond that I hold with the Just King is long lasting and singular. It is not something to be wielded in a day.”

“If you’d been paying any attention at all then you might have seen that Grace and I’s friendship has flowered over more than a day. Or do the days truly seem so long to you – you shrivelled old raisin – that two weeks can be counted as one.”

The King released Grace’s arm and she absentmindedly covered the spot where his grip burned through her dress.

“By virtue of paragraph F of subsection 9 of section 4 of the Talking Beasts Act 1003, it is a right that she holds,” The Just King quoted with authority.

Grace swivelled her head just in time to see a look of decisive understanding pass between the two Kings.

Then High King Peter took off where King Edmund had left, “If that is your wish Filly-”

“Starlight,” The pale coated Talking Horse corrected.

The High King spluttered, “Pardon?”

“Apologies your Majesty,” Filly lowered her head again in respect, “I also invoke the right as a Talking Beast to choose my own name and henceforth wish to be known as Starlight.”

“Preposterous!” Protested Phillip, “Filly is a fine name, there is no need to change it!”

“It is the name of a child!” Starlight returned obstinately.

Phillip snorted, “You are a child!”

“Enough,” King Peter ordered, one hand holding the peace of the air, “Filly’s – sorry, Starlight’s wishes are to be respected in accordance with our laws.”

To his right, Lucy nodded vehemently, “If your wish is to change your name then your choice will be upheld in the Court of Aslan.”

“As to your other request,” King Edmund edged, “The matter is not yours alone to decide.”

In a moment that was almost embarrassing, all eyes turned to Grace. She blushed under the attention, the weight of the King’s words heavy on her mind.

Starlight had made a declaration of her intent, but it was up to Grace whether she would grant it.

Slowly, Grace shuffled towards the Talking Horse. She met her face on, holding her hand hesitantly in the air between them.

Starlight met it with her muzzle as if on instinct.

“I didn’t spend time with you in the hopes of something like this, you know?” Grace murmured lowly, “I wouldn’t ask anything of you that would be considered demeaning.”

Starlight sniffed, “I’m offended that you would believe I’d be so easily swayed.”

When Grace did not seem satisfied by the response, the Talking Horse continued, “I do not offer out of obligation, nor is this a service. If this is to be your last ride in Narnia, I would claim it as my own.”

A small smile grew on Grace’s features, “Hoping to be included in the ballad Margrove will write about my unlikely adventure?”

Starlight grinned in a very horse like manner, “Absolutely.”

Her tone eased some of Grace’s nervousness; at least with a Talking Beast at her side there would be little chance of her getting lost and Grace would have a chance to say a proper goodbye.

Grace’s hand lifted shakily from Starlight’s pale muzzle as she stretched to look back at the Just King.

He was watching her evenly. There was no trace of any emotion – disapproval or otherwise – in his perfectly poised features. It didn’t take much, just a few seconds of a shared glance for King Edmund to understand her meaning.

He gave one solemn nod, “Very well then.”

At the clear agreeance, Starlight let out a neigh of victory, “Pictorian, take that stock and saddle from Maiden’s back! I shall be ferrying Grace today.”

She strutted off to the Stable Hand in question, her silver tail swishing with a level of glee that Grace was certain would piss Phillip off.

The presence of King Edmund joined her then, those few easy steps enough to shelter her in his shadow.

Grace shivered lightly as she watched Starlight be fitted and packed, “Is this alright? I know it’s frowned upon to ride a Talking Beast.”

There was a rustle of material, Grace assumed the King was shrugging, “If Starlight is so insistent upon it, there can be no crime,’ He paused for a moment of thought before continuing, “Considering it is such a rare honour to ride such a beast, to decline the option may turn out to be more offensive than the alternative.”

Grace didn’t feel comforted by these words, though she was not sure where the source of discomfort came from to begin with. Starlight had said so herself that this was not an act of service. Maybe, the trouble was just that? What did she get out of this?

There was a beat of peaceful air as the two watched the Stable Hand fuss over Starlight. Grace noted the act of saddling the Talking Beast was much quicker than that of a dumb one. She supposed that communication was the defining factor, a Talking Horse would be able to understand instructions and act them out accordingly.

Once she was saddled and Grace’s sack had been repositioned behind the leather, the Just King wasted no time.

With two steady hands – one upon her back and the other burning her arm – he began to usher her towards Starlight’s side.

“Take it from me,” King Edmund murmured softly, “Having a companion such as this is both a blessing and a curse. You will never ride alone again.”

Grace caught the double meaning in his words, “And I will never ride alone again.”

The King smiled at her in a way only the happily burdened could, “Precisely.”

When they reached Starlight, he motioned for Grace to place her foot in the stirrup, “I both pity and understand your stance this matter,” There was a heave as the King took a hold of her waist and hoisted her onto Starlight’s back, “For I too have fallen prey to a stubborn Talking Horse.”

“I heard that,” Phillip called.

Grace laughed lightly – an effort on her part to not offend their chestnut coated friend.

The King released her as soon as he was sure Grace was settled on the saddle, only giving her a brief glance as he patted Starlight’s neck and departed.

His straddle was far quicker and more graceful than Grace’s could have ever been. She chalked it up to thirteen years of practice and chose to let it go. There was a far more important concern in her mind.

“I’ve only ridden Maiden,” Grace uttered to Starlight, “I don’t know how to ride a Talking Beast.”

“You don’t ride me,” Starlight answered easily, “Just think of yourself as precious cargo and allow me to handle the rest.”

The party began to move off, then, multitudes of Talking Beasts, Centaurs, Dryads and Fauns moving in clusters towards the gate.

As if in instinct, Starlight began to walk forwards, her stride only pausing briefly in front of the Kings and Queens.

The High King gave her an encouraging smile, the Gentle Queen blew her a kiss with tear filled eyes and Lucy…

Lucy lurched forwards and grabbed one of Grace’s useless hands.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” The Valiant Queen ordered as she placed a brief kiss upon her friend’s pale cold skin.

“I won’t,” Grace vowed, clinging to her grasp until she could not anymore.

Even then, Grace did not return her sights forward. Her eyes wondered the sand-coloured bricks of the Cair, the greyed gravel at the base of the stairs, the three monarchs who stood waving them off in rich fabrics of vibrant colours.

This might be the last view she got of Cair Paravel, of the friends she had made that would remain there. She never wanted to look away.

When the shadow finally passed and the glaring light of the sun hit her face, Grace cringed. At last she was forced to face forwards, the stiffness in her neck making itself painfully known.

Ahead of them was the small strip of forest she had crossed on that very first night of Narnia. It looked so different now, with the topmost leaves bathed in the golden sunlight of the morning.

Beyond that there was endless plains of green, sometimes broken with another strip or two of forest, though Grace knew that by the time she saw any sort of dense forest again, they would be there. The Western Wood.

As Starlight sidled next to King Edmund and Phillip, Grace straightened her back and attempted to soothe the buzzing nervousness at the journey ahead.  

She simultaneously felt like a kid on Christmas Eve and a prisoner on Death Row.

Chapter Text

XL

GRACE

Like the Dawn – The Oh Hellos

The warmth of the sun upon Grace’s back was comforting as her hips rolled with the movement of Starlight’s walk.

Sitting atop a Talking Horse turned out to be quite pensive; there was no need for thought or action for Starlight took care of directing, following and riding altogether. Grace was merely a participant, wearing the bold blue ribbon openly as she simply tried not to fall off.

It had been a few hours of walking thus far and most of it was spent in silence on her part. King Edmund had trotted ahead to see to the frontmost of the party, ensuring no one needed a break and taking care to share a skin of water he’d packed onto his saddle.  

He was right, the journey was slow. With so many creatures upon bare feet, cloves and hooves their movement was sluggish and non-urgent. At this rate it would take a week to reach the West.

At some point in her thought induced coma, Casys had come to walk beside her. He didn’t say anything, choosing to simply leave Grace in the state he’d found her in.

The motion offered comfort, Grace supposed, though there was a twinge of annoyance in his observance of her movements. Whilst she’d expected that the King would place her under some kind of watch during the journey, she hadn’t realised it would be so blatant.

“Casys,” Grace greeted shortly.

“Miss Grace,” The Centaur lowered his head respectfully.

“What brings you to this area of the horde,” Grace asked, sure that her tone betrayed that she’d already guessed the answer.

Either Casys was pretending or he truly did not pick up on her irritation. He walked with a stiff straight back, the muscles in his arms flexing as they swept minimally at his sides, a habit of all centaurs when they walked, it seemed. It was reminiscent of the action humans had of synchronizing the opposite arm and leg.

“I thought you might prefer some company,” Casys answered, “The journey is long, especially with a group so large. One cannot be expected to follow the path silently.”

Grace’s smile was involuntary, “That’s funny coming from you, Casys, considering your sentences are few and far between.”

It was not meant as an insult but in the seconds after the words left her mouth, Grace found herself regretting their frankness.

Thankfully, the Centaur returned the comment with a small upturn to his lips, “I speak when I have something to say.”

“And you’re the wiser one for it,” Grace acknowledged, her eyes partially apologetic, “I often find myself in a snag after saying something I shouldn’t.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Grace took no offense from the blatant response, she had come to expect it of him. Conversation with Casys was always upfront, it was one of his traits that she admired.

“How come you are travelling west?” Grace asked. Her curiosity had peaked at the number of friendly faces amongst the party and she was determined to venture into all of their tales – should they let her.

A kind of fond sheen took over the Centaur’s black eyes as he stared into the direction they travelled, “I travel to visit my Tribe.”

Grace sat straighter in interest, “Do they live in the Western Wood?”

Casys shook his head, “Just beyond it. Through the Lantern Waste, just before the Western Wild. We live at the border of Narnia’s westernmost reaches.”

Grace nodded slowly, “Does that make you the guards of the border, then?”

“In a way,” Casys confirmed, “But we do not live in constant wariness of our neighbours. There is no animosity between those that live in the Western Wild and those of the Narnian border. We live peacefully.”

Grace nodded. She could imagine that no one would dare antagonise a centaur willingly. It would be incredibly stupid on their behalf. Whilst it was true that she and Casys had built a kind of friendship over their forced proximity, Grace could not say the same of any other centaurs in Cair Paravel.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Grace began thoughtfully, “What would a regular day look like for you? That is, back when you lived with your Tribe.”

The Centaur seemed pleased at her curiosity, “We would tend to our crops and livestock. During my youth, I tended a herd of sheep.”

“Sheep?” Grace questioned.

Casys looked at her, eyes honest under the deep set of his brow, “Yes Daughter of Eve, sheep. It was my duty to watch over them from dawn ‘til dusk each day.”

“Sounds awfully boring.”

“It was not,” Casys denied, “I found my peace easily there, amongst hills of grass with nothing but the memories and stories of my people to sustain me.”

At the mention, Grace perked, “Like the stories you told me when we first met?”

“The very same.”

“Lucy told me of another Centaur who told stories on their journey to The North,” Grace added, “Do all centaurs tell stories?”

The Centaur replied with a disappointed tone, “Not all, but most. It is a revered custom amongst us.”

“It’s wonderful,” Grace insisted, “I’ve never seen such storytellers in my world. The way your words seem to carve images into the air,” There was a brief pause of her admiration before she continued, “I’m envious of it.”

Casys’s lips wormed into a gentle smile, “If you are truly envious of me then I’d imagine the Chieftain of my Tribe would stoke something stronger. It is he who has taught the art of storytelling for five and twenty years.”

Grace’s eyes widened in blue wonder, “That’s longer than I have been alive!”

“And I,” Casys agreed solemnly.

“Do you think I’ll get the chance to see it?” Grace wondered as she thought longingly of the descriptions Lucy had made of campfires and starlight.

Those dreams were dashed, however, when Casys shook his head firmly, “Outsiders are warned to remain off of Centaurian Territory. There are very few who are allowed entry, chief amongst them being our fair Kings and Queens.”

At this, Grace visibly deflated, “Oh.”

Nothing more was said on the matter, both parties decidedly lost in thoughts of their own as they continued trekking forwards.

It was a shame that Grace would not see the Chieftain of Casys’s Tribe in action, she’d dearly hoped to hear the stories of Narnia in the format of which they were born – wild under the open sky.

Perhaps she would request some stories of Casys tonight? Surely there could be no offense since they would not be on Centaurian Lands and he’d already told her of the stories before. Grace did not know what they would venture to keep themselves occupied with otherwise.

What could one do around the warmth of a fireplace but talk and eat? It was moments like this when Grace dearly missed the internet, having a small computer in your back pocket often came in handy when you were bored.

Grace supposed having such a tool at her disposal made her quicken to boredom more easily. As she studied the pensive look of her friend, she wondered at the state of his patience. As Casys had described, he had spent hours upon hours alone with nothing but a herd of sheep and the stories of his people as company.

She could feel it, the patience that came with being forced to wait. It was growing on her. Whilst she still felt the urge to fiddle with a screen Grace found the motion had become less of an itch and more of an absent reflex. Fading ever so slightly under the pressure of time.

Casys seemed to notice her study, for he’d begun to throw sidelong glances in Grace’s direction.   

It was then Grace noticed that he had not moved on from his position at her side. The equal stride had begun to feel unnerving to her for no matter how Starlight varied in pace, he matched it.

“Are you checking in on me?” Grace asked lightly, feeling a twinge of annoyance at her babysitter and by extension the King who would have ordered his station.

The Centaur made no reply, his face a mask of perfect sincerity as he continued to match Starlight’s pace.

Grace sighed, “I promise you there is no need to stick by my side so closely. I don’t plan on running away.”

“I do not walk at your side for fear of that,” Casys replied softly, “It is as I said, I simply wish to keep you company.”

Somehow, Grace doubted that was the only reason, “If King Edmund is truly bothered enough to insist you babysit me, I wonder he does not do it himself.”

Her Centurian Guard looked at her oddly, “I promise you, his Majesty has not requested my presence at your side.”

A singular brow arched on Grace’s forehead, “But is that not your job as ordered by His Majesty?”

She pointed lasered eyes at King Edmund, who sat unknowingly upon Phillips back at the front of the group.

“Did his Majesty not tell you?”

Grace tore her eyes from the object of her brooding, “Tell me what?”

The Centaur regarded her oddly, “Your orders were suspended, Grace.”

The words clapped against her ears like a wave upon a cliffside. Rough and blaringly loud – too loud for her mind to comprehend.

“Pardon?” Grace asked dumbly.

“The orders were suspended,” Casys repeated.

Suspended?

So… she was free?

It was odd, the feeling of light-headedness that overcame her. If Casys were not there to catch her, Grace might have fallen straight backwards off of Starlight’s back.

“Woah!” Starlight called back to the duo. She stopped in place, her neck craning with the effort of checking on her rider, “Is everything alright back there?”

Grace nodded, not understanding through the thick mud of her thoughts that Starlight could not see such an action.

“We’re fine,” Casys returned, using his arms to right Grace on the saddle again.

“Grace?” Starlight insisted, her silvery mane shifting and swaying with the effort to check on her friend.

“I’m ok Starlight,” Grace confirmed, “Walk on.”

As the steady motion of walking began again, Grace found herself gripping at the front edge of her saddle to remain upright.

Casys was watching her warily, one hand held in the air halfway between their bodies should she fall again.

Grace returned that look with a somewhat steady gaze, though she was sure the myriad of emotions and thoughts behind it where incomprehensibly thick.

“What does this mean, Casys?” Grace asked.

The Centaur shook his head, “I am not sure what you are asking.”

“Does this mean I’m free?” Grace rephrased.

Casys tilted his head thoughtfully, “As free as one can be whilst abiding the laws of Narnia.”

“But still, free,” Grace persisted.

“Yes, free,” Casys confirmed.

The words were almost enough to throw her backwards again. Grace gripped the saddle until her knuckles were translucent, “So if I wanted to run off right now…”

“It would be ill advised to undertake such an action in a land you know so little about,” Casys warned solemnly, “But his Majesty, King Edmund the Just would not have justifiable right to detain you unless you were proven to be acting on unsavoury business.”

“And he wouldn’t be able to maintain my imprisonment without drafting another set of orders,” Grace assumed.

The Centaur nodded.

Grace released a deep breath of air. Freedom. True freedom. At last it was hers.

The feeling that seized her mind and her body was unknown to her. Grace felt motionless, stuck in place with indecision. Now that she had her freedom, she had no idea what to do with it.

If anything, the current and the spoon of her mind fought even harder against each other. They fought harder for dominance now that both options were truly available.

It would be hard to deny that the idea of home seemed more appealing. The knowledge Casys passed had given her hope that she dared not to reach for before; knowing that if she did, there was always the chance the King might rescind it.

The sound of hoof beats upon grass broke her from the confines of her thoughts. At some point Phillip had turned around and begun marching back through the travelling party. King Edmund urged the Talking Horse forward, a very concerned expression upon his face.

“Is everything alright?” The King called whilst Phillip caught his breath, “I understand someone fainted.”

“I didn’t faint,” Grace groused.

“All is well your Majesty,” Casys replied simultaneously.

King Edmund did not seem convinced as Phillip came to sidle at Grace’s left. He twisted to his pack behind the saddle, tugging at the same skin he’d shared at the front of the line.

The skin was offered to her with a small grimace, “Are you sure? You’re quite pale Grace.”

Grace stared at the object dumbly. She knew it was meant for drinking but did not know how to drink from it. Any idea she could fathom was embarrassing to say the least.

As if he’d read her mind, the King unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He’d made it seem easy, his capable grasp raising the leather like it was a horn in the air. When finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and offered it to her again.

“It’s not poisoned,” he commented.

Grace took it this time, only a small mutter of protest leaving her lips before they closed around the opening. She took a slow sip, then another in earnest. The water was sweet despite the odd smelling container it sat in. Sweet and refreshing.

When she had finished, the skin was passed back to the King. He took another swig before reattaching it to the saddle.

“Thank you,” Grace murmured.

“You’re welcome,” King Edmund replied with a light smile, “Now, tell me, why are we fainting?”

“I didn’t-” Grace began, ceasing her attempt at denial once her eyes met with the King’s knowing look, “I was taken by surprise is all.”

“See a Spectre did you?” Phillip piped from below.

Starlight whipped him with her silvery tail.

“If she had, I wouldn’t blame her,” King Edmund commented, though he too was smiling in a manner that irritated Grace.

Instead of entertaining the emotion, Grace decided to shut them both up, “Did you suspend my orders?”

Any grin on the King’s features gave way to understanding, “Yes. I did.”

“That was nice of you,” Grace commented lightly, her words teetering with an edge of annoyance.

King Edmund’s dark eyes narrowed at her tone, “I could not leave them upon you and take you out of Cair Paravel. The action itself goes against them.”

Sense. Why was it always sense which drew from his lips. It was infuriatingly simple and often wore down any objections Grace held.

“Why did you not tell me?” She pressed.

“I was rather busy organising all of this,” The King gestured vaguely to the party around them, “I simply did not have the time.”

Grace spared a glance to the Narnians around them, most were travelling on foot, their faces bright and pace jovial. Thoughts of returning to their home sustaining them beyond measure despite the effort of the journey.

A feat which Grace was unable to replicate.

She did, however, feel gratitude. Just enough of it towards the dark-haired King to offer her thanks.

He nodded, “You are welcome. I must admit that the action was as much for my benefit as it was for yours.”

“I’ll try to be less flattered then,” Grace quipped, offering a small smile despite the snootiness of her tone.

The King grinned in return, “I don’t think you’ll be very successful.”

Their shared grins faltered as an urgent call came from the back of the line, “Your Majesty!”

Both Phillip and Starlight came to a stop, the motion jolting their riders forwards as they twisted towards the intrusion. They were met with the sight of a small faun careening towards them at top speed, waving a shred of red material in the air.

King Edmund sucked in a short breath, “Someone’s injured,” At once, he turned to Casys and ordered, “Tell the party to walk on. I will see to the matter and catch up with you.”

There was no wait for a response, Phillip nearly spun them both on his back legs in an effort to turn them faster. Then, they both broke off from the party and strode forth towards the small Faun.

Casys gently tugged at her arm, tearing her eyes from the spectacle as he bellowed orders for the group to proceed.

“I hope they’re alright,” Starlight commented as she walked on, “Aslan knows a broken leg would be disastrous. They’d be sent back to Cair Paravel on a cart.”

“Has that ever happened before?” Grace asked, once again throwing a glance backwards.

She could see Phillip, standing dutifully just out of the moving line of travellers, but there was no longer a rider upon his back. King Edmund had disappeared well and truly into the fray. Probably tending to the injured party personally.

“At minimum one on a journey such as this,” Casys replied, his tone lit with a touch of worry, “I’ve not seen one this early on.”

“Can you see what’s happened Grace?” Starlight asked.

Grace shook her head, “Whomever they are, they’re well hidden by the line. I can’t see what happened.”

“Snakeskins,” Starlight cursed, “I was hoping to catch a little of the drama.”

Despite herself, Grace laughed, “Is that why you stopped.”

“Absolutely.”

Grace had to hold in her laughter, for the disapproving look Casys sent her way was sobering. She silently shook her head at him, knowing as well as he did that the Talking Horse did not mean any harm.

As they continued to walk, Casys remained true to his word. Staying at her side and keeping her company. There were very little words shared after that point, even Starlight had fallen silent, electing to focus on the tread of her hooves and the direction of the travelling party.

When the first traces of dusk began to spiral across the sky, the foremost section of the party stopped. All huddled around a wagon of supplies that they began to distribute; tents, food, firewood as well as a list of chores which were handed out equally and fairly.

As Grace held the purple material of her tent close to her chest, she regarded her companion closely. He had refused a tent, claiming that he wished to sleep separately under the stars. To her surprise, many agreed with him. Instead taking simple sleeping bags to ward off the chill.

“It seems you were telling the truth when you said you wanted to keep me company,” Grace admitted solemnly under the forgiving light of the afternoon sun, “I’m sorry I doubted you, Casys.”

“No offense is taken, Grace,” The Centaur returned, “I am only glad to see the long-awaited improvement in your circumstances.”

Grace shared a secretive smile with her once-guardian, “Me too.”

-

It was just as the sky turned a deep and moody purple that the party finished their chores.

Grace stood, feet planted in the dirt in front of her tent. It was a near perfect mirror of the sky above it, speckled with flecks of gold that mirrored the stars.

Casys had helped her set it up. Unsurprisingly, he was quite patient with Grace’s naïveté in pitching the dark material to the sky. Grace on the other hand had been impatient, so annoyed at her own inexperience that she often huffed and threw mini tantrums when things didn’t cooperate as they should.

It didn’t fail to escape her notice that the tent was quite big. Large enough to sleep two if needed. The thought of it had Grace on edge, her mind whirring with worries of a new kind.

“It is not the best example of tent pitchery,” Casys claimed as he joined her in admiring their work, “But it will not fall in the night and that is what is important.”

“No thrashing my tent,” Grace elbowed him lightly, “It’s the best I could do under the circumstances. There is absolutely no way that a tent this size was made to be set up by two people. I expect to open it and find at east fifteen clowns compacted inside.”

The Centaur looked at her oddly, “Clowns?”

Grace opened her mouth to explain, then thought better of it. She didn’t feel like explaining to Casys exactly what a Circus was, “Never mind. When are we eating dinner? Or are we supposed to be hunting for that ourselves too?”

“Dinner is usually served around the fire,” Casys threw a look in the direction of the closest pit and the littering of Narnian’s surrounding it.

As soon as her nose arched in the right direction, Grace could smell it. Though it was not her favourite, the warm aroma of stewed meat and vegetables in broth was enough to make her mouth water.

“Ah, good! You’ve set up your tent. I was worried you’d have some trouble with it.”

“Your Majesty,” Casys lowered his head, one arm bent over his chest in the usual respectful manner that centaurs did.

Grace’s neck cracked at the speed it swivelled in the King’s direction, “When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago,” King Edmund grunted as he heaved a sack onto the space next to her tent, “Had to see to the other camps before I came to my own.”

Grace could only watch as the Just King easily tugged the sack into position. The noise it made akin to what Grace was sure was a heavy load, however, King Edmund did not seem bothered by it at all.

“How do you like it?”

Grace snapped to attention, “What?”

“The tent,” King Edmund prompted, “Will it suit?”

“It’s rather big,” Grace commented.

The King understood, “It is Susan’s. Sorry, it’s still a bit dirty at the edges, Lucy took it North with her and there was no time to have it cleaned before our departure.”

Grace shook her head, “It’s fine, I didn’t even notice.”

“My Sister always says it’s weight is terrible but she’s never slept in a more comfortable space,” King Edmund explained, hesitating slightly before continuing, “I thought you might find it better than a sleeping bag under the stars.”

Grace softened, the pang of gratitude at his thoughtfulness hard to ignore, “It will be. Thank you.”

The King grinned triumphantly before returning to his sack of belongings on the forest floor. From its depths a similarly thick square of midnight blue velvet was tugged and placed gingerly on a patch of clean grass.

As if sensing that was the best time to leave, Casys lowered his head and excused himself to wander towards the burning campfire.

Grace stared after the Centaur with wide eyes, was she supposed to go after him?

As King Edmund began unpacking his own tent from the sack, Grace let out a noise of protest, “If your tent is as big as mine then it might be too close.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” The King paused his unpacking, his near-black eyes sparkling with the distant dance of the campfire.

Grace stared, caught by his inquisitive gaze and at a loss for what else she could possibly use to object, “There isn’t, I suppose. I just thought spacing them might be more structurally stable.”

“Well, if that’s all your concerned about,” King Edmund replied as he reached an arm into the tent-sack again, “Then I’d prefer it that my tent remain here.”

“Why?” Grace demanded.

“Because as much as we all would like to claim otherwise, Narnia isn’t the safest place at night,” King Edmund pulled some rope from the dark confines of the sack which he inspected intensely in the darkness, “Especially not for a Daughter of Eve.”

The latter sentence tugged on a thread of incredulity in her mind, “What are you going to do if something happens? Tear through the fabric walls?”

In a moment as swift and easy as breath, the King tugged a handle on his belt. The object gave way easily, making a soft metallic shing as the blade was half unsheathed from its leather holder, “If I have to.”

Grace got the distinct impression that he slept with that thing tucked under his pillow, “The poor tents, they look so nice. Seems like such a waste to tear them.”

King Edmund turned to look at her, the intensity of his gaze only heightened by the flickering glow of distant flames, “Well if you’re that concerned about the material, we could always share.”

Grace balked, “No, thank you. I think I’d prefer to just die at the hands of whatever finds me.”

The King’s serious demeaner broke at her dramatics and he rolled his eyes, “Like it would come to that.”

As he continued to work unpacking and sorting the items, Grace watched on, half entranced by the way his calloused fingers expertly organised and half hoping to save the information for later.

It didn’t take long for King Edmund to become fed up with being studied, “Was there something you needed? Or perhaps were you wanting to help me pitch this?”

“Oh no,” Grace murmured embarrassedly, “I don’t think I could even if I tried. I barely managed to get mine up.”

The King stood to inspect the dark coloured tent, “Looks fine to me, though your rope needs more tension or they won’t withstand heavy winds or rain.”

Grace nodded, testing the give on one of the corner ropes with one hand. The King was right, the rope was holding absolutely nothing together. If it didn’t blanket her tonight, it would be through sheer luck.

“There’s no need to fix it now,” King Edmund commented, “Casys assures me there will be no such winds or rain for the next few days.”

“Well, I better hope we reach the West before it does come,” Grace worried, “I don’t think my skills are going to get any better than this.”

The King chuckled lightly as he shook his head, “I’ll help you set it up tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you flying away now, would we?”

Grace shared a small smile of thanks with the King, grateful when he returned again to pottering about with the tent tools on the ground. She made herself comfortable against a nearby stone, all thoughts of food forgotten as she watched him work and tried to commit it to memory.

Chapter Text

XLI

GRACE

Like the Dawn – The Oh Hellos

As the sun rose, so did the campsite. The rush to beat it’s migration through the sky well and truly begun before Grace had even stirred. Her eyes opened groggily to the grey light of morning, sounds of clattering pots and scuttling footsteps making her shift deeper into her makeshift pillow.

Eventually Grace was roused enough to leave her sleeping bag, immediately using the tent wall to roll it into a compact cylinder. Already she felt heavy with the weight of a sleepless night, it sat on her eyelids with a dry burn that could not be wiped away. The night before had proven impossible for sleep.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Grace had tried everything from counting sheep to emptying her mind. Nothing made headway towards her goal. Every time she got close there would always be something, a rock in her back, a gentle tug of something at her abdomen, an unwanted memory she wished could be forgotten.

Grace must have moved her bedroll at least ten times in the span of an hour; turning it this angle and that, trying to sleep upside down with her head near the door – that only made things worse. She even tried to settle right next to the pole in the middle of the tent. It worked for a bit… until she rolled over and smacked her head into it.

Eventually her body settled at the rightmost wall. Whether it was from exhaustion or if the dirt was actually soft enough she did not know. She didn’t question it, who was she to turn down sleep at last?

Through her itchy, sleep crusted eyes, Grace could see the bulk of their encampment sitting by the newly stoked campfire. Bowls of left over stew sitting in their frostbitten hands. Her stomach rumbled.

Unfortunately, that food wouldn’t be hers until she’d packed up her things. Grace was grateful at least that there really was only two, her sleeping bag and her tent – her bag of personal items had been left with her saddle the afternoon before.

With a sigh of longing and irritation, Grace began to unpeg the loose stabilising ropes from the ground. She tried to follow the pattern she’d seen King Edmund follow the evening before but in reverse. It seemed to work well, until a pole slipped from the pointed middle of the dusky material and hit Grace square in the shoulder.

The noise she made was loud, followed by a string of cuss words and abuse to the offending object.

“You’re supposed to take the pole out before you lower the strings.”

Grace side eyed the Dryad who was laughing at her from a safe distance.

Lilis grinned at her friend, her teeth a brilliant smooth white against her dark crackled skin, “The material will fall inwards and make it easier to fold.”

With a hesitant hand, Grace reached towards the ripple of velvet swept over the pole, she supposed it was too late to do it properly, the other stabilising slabs of wood had already toppled with the material and the whole tent was now a sad ripple on the dirt floor.

Instead, she chose to fold the material first, “Have you done this before?”

Lilis stepped forward to help, still harbouring a humorous smile upon her face, “I serve as extended staff for her Majesty, Queen Susan. This tent and I are old friends.”

The knowledge made Grace sigh with frustrated longing, “Where were you when I was setting this thing up yesterday?”

Lilis laughed, “Did it give you trouble?”

“Endless amounts,” Grace remarked, taking two corners in her hands and folding the purple velvet in half, “Casys looked like he was going to tear his hair out just watching me.”

The Dryad followed her movements, “I’d help you tonight but I fear mine and my Sisters encampment is a few over.”

Grace shook her head, meeting her corners again to another fold, “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Besides, his Majesty, King Edmund has offered to help tonight.”

“He has?” Lilis’s green eyes lit in interest. Her thin hands froze mid fold as she asked, “How did you manage that?”

A grimace twisted on Grace’s lips, “I think once he saw the outcome of my sad attempt, he felt pity for me.”

“How sad,” Lilis murmured, eyes still bright with an interest not spoken.

“You know,” Grace wondered, “There is more than enough room in my tent if you wanted to share?” Perhaps then the King would not feel the need to place his so close.

Grace eyed the blue, silver speckled tent to the right of hers. It hadn’t yet been deconstructed, but Grace had a feeling that the Just King had long abandoned it.

Lilis smiled kindly, “Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. My place is with my Sisters in the trees.”

Grace nodded, “I understand.”

The Dryad’s expression then shifted knowingly, “It is not as if you’ll be bereft of company in any case, with his Majesty, King Edmund’s tent beside yours.”

“To be honest, I made the offer to you in an attempt to scare him off,” Grace admitted lowly, “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended,” Lilis laughed, “But I do not see the appeal. A Dryad’s company is well received… but to welcome it over a King’s? Unthinkable.”

Grace folded the material once more, only noticing that Lilis had not continued when the material twisted. In a subtle attempt to regain the Dryad’s attention, Grace fluttered the sheet in a whipping motion as if she were trying to straighten out any wrinkles in the fold.

It worked, Lilis hastily folded the last two together and followed the motion, after which they met in the middle where Grace took the remaining corners.

“It’s not as if I favour any company over the other,” Grace whispered as she rolled the velvet tightly, “It’s the appearance of his favour that bothers me. Why on earth is he placing his tent so close to mine? Shouldn’t he be off somewhere more important?”

“It’s a campsite, there are no spots more important than the other… and as to your other point,” Lilis looked unimpressed as she made a point on each twiglike finger, “You have been in constant close proximity over a two-week period, I’d imagine his Majesty will still require your assistance with paper work – thus he would need you close by, and lastly, you have no survival skills to speak of whatsoever.”

Grace pointed a short wooden pole in the Dryad’s direction, “That last one hurt.”

Lilis sniffed, “Don’t ask questions you don’t wish for an answer to.”

One by one the materials were slotted into the tent sack. When complete, Grace looked at the two lumps of soft material and sighed. This was to be her life; two whole weeks of strings, poles and material in endless succession of pitching and lowering.

Somewhere in her sulking, Lilis had begun to tow her towards a rock.

“Now, let me fix that hair,” The Dryad muttered as she shoved the Daughter of Eve into a sitting position, “If you’re going to be spending all of your time at King Edmund’s side, you’d best look the part.”

-

The weight and burn of little sleep did not dissipate as the day wore on, if anything it only served to heighten Grace’s irritation.

She tried to appear untroubled as she sat atop the pristine back of Starlight. The Talking Beast was prattling on with Phillip as they walked, side by side. Which coincidentally, meant that King Edmunds leg often brushed against Grace’s own through her dress.

There was the uncomfortable feeling of being watched that had not been there yesterday when Casys had taken the journey by her side. He seemed to have been given a better offer – or order – and now stood at the front of the line of jovial travellers.

In his place, the Just King had stepped forwards, his pace mirroring that of his predecessor’s the day before. Phillip was determinedly muzzle to muzzle with Starlight, neither wavering more than a centimetre from their even race.

King Edmund did not speak. He sat simply upon his friends chestnut coat with a watchful mind. His eyes repeatedly scanned the crowd, always concerned that none seemed tired or injured as the party moved forward. The moment there was a lull, Grace was certain he would call for a break.

It wouldn’t be so bad if those watchful eyes did not land on her so often. If his dark irises didn’t hold more questions than answers as to the reasoning. The ceaseless flickers of the weight of his gaze were beginning to push her nerves past the boundary of return.  

Sense told her the irritation was a symptom of something else. A restless night, the long day, her chafed legs upon the saddle, her sun scorched neck - she’d long since let her hair down from the careful braid Lilis had combed it into, but it was too late, the sun had already burned the skin.

“Can you please stop that,” Grace grumbled after the eighth glance.

The King looked at her in surprise, “Stop what?”

Grace gritted her teeth, “Stop looking over here as if I’m going to fall to my death at any moment.”

King Edmund’s head slanted as he regarded her, “Well, considering you almost did yesterday, can you blame me?”

“It’s not necessary considering I didn’t reach the ground,” Grace sniffed.

“Only because Casys caught you.”

An annoyed huff of air blew Grace’s lips forward, “Regardless, you sticking to me like Velcro is unnecessary. I’m sure you have more important things to do than babysit me.”

“I do,” The Just King replied impassively, “It just so happens that I serve those needs best in the middle of the party, where I can see everything.”

Grace caught his eyes; wide, dark and honest in the glaring light of midday. Her neck twisted uncomfortably as she looked towards the back of the travelling line. It was admittedly at an equal distance from their position when compared to the front.

“Fine,” Grace bristled with a short pat to Starlight’s neck. The Talking Horse stopped her conversation with Phillip at once, one glistening eye drawn to her rider in question.

“Starlight do you think we could ride ahead? I have something to ask Casys.”

“Wait-” King Edmund tried, the quiet word dying on his lips as the Talking Horse replied.

“I don’t see why not. I’m sure there is far more adventure to be had at the front of the line,” Starlight released a neigh of excitement, all too ready to bolt from Phillip’s side.

The King didn’t let them get more than a few steps before he and Phillip accompanied them again, “I’ll come with you.”

Grace groaned as his leg brushed against hers again, “I thought you needed to be in the middle of the line to perform your duties?”

“I could just as easily do that from the front, too.”

The insistence broke Grace’s poorly kept countenance, “So I was right, you are babysitting me.”

“It’s not babysitting,” The Just King scowled.

“You have been at my side all morning – and no,” Grace held up a finger when the King moved to argue, “That isn’t what bothers me. It’s the incessant amount of looks you are throwing my way. Why did you suspend my orders if you were just going continue surveillance?”

King Edmund rolled his eyes, “I’m not continuing surveillance.”

“Then why are you watching me?”

“Did you ever stop to think I wasn’t looking at you?” He returned snidely.

The response stopped Grace short, her mind replaying the irritation veiled memories of that morning. He had been looking at her… hadn’t he? Regardless he’d still left the other half of her accusation unanswered.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re sticking to my side,” Grace muttered.

“Oh is that what Velcro is?” King Edmund wondered.

Grace glared through the narrowed slits of her eyelids, “You’re avoiding the question.”

King Edmund regarded her, his face void of the emotions circling in his bark brown irises, “I stick by your side for your own safety as well as my sanity.”

“You did not seem to care much for either yesterday,” Grace pointed out.

“Yesterday we were a short distance from Cair Paravel and any assistance,” The Just King answered, “Today we most certainly are not.”

Grace chewed her next words carefully, each turning over and dissolving on her tongue, “I thought you said that Narnia was only dangerous at night.”

King Edmund’s eyes turned skyward, “Anywhere that is unsafe during the night can be unsafe during the day.”

A sardonic brow raised on Grace’s forehead, “So… what? You’re enlisting yourself as my protector?”

The words seemed to make the King uncomfortable. His dark eyes remaining firmly ahead as he adjusted his seat on the saddle, “Of sorts.”

Grace mirrored the movement, her hands gripping the worn leather at the front of the saddle until her knuckles turned white, “I’m sure that’s unnecessary. I can probably handle anything I can see.”

It was the King’s brow that arched wryly this time, “Oh? You and what training?”

“It doesn’t take an idiot to know how to ride in the opposite direction of whatever means you harm.”

“And if we’re caught in an ambush on all sides?” King Edmund asked, his cheek muscles working overtime to keep a sardonic smile at bay, “What then?”

Grace eyed the bold cheek in his irises with irritation. He was staring at her openly now, awaiting her reply with bated breath – ready to laugh, no doubt. A sparkle of something interfered with her sight, the sun refracted on a jewel encrusted to the hilt of his dagger. Grace recognised it, for it was the same weapon he’d revealed the night before.

“I might steal your dagger,” Grace replied loftily, “I suppose it would give me a better chance than my bare fists.”

On instinct, the King pulled the dagger from his belt. He held the silver blade in the open air, the light of the winter sun giving it a staggering glow.

King Edmund admired it; from its trailing point all the way to the sparkling sapphire glued to the hilt. That same gaze shifted from iridescent sapphire to blue worn stone as he regarded her with a goading expression, “And how do you suppose to get your hands on this if I am not at your side?”

Damn, he had her there.

Or at least, he thought he did.

In a movement that was swift and unexpected, Grace lurched forward on Starlight’s back, the movement startling the Talking Horse who protested loudly.

It was worth it for the warm leather binding which now sat comfortably in her hand. The rough edges of the sapphire cut against her palm as she admired the curved tip of the blade.

Grace smirked triumphantly to the King, “Like that.”

King Edmund could only gawk at her nerve, mouth agape and hand frozen where he’d been holding the dagger before. It looked silly now, poised on nothing but the cool winter air, “How did you-”

“Because you got cocky,” Grace replied simply.

The blade was turned this way and that in her careful fingers as Grace admired it further. The metal was clearly steel but it was like no metal she’d ever seen before. There was a kind of sparkly grit to it that was smooth to the touch and sparkled in the sunlight.

“I suppose I should have expected it,” The King murmured thoughtfully. She knew he was watching her inspect the blade, however, this look was less irritating than its predecessors. If only because it was in admiration of her success.

When every aspect of the dagger had been inspected, Grace met his gaze, “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a gift,” The Just King smiled fondly, “The Red Dwarves from the South Western Mountains offered it to me on a pilgrimage.”

Grace’s finger ran softly over the sharpened edge of the sparkling metal, “The craftsmanship is incredible.”

“A Red Dwarf by the name of Grookharlin forged it,” The King commented, “It’s made with a mixture of steel and a rare variation of silver. When the two are combined in the forge, the silver separates into the flecks you can see.”

Grace tilted the blade, watching as the silver flecks danced across it, “How interesting.”

The King hummed in agreement, “It’s quite a difficult process as the metals are dependent on the correct heat. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve bungled it up a few times and wasted materials.”

This perked Grace’s interest from the blade, “You can work with a forge?”

“Not well,” The Just King admitted, “But I know how to smelt ores and shape them, yes.”

Grace gaped at the King in wonder. The piece of information he’d offered so captivating that she nearly dropped the blade. Her hand tightened on the leather grip as she looked between it and the King.

He returned her stare evenly, “Does it surprise you that I have a hobby?”

“It does considering how busy you are,” Grace replied.

King Edmund’s lips curved into a ghosted smile, “I was not always, you know.”

His eyes returned to the blade with a fond sheen. The brown had warmed to match the sun lit fur of a bear, some emotion shifting deep beneath the dark strands that Grace could not decipher.

It didn’t feel right to hold on to such a precious keepsake, and so Grace offered the hilt of the blade in the space between them, taking care not to cut herself with the sharp edges as she did.

The King declined, “Keep it for now. I’m sure we’d all feel better if you had something to defend us with.”

Grace shared his smile, turning the blade over again in her fingertips, “I don’t know how to wield it.”

“Perhaps when we get to camp I’ll show you how.”

Her smile caught on a wry thought, “Is that before or after you help me set up my tent?”

The King’s eyes widened as if he’d forgotten about the agreement they’d made under the hallowed stars of the night before, “Perhaps after. We’ll stop to make camp in an hour or so.”

Grace blanched as she turned to look up at the sun. The movement was immediately regretted for the blinding light that attacked her eyes. She threw a hand over them and gasped, desperately trying to rub away the burn.

The King chuckled, “What did you do that for?”

Grace ignored the question, “It can’t be that late yet, can it? The sun sets in the West and it hasn’t reached the other side of the Party yet.”

King Edmund glanced back at the sky briefly, “It’s well into the afternoon, Grace.”

It was all she could do to stare at him, her mind running over Lucy’s instruction at speed. It didn’t make sense, the sun was still upon her back and Lucy had made it clear that meant it was still morning. It didn’t feel like more than a few hours had passed since their departure, though, Grace would admit it felt like longer due to the time spent travelling in silence with the King.

The instructions relisted themselves in her mind. The sun rises in the East and will sit behind you in the morning. It will move across the sky until it sets in the West – the direction in which they were travelling. Except, the sun was not before them. In fact, the sun was behind them. It followed the same line it did, now further down in the sky than it would be in midday.

Due to the winter season, the sun’s path travelled slightly higher in the sky than it usually would. It’s progression leaning towards the Northern Reaches of Narnia as it crept across the sky. If they were travelling to the North, it would be slightly on their faces. So by process of elimination…

South, they were heading south.

“Why are we going south?” Grace asked, a slight accusatory tone passing her better judgement.

King Edmund looked like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, “We’re heading to the next campsite.”

“But we’re deterring from the path heading West? Is there something blocking our way that we’re travelling around?” Grace questioned.

“No,” The Just King edged, “This is simply the path we follow.”

Grace felt an understanding click into place, “Is this why you’re always late back?”

“I beg your pardon?” The King spluttered.

“Your brother told me that you are often late back from your trips West,” Grace accused, “Is this why?”

The Just King grumbled something incoherent, though Grace did catch the words ‘Pete’ and ‘observant arse’.

“The High King speaks truly,” He settled finally, “Though the trail is not the reason for my delay.”

“If you’re travelling in a direction square to the route you should, I would say it probably is the reason for your delay,” Grace argued.

If there was any kindness left in King Edmund’s expression it was now buried deep beneath the layers of irritation, “Regardless, it is the path we are taking.”

“Why?”

“That is my business and not yours.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, “If that is the case then I don’t see why I should follow you off the trail.”

“Grace,” The King’s eyes closed tiredly, “Please don’t make this difficult. I have an important matter to conclude. We’ll continue straight West tomorrow.”

An important matter? Grace leaned forward on the leather saddle, “What important matter?”

King Edmund looked at her, his dark eyes barely discernible from the thick lashes on his narrowed lids. He didn’t say a word and he didn’t need to. His whole demeanour shifting unpleasantly into a mirror of the man she’d first met months ago.

Grace leaned away, her line of questioning deterred by the King’s abhorrence of the subject but the thoughts did not cease. It was a distraction that Grace delved into with a curiosity that could not be matched. For what could possibly be so important, so secretive and at the same time so wretched to him?

The two did not say another word as they continued on. Every now and then Starlight or Phillip would attempt to bring them into their conversations, to no avail. The King had firmly stuck himself into melancholy as the Daughter of Eve stared after him with burning curiosity.

When the tendrils of purple and red weaved themselves into the blue skies, the party stopped. All actions mirrored the night before, this time with Grace taking her dusty purple velvet all the way to the edges of the encampment – and hopefully away from King Edmund. She deposited the material. Choosing to finish her part of the word before erecting her tent and eating.

Today, she’d been placed on fire duty – specifically picking up fallen twigs and leaves for kindling. The task was pensive and allowed her far more time to think than she should be allowed. She supposed that chosen silence was better than that which was imposed, the tense air of the afternoon between her and the King had left Grace feeling on edge.

She could feel the enormity of the secret, just beyond the edges of her toes. It was tantalising and deep – there was no chance of it being something small, not with the reaction it elicited from the Just King.

When she’d finished, the twigs were deposited unceremoniously beside a kind Badger. He regarded her with a smile, commenting on the number of twigs she’d assembled with glee, “We’ll have a fire through the night at this rate! All the better for I truly hate the cold.”

Grace smiled warmly to the Narnian, though she found herself unable to match his enthusiasm.

She returned to the edge of camp, feet dragging through the dirt at the thought of having to set up the purple mass on her own. There was little hope in her mind that King Edmund would assist now, not with the chance that she’d ask him more about the important matter.

When she’d walked smack dab into a wall of velvet, Grace balked. Her hands running over the familiar colour in wonder. It was taller than her tent yesterday, though she supposed that might be as it was set up properly. She stepped back to admire the work, hands testing the stabilizing rope which plucked with the twang of a taut pull.

Someone had set up her tent for her.

Grace looked about for the party but none stepped forward to claim the prize of her gratefulness.

She supposed then, it should be obvious who it was by the equal and perfect stance of the midnight blue tent to its right. It sat still, the silver speckled velvet billowing softly with the beginnings of the night’s breeze. It was perfect, almost too perfect aside her own, the colours complimenting well under the darkening sky.

Should she thank him? A hesitant foot itched towards the billowing navy on the shadowed grass.

Immediately, she thought better of it. Haunting images of the King’s detest of her etched into the underside of her eyelids. Each blink was a reminder that he did not want to see her right now.

Her tent was further proof of that. Instead of choosing to wait for her and set it up together, King Edmund had chosen to set it up himself and let her be. His dagger set heavily on her leather belt, the weight of it making her feet feel as though they were sinking into the ground.

Grace supposed he would not be teaching her how to wield that tonight either.

There was nothing to be done then. The resolution was helpful at least in unsticking her feet from the ground, but she did not head in the direction of the fire and food. Now Grace felt an exhaustion unlike anything before. The weight of the day and a night of restless sleep hanging off her bones like mischievous pixies.

Dazed and depleted, Grace shuffled slowly through the opening of her tent. Only slightly pleased to find that her sleeping bag and personal items had already been placed inside.

She unrolled the bag and shuffled into it, shoes and all, and as soon as her head hit the makeshift pillow Grace fell into a deep sleep.

It never occurred to her to check why the dirt felt so soft and inviting on this side of the tent, even after its position had moved.

Chapter Text

XLII

GRACE

the grudge – Olivia Rodrigo

It was a commotion of shifting and shuffling beside her which woke Grace the next morning. Her eyes opened slowly, still encrusted with the last remnants of her sleep. She took one bleary look around her tent… but there was nothing or no one out of place. Wherever the sound was coming from, it was not her tent.

As if on cue, a whispered cuss came from the same direction. The voice still raspy with lingering traces of sleep.

Grace sat up slowly and silently, a wary hand sliding beneath her makeshift pillow. She was minimally relieved to find the leather-bound handle of the dagger King Edmund had lent her. Minimally being the operative word – it was not as if she could actually do anything with the weapon other than stab blindly and hope for the best.

Is that what she was prepared to do now? To stab through the walls of both tents and attack whatever was on the other side?

Even through her sleep drowned mind, Grace thought that idea was stupid. Besides, the noise coming from his tent was not that of a tussle, rather an attempt at stealth. A feat which the King may have successfully achieved if Grace was not as wary of her surroundings.

The last remaining dregs of sleep were washed away by adrenaline as she quietly dislodged herself from the sleeping bag. It was times like these when she was glad to not be in her own world, where sleeping bags were made of a noisy material that kept the heat in. The quilted material proved far quieter and more suited to the purpose of sneaking about.

There was the sound of a velvet ripple in the tent beside hers, followed by the soft drag of shoes on dirt through the entryway.

Grace started, one hand gripping her dagger as she peered through the crack of her own tent. She was right, it was King Edmund. He stood not 5 steps from her, his hunched shoulders the only silhouette she could make out as he appeared to fuss with his sleeves.

He was already dressed for the day, despite the complete absence of the sun in the sky.

Grace didn’t know when she’d decided to follow him; perhaps it was after her cloak was safely clasped over her throat or even when she’d grabbed a small satchel of necessities from inside her travelling sack. The soft brown materials were a comforting weight she hadn’t known she needed. They grounded her to the dirt floor and made her wary of her movements; offering a level of stealth that Grace had not reached before.

Once again, Grace peeked between the two sheets of dusky purple velvet, eyes bugging as she clocked the distance the King had moved. She hurried between them, grateful that the sound of the heavy material hitting the dirt was soft and unnoticeable.

Her bare feet trod carefully on the soft grass as she followed behind the distant shadow of King Edmund. It occurred to Grace that forgetting her shoes was both a blessing and a curse, the latter outweighing as she manoeuvred noiselessly across the campsite.

It wasn’t until the soles of her feet reached the edge of stones and sticks that she began to feel the consequences. Each step was accompanied with a sharp stone or needling twig which dug into her foot with a ferocity.

Grace found herself stifling curses of varying vulgarity as she meandered from tree shadow to tree shadow. Thankfully, the King never wandered further than ten metres or she might have lost him.

Her curiosity burned as she trudged over the rain sodden forest floor. What on earth was the King doing up at this hour? Was it to do with the important matter he’d unwillingly mentioned the afternoon before? The last thought was met with the stinging memories of his earlier disdain.

It only served to push her forwards at a faster rate, the stones and sticks of the forest floor nothing against her peaked interest. Grace again found herself wondering what could cause such mixed emotions in the King. What could be so personal and terrible enough to set back the progress they’d made in their acquaintance.

Surely it couldn’t be anything to do with her… could it? The mirrored images of the King presented themselves into her mind, burning as clearly into her retinas as if she were experiencing them all over again. One was expression he’d watched her with that fateful first day in Narnia and the other was the abhorrence he’d displayed when she’d questioned him mere hours ago.

They were too particular to her, too similar to each other to be mistaken. Whatever King Edmund was hiding, it had to do with Grace.

Was it the portal? Was she now following him unknowingly back to Spare Oom? Would he even let her cross the entry once he’d found out she’d done so?

Questions upon questions piled atop each other, cementing like bricks in a wall. A wall which now angled against the King. A taste of something unforgiving lingering on her tongue.

At last, a break in the trees made itself known – the golden hue was a gentle ripple amongst the darkness. The first beams of the morning sun making themselves known.

King Edmund paused just outside the forest edge, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of the journey… and perhaps something else.

Grace stayed at the tree line, refusing to cross onto the open grass and into sight.

Minutes passed as the light of the morning began to creep more openly across the dewy grass.

The King paid it no heed. Instead, his head stiffly stared ahead at the slow-warming grey rocks of the hillside.

Stairs. They were stone stairs! The cracks were littered with tufts of sprouting grass which gave the effect of singular stones spattered like dashes of grey on a green canvas. In reality they were one solid being, stoic and strong like they’d been planted in the hillside and grown roots.

Grace craned her neck, eyes following the cracked stone past the shade of the trees that sheltered her. She could not see where they lead, the foreboding height of the monument surpassing that of the tallest branch.

Frustratedly, she leaned forward, head peeking dangerously past the line of trees.

Grace still could not see the top of the mound. She allowed a foot past the tree line – steadily holding the nearest trunk for support.

Her efforts to silence were upended when her sole landed most conspicuously on a stick. It cracked upon impact – resounding loudly against the heavy silence.

Immediately and without thought, Grace cursed. The stick had not only made a loud noise but a particularly jagged section of it had lodged itself painfully in her foot. The limb in question was immediately removed from the ground and cradled in her hand. There was no blood, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

“You can come out now,” King Edmund called, sparing no effort to look back at her as he did.

He didn’t sound surprised at the presence. The thought rankled Grace as she limped forwards, the gentle grass soothing after the stone and root covered forest floor. The fear of his disappointed gaze stopped her just before his side, just slightly out of his view and ire.

“Did you know that the first rule of a stealth operation is to move in silence, Grace?” King Edmund murmured absentmindedly.

Grace jumped and whispered, “How did you know it was me?”

The Just King twisted to look at her and Grace braced herself against the impact of his full-fledged glare. When his gaze settled on hers, however, she found it did not have the strength of disdain she’d feared. He certainly looked tired and annoyed, but mostly.. he just looked sad.

“Because no other Narnian would dare follow me so blatantly,” The King replied in kind.

Something in his dark eyes tugged at her, they were red rimmed and raw as if he’d been wiping at them all morning. It was an odd pale crimson which set off a whole new colour in his black gaze.

As if on instinct, Grace reached for him, “Are you alright?”

He stepped out of her grasp, eyes guarded against their own vulnerability as he muttered, “I’m fine.”

The easy dismissal was expected, Grace had seen it before. The bark cracked wall of his irises was one she’d seen many times now and she knew it couldn’t be breached. It was as sturdy as the trees she’d touched in the woods bordering Cair Paravel.

“Why are you here, Grace?” The King asked in hushed tones. His hands balling into thick fists as he glared.

Grace did her best to soothe the irritation building in his voice, “I heard you in your tent. I-”

She didn’t know how to say ‘I decided to follow you’ in a manner that wasn’t creepy.

It didn’t matter, the King read between the lines, “So instead of leaving me to my own business, you decided to trespass on a personal matter and follow me?”

Any reply was hard to form around the straight-laced accusation. Instead, Grace reverted to soft spoken defensiveness, “You’ve walked at least 20 minutes from the campsite to god knows where or for what reason and whilst I understand that you can defend yourself that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

His eyes narrowed, “You honestly expect me to believe you followed me – barefoot mind you – through the forest because you were worried for me?”

Grace shrugged, “That or I decided that your blatant refusal to tell me what you were doing meant you were hiding something important.”

King Edmund sighed, his eyes drawing closed with a heavy tiredness, “The Wardrobe isn’t here, Grace.”

“And how am I supposed to know that if you don’t tell me, your Majesty?” Grace rebuffed him.

His eyebrows raised, “I just did.”

Grace spluttered, the weighted realisation of her misdeed only pushing her further into denial, “Well if you’d said so earlier-”

“Enough,” The Just King interrupted.

He looked away from her as he breathed the crisp morning air. It was clear from the way his shoulders hunched and the tired set of his features - whatever he’d come out here for wasn’t something as trivial as a portal.

Immediately, Grace felt the familiar swell of guilt beginning in her abdomen. She tried to ignore it in favour of the curiosity and adrenaline she’d previously relied on.

“Enough,” King Edmund repeated softly, “If you’re so insistent upon it, then fine.”

Swiftly, he knelt down, his fingers unlacing his left boot with practiced speed before he tugged it off.

“What are you doing?” Grace whispered, her eyes blown wide with incredulousness.

He paused briefly to throw her an irritated glance, “We’re both going up there.”

Grace’s expression crumpled in confusion as she watched him continue to unboot himself. She looked to her own feet, bare as the day she’d been born. Was he humouring her?

A curious glance was thrown towards the summit of the stone stairs. Grace could see the top now, though there was little to be seen on it. The steps finished seemingly to open air.

“Do you have to take your shoes off?” Grace wondered, thoughts half submerged in curiosity of what could be so important up there.

“I don’t know,” The King replied evenly, “But in this case, I think it might be the most respectful action. He eyed the jewel encrusted dagger which had been sheathed in the leather of her belt, “You should leave any weapons here as well.”

“Here?” Grace squeaked, her hand reflexively drawn to the cool comforting metal, “What if we’re attacked?”

King Edmund rolled his eyes as he tugged the other boot off, “We won’t be. Not here.”

Grace watched warily as the King replanted his bare feet upon the ground, “How can you be so sure?”

He stood before her, his shoulders now squared and confident against whatever lied at the top of the hill. It was a stark contrast to the hunched look he’d held in the moments before she’d caught up with him.

Apparently, Grace had irritated the King enough to make him run on spite.

King Edmund put a hand on the grip of his sword and unsheathed it in a swift and deadly movement. Much to Grace’s relief, he did not choose to vent his frustration by sticking her with the pointy end, he simply placed the weapon upon the grass next to his boots.

Grace followed suit, taking care not to cut her dress when she freed the sparkling steel from the confines of her leather belt. She placed it gingerly next to the sword.

When she stood, the King was looking at her expectantly with one open hand gestured to the stone stairs.

Grace’s brows raised in question, “I’m going first?”

“Please,” The Just King urged. His expression was open and honest; if it was his plan to stab her as soon as she turned her back, it was not obvious.

There was also something in those eyes that couldn’t be declined easily, and so, Grace found herself trudging up the steps before him. Her movements were slow at first – the spattered steps and grass looked wet and she did not want to fall.

Atop the dewy wetness, Grace’s skirts had proven to be too long to be let alone. They were grasped tightly in her fingers as she tried desperately to stay upright and not trip on them. The bag over her shoulder did not help much, it’s weight proving unbalanced and often tugging her sideways.

Why there were no railings on such a tall and ambiguous staircase, Grace could not understand.

It felt like an age had passed by the time Grace could even see the final step but once she did, a renewed energy spread through her muscles, fuelled by the curiosity burning in every fibre of her being.

She was rewarded at the summit, the sight of the radiant sun peeking over the easternmost corner of Narnia was breathtaking. The light flooded all directions in streaks of incandescent gold that coated everything in a warm and generous glow.

Grace shielded her eyes against the brightness, her sight immediately zeroing in on the stark contrasting grey stone on the hilltop.

Had she walked into Stonehenge somehow? Grace could not tell as she’d never personally visited the monument before. The stones sat similarly to how she would have imagined it, great pillar-like statues made of square that either stood singularly or leant against another.

There were six altogether – not including the alter shaped trio which sat at the foremost centre. They were aligned in a semi-circle, each sparkling with specks of ore that Grace did not dare get close enough to name for fear of the ominous and foreboding air hung about the place. It clung to the stones and reverberated from them simultaneously, too great in power to be ignored or disrespected.

On the coarse bricked floor at the centre of the semi-circle sat two slabs of the same stone, each leaning inwards on a one-sided support. The crack between them might have proven they were originally one and the same if Grace could lift such objects to match them. As it was, however, she couldn’t and so there the stones stayed, each longingly pointed towards it’s other half.

A short gasp halted her hand mid-air – Grace didn’t know when she had reached for the crack in the stone. She turned back to look at the expression of the King as it shifted between numerous negative emotions.

“Don’t touch that.”

The reach of Grace’s hand retracted by a hairs breadth, “Why not?”

The King reached her side, one of his own large hands wrapping easily around her wrist and tugging it away from the stone, “Just don’t.”

“Alright,” Grace assented unsurely. As soon as her hand was clear she tugged her wrist from his grasp.

She didn’t know how to interpret the expression on the King’s face as his eyes remained fixated upon the slabs. There were too many to name, each layered with a myriad of contradictions atop the other.

Curiosity made her inspect the stone once again. It didn’t seem as entrancing as his obsessive stare made it out to be, regardless of the air that settled around it and the mesmerising glimmer it bore. Grace did, however, see the etchings and carvings upon the stone. Words in a language she did not understand – something more primal and otherworldly than she wanted to know.

The sun rising over the east was growing taller by the second, it’s light hitting the pillared stones at just the right angle to cause long languid shadows across the stone bricked floor of the space. As the light moved, the stones continued to twinkle with an innocence that was juxtaposed by the shadows they cast.

Grace couldn’t help but compare them.

Unwanted images spurred; the grey was too similar, the sparkle of ore too mesmerizing in the most haunting way. If Grace squinted, she could imagine the carvings of names and dates upon the tall-standing stones. The etchings a perfect mirror of that which lay on the slabs the King stared at. It made her shut her eyes and shudder.

King Edmund remained stock still, he had not moved a centimetre since he’d tugged her from the stone. It was as if he’d been painted, a still life, a shell. The only sign of life being his expressions, which continued to shift as he processed his thoughts.

He looked at the space like a lost child; dreading the moment he would set eyes on it, yet all the same welcoming the finality of the encounter.

His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as if he’d expected more from himself; like he’d expected to cry. Whatever he felt, it clearly was something he had suppressed, something of great importance to his soul.

“This place has emotional significance to you.”

It was a statement, not a question. Grace was past asking at this point, the shadows of her questions the day before emboldening her in a way she should have vetted.

The stillness broke with a short nod. King Edmund’s dark, overgrown hair swept with the movement. He didn’t say more as he continued to stare at the monument and judging by the seize of his throat, he wasn’t even breathing.

Any practiced set of his face faltered and it seemed the Just King could no longer keep his emotions hidden, no matter how he strained.

His thick brow furrowed and wrinkled with sadness, his deep coloured lips pressed together into a wobbling thin line, his cheeks bloomed red with the effort of holding his breath… and at last, a singular tear managed to forge a path from the tips of his eyelashes to the root of his chin.

This expression, Grace knew. She’d seen it many times; on the faces of strangers, of children, of herself.

It was the face of mourning.

Her mind returned to the images of towering tombstones she’d seen. Had it been an intermittent blink of foretelling? The air of death didn’t seem to hang over this place the way it should, but there was no denying this space had seen something.

“I’ve walked this way many times,” King Edmund’s soft voice broke her from her reverie, his eyes fixated stubbornly on the cracked slabs of grey stone, “But never have I managed to climb those steps.”

Grace nodded, she’d perceived as much from the surprise in his reaction, “Then it looks like you’ve made progress today.”

The Just King looked at her like that was not the response he’d been expecting, or even that he’d thought he deserved. There was an open honestly about his eyes which Grace had never seen before. The wall of bark burning away to something else entirely; vulnerable and bare in the dim light.

Grace was no stranger to comfort, both received and offered. She’d spent many nights staring into eyes just like his, offering what she could to the bare emptiness.

“I make an attempt every time I go West,” The words tumbled from his lips, any questions or concerns he held with sharing such information clearly an afterthought he brushed away, “I tried to ignore it at first, to watch it pass by as we followed the planned path. But somehow, we’d always teeter further south than originally planned and I would feel this… pull.”

Grace waited patiently for the King’s shuddering breath to pass and for him to continue.

“It stopped being a conscious choice after the fourth trip to the West. We would make camp in the same spot and the next morning I’d leave before sunrise. I’d journey through those woods until I reached the edge of the tree line…”

“And then?” Grace prompted after a lengthy pause.

“And then I’d lose my nerve and turn back around,” King Edmund looked at her, disappointment clear in the downward turn of his lips.

Something in Grace wanted to fight that emotion, to argue that avoidance of a situation is not weakness. She held the words down with the bare strength of her mind, “How do you feel now that you’re here?”

At the mention of ‘here’, King Edmund returned to ruminating on the stones. The sun had risen enough to bathe everything with its golden light which reflected and spattered his cheeks like freckled starlight.

“I wonder what I ever thought coming here would achieve,” He murmured sullenly, “I wonder how I am supposed to move on.”

Grace felt her chest ache, a dull and familiar feeling settling into her soul as she watched King Edmund battle with her old enemy.

One of her hands itched in his direction, yearning to comfort how she usually would… but this was King Edmund, and Grace had no idea how that would be received.

Her eyes were once again drawn to the standing stones; glimmering, ominous and bathed in gold. They did not remind her wholly of a tombstone now, rather the glow and glimmer evocative of something else.

“There is something I do when I look upon stones such as this,” Grace reminisced thoughtfully, “It is not much, but it offers some consolation.”

She waited for any small sign of recognition before she continued, “I can show you, if you like?”

His brief nod was all that was needed before Grace delved into the leather bag strung over her shoulder. Her fingers flicked through its contents furious speed, silently cursing her past self who’d packed such a thing in a rush without taking care to organise anything.

Her throat sang when she at last clasped a hand around them. From the corner of her eye, she gleaned King Edmund’s interested expression.

The warm wax of the candle was smooth in her hands as she offered it, the fingers underneath balancing a small and pointed matchstick betwixt them.

The King’s features shifted into an expression reminiscent of his usual sarcasm, “A candle?”

Grace wanted to smile, to argue that it was simple but effective but she found the emotion required had been lost in the nervousness of her offering. The weight of the candle and her own memories laid too heavily in her open splayed palm.

When the item was inched once more in the King’s direction, he accepted it.

“You light one end to melt the wax,” Grace explained, “Then you angle it so that the wax drips where you wish to place it. When enough of it’s melted, it should be enough to support the candle on its own.”

The King nodded, his calloused hands wrapped carefully around the soft off-white stick.

Grace held the matchstick forth; partly because she thought he should do such a thing himself, mostly because she didn’t know how to use it without a lighting strip.

King Edmund did. With a practiced ease, he knelt down and swept the red tipped end on the stone floor. The effect was instant, a sizzling and popping which produced an orange flame.

The wick was lit slowly, the transfer of flame stubborn against its wax coating.

“Where do I put it?” The King rasped as he stared at the orange flicker with uncertainty.

Grace shrugged, “Wherever feels right to you.”

The sun reflected a warm caramel in his irises as he searched, it touched the angles of his worn face with a warm and forgiving glow.

King Edmund stepped towards the two slabs of slanted, cracked stone and kneeled. With a shaking grip, he offered the melting wax to the edge of the left, only to be disappointed when the wax did not flow evenly.

Grace’s hand itched again, edging in the direction of the King. This time, she didn’t think twice as she too knelt to steady his grip with her own.

His hand was warm, the skin stretched across the back of his knuckles smooth compared to the callouses of his palm. As they both held the candle aloft – watching the antagonizingly slow drips of wax which descended from the wick – it occurred to Grace that his hand didn’t burn her like usually did.

When enough wax had dripped, Grace released his hand – a signal to proceed. King Edmund followed it, white knuckled as he held the candle in place and waited for it to harden. The air was chilled with the season and it did not take long.  

His grip released, a triumphant flex once he realised that he’d done it. The candle made no reply but a short and encouraging flicker, it’s colour and position a perfect match to the rising sun behind it.

The Just King admired it as he settled his other leg upon the floor. It was as if some weight had been removed from his shoulders, still burdened but less so than they were before.

Grace let him have the moment, choosing to sit in solidarity and silence beside him. She did not watch him now, not in this moment that was personal and private. Instead, she watched the flickering flame dance and wondered if fire also lived sentiently in this world.

“I’m sure this might all seem silly to you,” King Edmund began, his voice cracked from the silence he’d held.

Grace’s head was shaking before he’d even finished the sentence, “Absolutely not. Even I can see that the stones mean something to you. It would be cruel to laugh at such a connection.”

“It was a table, once,” the King commented, “It still holds the name even now, the Stone Table.”

It made sense. Had Grace not wondered at the puzzle like split between the two glimmering slabs just moments ago?

“How did it get like this?” She asked.

King Edmund’s eyes shut tightly, his corners crinkled with the effort they bore, “From the mistakes of a very foolish child.”

A child? Grace’s tried to keep the interest she held from her expression, “What did he do?”

At first, the King seemed reluctant to speak. He stared unseeingly at the glittering ores, one hand smoothing against his pantleg in a comforting manner.

Whether it was the interest in her voice that persuaded him, she did not know, but eventually he told her, “He betrayed everything he knew for a handful of promises. For that trespass, the ultimate price was paid.”

The ultimate price. An image of blood, crimson and final pooling over the edges of the stone. Dripping towards the level ground with thick viscosity. A child’s blood. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

“Such a world, where children are made to pay for misdeeds in blood,” Grace whispered mournfully.

The King shook his head dismissively, “Only he did not pay it.”

Surprise tore the gruesome image from her mind’s eye, “What?”

The response was so quiet that Grace had to strain her ears to hear it, “Aslan took the pain in the child’s place.”

Her gaze returned to the Stone Table, it was still dripping with blood, but now it was blood of a different kind; more noble in sacrifice than the previously misguided crimson she’d envisioned.

“Poor child,” Grace voiced.

King Edmund looked to her sceptically, “Poor child?”

“Yes,” Grace resolved, her eyes determined as they met with his, “To live with someone else’s life on their shoulders over a decision they made when they couldn’t know any better.”

The King stared at her, his dark eyes fogged over, “You’d have pity for someone you don’t understand?”

Grace shook her head, “Not pity, empathy. It couldn’t have been easy to navigate such a journey at a young age.”

Disbelief, that was the emotion. Grace saw a trace of it on King Edmunds features before he hid them in the shade of his deep, sunlit hair, “I wonder if you would say the same to the child.”

“I would,” Grace confirmed reflexively, “There’s no point in talking behind someone’s back if you can’t say it to their face.”

There was a pause where the King seemed to weigh her words. Grace could not tell what emotions fuelled the argument he battled internally, for she still could not see his face. When he broke the thickened silence, his voice was small and vulnerable, “Even if it were me?”

The inaudible ring of truth to the words was hard to comprehend, yet there it was. Resilient against any objections Grace held because it simply made sense. It was as if there had been a piece long missing from the puzzle, one she’d long since given up looking for. And of all places, she’d stumbled into it on the floor, cutting underfoot when she’d least expected it.

Grace faltered briefly whilst the information settled in her understanding, “I-”

King Edmund seemed resigned before she could finish, “You don’t need to explain your abhorrence to me. I have no wish to hear of it.”

She tried again, “Your Majesty-”

“Don’t call me that here,” The King cut her off, “Not in this place, where I deserve it the least.”

“Please-”

But he would not let her speak, “If you think I don’t regret it, you’re sorely mistaken. Every day I wish I could return to the moment I stumbled into Narnia and by extension, into her embrace. Jadis offered me things I could not fathom in my wildest dreams. Things I yearned for in a way no boy should.”

His anger gave way as reason and vulnerability wormed into the edges of his features, “At the time, I was so upset with my family – with our circumstances – that I followed her. I said things that I am ashamed of. I allowed and revealed things that were worth the price of blood.”

“You were a child,” Grace insisted, her voice cutting against his spout of self-hatred, “Your actions do not diminish that point. If anything it is the crux of the issue.”

The King denied her objections with vehemence, “It didn’t matter. I knew what she was on some subconscious level. I refused to acknowledge it. I was entrapped; lured with promises of station, power and sweets,” At the last word, his voice twisted with disgust, “Things that should have meant less than the lives of my family.”

Grace’s vision was blocked when her eyes closed in swift realisation. The puzzle piece was plucked from the floor, the cut it had left on the sole of her foot as deep as a papercut, yet it stung more.

What was it Margrove had said? There was nothing the Terebinthian’s upheld more than family.

Her hand reached forth in her mind, pictures she’d imagined of King Ventotene’s mistreatment and her questions as to why buzzing at her fingertips as she attempted to slot it into piece, but it wouldn’t fit, yet. One side still lay disturbingly flat and emotionless.

The King’s haunted gaze settled on her, the fathomless black piercing her soul in a way that made her hair stand on end. He had not noticed her internal turmoil in favour of his own, “She was beautiful too, you know. Otherworldly and terrifying but beautiful none the less.”

The grasp of her mind could feel the growing edge of the puzzle piece before she could fully acknowledge it, the beginnings of an understanding she’d always known deep down.

“That is why you didn’t trust me,” Grace breathed.

King Edmund nodded, “You were unknown. Not of Narnia nor anything I’d ever known and Lucy’s vehemence of her friendship with you only pushed me further. The look in her eyes reminded me too much of my own.”

It all came to a head then; Her worries, her suspicions, any misconception Grace had stumbled over whilst trying to understand the Just King. The shaking grip of her mind held the piece over the incomplete picture haphazardly, one final test before its release.

It was a perfect fit.

Grace’s eyes bugged at the implications, “You have to know I would never-”

“I know,” The King flashed her a measly apologetic smile, “I do not fear you any longer, Grace.”

The knowledge was comforting to say the least. Grace would have grinned in triumph were it not for the melancholy which still clung to his features.

His shoulders moved with deep, steadying breaths and once again, Grace felt the itch in her fingertips. She wanted to reach for him, to offer any comfort she could. Just as soon as the thought was acknowledged, those hands were fisted into her dress.

Instead, she again chose to delve deeper into her curiosity, “What I don’t understand is how the table is cracked. Does sacrifice cause such a thing?”

“Yes,” The Just King’s voice was stronger now, “I do not know the specifics of it but my understanding is that He was revived by the Deep Magic. My sisters were there… though, they have never spoken of it to me.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, “Then how did you find out?”

The King shrugged, “Whispers at court. The advantage of a spy network is that you hear of everything. Even events of which you do not wish to hear.”

There was an edge to his voice that she did not want to touch, it gleamed like the sharpened edge of a blade.

“They called me traitor, at first. Whispered it in the shadows like it was a slur,” A maddening hand dragged through his hair, “Where was the lie?”

“Regardless of what I had done; All it took was the forgiveness of Aslan for them to make me a King,” The King sniffed disbelievingly, “Another title placed beside the first. The honour of one just as heavy as the implications of the other.”

A beam of sunlight reached pale white skin and Grace’s gaze flickered to it, entranced by the way the King’s capable hands wrung wretchedly under the shadow of the Stone Table.

“I feel so far from yet so bonded to both,” He murmured mournfully, “The mix of identities drive me mad because it’s not simply a title, not a name that is bestowed upon me in hate or kindness. It’s who I am, who I was, who I will be. It’s the demons I wrestle with and the voices I listen to,” He paused for the breath that caught in his throat, “It’s the weight I will carry for the rest of my life.”

The burden of the last sentence caught her off guard. Surely, he didn’t continue to blame himself?

“You seem to view yourself quite harshly,” Grace voiced with concern.

The King shrugged helplessly, “What have I done that is undeserving of that.”

“I can think of a few things,” Grace countered, “And those are only in the month I have known you.”

The statement was dismissed with a short shake of King Edmund’s head.

“No, seriously,” Grace pressed, “Margrove has told me of the respect the Westerners hold for you. I see it myself, day in and day out.”

“It is true I have managed to make some amends,” King Edmund allowed, “I’ve been working towards that goal my whole life.”

“Some amends?” Grace’s brows raised, “Casys rips me a new one every time I speak ill of you and don’t even get me started on Shese; she’s damn near ready to scratch my eyes out if I so much as breathe in your direction without curtseying first.”

The King turned to her, surprise clad in his raw rimmed eyes, “You speak ill of me?”

Grace waved him off dismissively, “Very rarely when I’m upset at you and that is not the point. Your people are ready to fall on their swords in your defence and yet you will write that off as ‘some’ amends.”

Once again, The King’s dark hair shook with denial, “You weren’t here Grace. My actions are still unbalanced to the consequences of my destruction.”

“Perhaps in your mind,” Grace replied, however, something in his face made her pause her protests.

The King sighed, his freckled hands wrestling an endless battle in his lap, “At times I fear that this feeling will never go way. At others, I hope it doesn’t. If I were to forget the whole matter in its entirety, I fear a repeat of my actions.”

Grace nodded with a semblance of understanding, “I can see your point… and you’re right, it shouldn’t be forgotten.”

As if she’d reinforced the point, King Edmunds shoulders shifted forwards in shame.

“But that does not mean you should continue punishing yourself for it.”

The statement was pondered for a moment before he breathed, “It’s hard not to. It has gotten to the point where I wonder if I prefer the pain. That the crack in the perfect façade I’ve created is justifiably noticeable.”

“So what if it is?” Grace asked.

The Just King looked at her dubiously, “It’s hardly seemly for a King to wallow. We are supposed to be beacons for the future, a pillar of Justice and Magnificence to be honoured and obeyed.”

Before she could think better of it, Grace scoffed, “That might be true, but that makes you no less human.”

King Edmund spared her an annoyed glance.

Grace stared back with a vehemence she might regret later, “You are allowed to feel emotion, your Majesty-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Grace ignored him, “You are allowed to mourn. Whether it be Aslan, your decisions or even yourself.”

He looked to her incredulously, “Myself?”

“Yes,” Grace answered, “It’s alright to mourn the person you were before you made the decisions you did.”

The King’s lips twisted with distaste, “I can’t envision myself mourning that beast.”

Grace’s own lips spread thinly, “Surely you had some redeeming qualities?”

King Edmund paused, his face scrunching in thought, “I used to be able to climb. Quite well actually.”

Grace leaned towards him in interest, “What did you climb on?”

“Trees mostly,” He remembered fondly, “I think I got stuck in one once? I can’t quite remember.”

Her smile ghosted his own, “I think I have, too.”

King Edmund’s brows raised in spite of himself, “You were a climber?”

“Absolutely not,” Grace exclaimed, frightening memories of clinging to a branch in her mind’s eye, “That’s why I got stuck in the tree!”

They laughed. It was light at first, a light melody of tones amongst the silent air of the morning, then, it grew more robust like a much-needed release.

When the moment passed and the pressure of silence weighed upon them again, the King spoke up, “I know what you’re doing, and while I appreciate the sentiment I cannot in good conscious let you take this upon yourself. You cannot heal me, Grace.”

Grace considered the statement, it’s truth weighing heavily upon her heart, “You’re right. Only you can do that.”

The King mumbled something that Grace did not catch, though she could have sworn she heard the words ‘fat chance’ in there somewhere.

She breathed deeply, the feeling a release of tension she’d been holding in her chest. There was a lot of information running through her mind, the brief distraction from her own internal struggles had proven quite diverting. Almost enough for her to forget them entirely.

The words he’d spoken turned over in her mind excessively as she stared at the flame. The candle had begun to melt in earnest, the heat at the wick liquefying the white substance down by an inch since they’d lit it.

It was funny, how the world often mirrored us. The crack in the Stone Table sat glimmering in the fast-rising light of the sun. Two perfect halves of a whole, an image she could see mirrored in the statements King Edmund had made. The white of the wax had begun to drip into the crack, gluing it together by a sheer force of will.

“You know,” Grace began slowly, her mind racing to catch up with her mouth, “There’s a practice in Spare Oom which might offer some perspective.”

The King leaned towards her, the interest sparkled in the black glass reflection of his eyes, “Another one? The people of Spare Oom do seem to have a preference for rituals.”

“It’s the art of mending pottery,” Grace ignored his tone, her eyes transfixed on the way the white wax melted on the Stone Table, “With gold, silver or platinum.”

At first King Edmund eyed her like she’d gone mad, his gaze following her own to the melted wax, “I think this table might be beyond repair.”

Grace rolled her eyes, unsurprised at his literal translation, “This table might be, but you’re not.”

The King sighed at her dissent, “I thought we’d agreed that you can’t heal me, Grace.”

Grace’s hands were in the air, a peace-making motion before the fight truly began, “The actions would be entirely your own. Besides, it’s less about healing than it is acknowledgement.”

There was no quick light of understanding as Grace had hoped, but then again, how could there be? As Lucy had reminded her multiple times, she and her siblings had left Earth when they were children and held no solid memory of the place. The only sibling in the Tetrarchy who seemed to have a clue about Spare Oom was Queen Susan, and even then her recollections were few and far between.

Grace breathed deeply in preparation, her mind already spinning webs of resistance which King Edmund might take and planning how best she could route them, “Let’s say, you buy one of your sisters a nice teapot.”

“Alright,” The King followed.

“But when you go to wrap it, it’s dropped and breaks in half.”

The expression on King Edmund’s face pronounced his words before he did, “A teapot would shatter.”

Grace fixed him with a stony glare, “Well, thank Aslan this one didn’t. It’s only one crack – easily mendable – but of course, this is a gift and you wouldn’t feel right just gluing it back together-”

“I would just buy a new teapot,” The King replied simply.

At this point, Grace wanted to throw the whole analogy – and the King – into the bin, “Please just let me finish.”

King Edmund stopped, thankfully, though there was an ever so slight mischievousness to the turn of his lips.

Grace sighed, knowing this would be as close as she’d get, “The point I’m trying to make is that instead of simply gluing it together and pretending it never happened, you might chose to glue to together with something noticeable. Something decorative.”

“What is the point in that?” The King asked, “If you were to make the mistake, would you not wish to hide it?”

“I think the point is to see the beauty in the cracks,” Grace explained, “To celebrate the flaws and missteps of life.”

Understanding warmed King Edmund’s features, which then settled as the meaning did, “You do understand that the crack remains, regardless of the amount of gold thrown on it?”

“The gold cements the crack together to make it whole again,” Grace corrected, “But you’re right the crack is still there – it will always be there – it just becomes easier to live with.”

The King looked at her oddly, “So… You want me to celebrate my actions towards my family, Aslan and all of Narnia?”

Grace looked at him, the fervour of her speech warming her cheeks against the chill in the air, “I want you to acknowledge it in a way that doesn’t reduce who you are now. I want you to understand that you are a far better person for your mistakes, not despite them.”

When he still looked unconvinced, Grace’s voice raised in volume, “Don’t you see? If you continue to see yourself with such contempt then you are betraying everything you’ve worked for. There is so much more to you than the choices you made as a child.”

“Like what?” The King threw back.

Grace’s brows rose involuntarily, “An attitude that won’t quit, for one.”

The King’s dark eyes widened a fraction at the unexpected response. For a second before he spoke, he seemed as remorseful as the apology offered, “Sorry. I used to be like that before. Argumentative and vindicated. It’s not a preferred personality trait of mine.”

A familiar smile curled Grace’s cheek, “It’s alright, I was too. I still am, most days,” An unwilling sigh parted her lips and soothed her mind, “Some wounds are too hard to let go.”

The Just King seized the opportunity to retaliate with a small, wry smile, “And to think, you’re lecturing me about mine.”

“I never said I perfected the art,” Grace muttered defensively, glancing sideways to meet his look with her own.

The still life had returned, but it was calmer. King Edmund’s shoulders seemed lighter than they had before, they held his deep blue overshirt straight across their broad width with a practiced ease.

His face seemed more pensive and less debilitating, a feat which Grace would take a little credit for – though she would never claim such a thing out loud. Most noticeably, his hands had stilled, a steady breath on the rise and fall of his chest as the sun warmed his irises to a warm golden hue.

There was little more Grace could do. She’d already encroached heavily on his privacy today – an action which she was sure to remunerate over for a very long time.

The argument felt incomplete, however, and there was another sentence that beaded itself upon the string of her mind. One last spoken attempt to convince the King to try.

In the still air, Grace decided to take the chance, “Look, do you plan on repeating your actions?”

He looked at her, eyes ringed with a steady rim of honor and honesty, “Never.”

Grace smiled softly at his intensity, “Then I’d say the error has done its job. Is there a reason you should still hold on to it so tightly?”

“I hold on to it so tightly so that I never repeat it again,” King Edmund argued, his voice a stern reminder of his previous words.

“But you just told me you never would,” Grace rebutted, pleased with the way his dark eyes fractioned wider, “So perhaps, it might be useful to give yourself credit where it is due and perhaps a little bit of lenience?”

The silence that followed was telling, it emboldened Grace with a hope she didn’t know she held.

“I’ve never much liked gold,” King Edmund muttered as he picked at the skin of his fingers.

Grace felt her cheeks stretch with a small smile, an image of the King’s intricate leaf broach floating across her memory, “Perhaps you can paint yourself in silver.”

His lips pursed but the slight and unmistakeable distaste was overridden by something stronger. Something kinder than what had alighted his features previously.

If nothing else came from this conversation, Grace would take the win in pushing a thought past the stoic bark of King Edmund’s mental walls.

“I’m sorry I followed you,” Grace murmured through the unobserved silence.

“I’m not,” King Edmund returned, “If you hadn’t been here, I might never have climbed those stairs.”

Grace looked to him, her hair grazing softly against her chin as she did. She was only slightly disappointed when he did not reciprocate the look.

Instead, King Edmund held a resolute stare at the fast-melting stick of wax and the etched stone beneath it. His expression mirrored the likeness, a perfect picture of hardened beliefs against the softer more malleable ones.

It gave her more than hope and for the first time since they trekked those stone steps, Grace believed in his ability to overcome his demons on his own.

There was no better time for her exit – or escape.

“I’ve infringed on your privacy for far too long,” Grace murmured as she prepared her satchel and skirts for departure, “I’ll head back to the camp.”

“No,” The Just King interjected, his expression shifting to beseeching, “Stay.”

Grace’s brow furrowed in question, “And do what? This is your time for reflection, not mine.”

His answering smile was small, yet charming, “Perhaps you might practice sitting in silence? It might do you some good.”

With her eyes raised to the sky, Grace silently called on Aslan for strength. That was what one did right? She’d heard some other phrases with the Great Lion’s name used though didn’t quite grasp the rules of their practice as yet.

“Good bye, your Majesty,” Grace replied as she stood wobblingly from the coarse brick floor, “I’ll see you back at camp.”

The King regarded her stoically before returning his gaze to the Stone Table, “Fine. Take my boots at the foot of the stairs. The last thing we need is another open wound to mend.”

Grace smiled lightly as she alighted from the shadows of the towering stones. The boots at the foot of them would be a warm reprieve from the worn soles of her bare feet.

“What about you?” She realised, grateful for the gesture but unwilling to leave her friend bereft the way she had been.

“I’ll manage. Go.”

Before she dipped past the level ground of the Stone Table, she threw one last glance to the fast-rising sun; the blinding light caressing her face with a warmth she had not felt since winter had begun.

In the direct path of that beam sat the King himself; broad shoulders as assured as they should be, despite everything he had been through. The soft smile on her lips straightened as the weight of his life dawned upon her.

King Edmund was right, Grace could not heal him.

It was a wretched thing, to stand aside someone you cared for, only to watch them suffer. She supposed it was all one could do in a case like this. To stand in support of those who needed it and offer what you could to assist them.

If all Grace could offer were hope and anecdotes, they would be given without a second thought. If he needed more, then there was little else that wouldn’t be given to wipe that mournful expression from his face.

When the sight of the King’s shadow had all but burned into her retinas, it was traded with the vertigo inducing height of the grass cracked steps.

Grace sighed; one hand on her skirt, and the other in the air for balance as she began her long decent down them.

Chapter Text

XLIII

EDMUND

No Light, No Light – Florence + the Machine

There was an itch of anticipation as Edmund sat upon the leather saddle. His ankles bobbed in a misshapen rhythm, spurred by the pat of his finger pads upon saddle grip.

By the end of the day they would be in the Western Wood. His soul rejoiced at the thought of home. Or well… a home away from home. In truth, he felt as settled there as he did within the walls of Cair Paravel, sometimes even more so.

There was something to the civilised wilderness that enthralled Edmund; something too dear to be named, too implicit to be declared. There was no better place to be found in Narnia by his own count – and he had traversed enough of the country to make such a bold claim.

His fingers itched to trace the striped bark of birch trees, his feet yearned to walk barefoot upon dry leaves and revel at the sound. Edmund’s foot mirrored the motion in mid-air, almost hearing the crunch underfoot as he did. A longing breath clawed it’s way free from his chest, the air doing nothing to dissipate the feeling.

“Could you stop that,” Phillip murmured, “You’re putting me off my rhythm.”

At once, the foot tapping stopped and Edmund felt a little ashamed at his lack of consideration.

He patted his friends shoulder remorsefully, “I’m sorry, old friend.”

“It shouldn’t be that easy to put you off your walk,” interjected Starlight, “If it is then I think it may be time to hang up the saddle, old coot.”

Phillip side-eyed his counterpart with a dark glare, “I’d like to see you try to keep pace with your rider bobbing about, young Filly.”

The white coated Talking Horse narrowed her own skylit eyes in return, “I think I very well could. How about it Grace? Feel like dancing a jig upon my back and showing this sack of bones what for?”

“Huh?” The Daughter of Eve in question jolted to consciousness, eyes still unfathomably lost as she attempted to gain a grip on the conversation.

Edmund felt his lips press humorously at her face, “I believe they’re involving you in their spat about riding rhythms.”

The befuddled expression did not waver, “Oh?”

“Yes,” Starlight nipped impatiently, “Can you manage a jig upon my back? Nothing too extravagant, just a tapping of toes will do.”

“Don’t bother the Daughter of Eve with your fancies Filly,” Phillip gruffed.

“I shall bother her with whatever I like,” Returned the younger, “And the name is Starlight if you don’t mind-”

The growing argument grew quiet to Edmund’s ears as he observed Grace’s perplexed frown. She seemed troubled, for lack of a better word – her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of her leather saddle in a beat much more harmonious than Edmund’s own.

“Are you well?” He asked, leaning towards her so that his soft tone might be heard amongst the arguing of their companions.

The trance broke and Grace laid her bright and surprised eyes upon him, “Hm?”

Edmund’s head tilted with concern, “You seem troubled.”

“Oh,” Grace muttered, her eyes glazed over again as she recalled her thoughts, “I was only working on something.”

“Working on something?” His glance flickered from the open field in her glassy gaze to the fingers which tapped upon the saddle grip, “In your mind?”

Grace nodded assuredly, “The beginnings of a song, I think. But it’s all muddled.”

Edmund felt his curiosity heighten, could it be another song from Spare Oom?

“How so?”

“There are bits and pieces,” Grace explained, “The murmur of a beat, a word or two of lyric but none of it matches together yet.”

“I won’t agree as it is a childish notion!”

Phillip and Starlight’s argument began to peak; both Talking Beasts reaching a volume and tone which could no longer be ignored.

“It is not childish,” the younger returned, her tone had turned hostile under her counterparts pettiness, “The High King himself has accepted it, which means you must.”

Grace put a hand to her friend’s mane soothingly, “Starlight?”

The White Coated Horse slowly began to cease her tirade under the ministration, though the frustrated snorts continued with bitterness.

Phillip was no better, his teasing bordering on cruelty as Edmund watched on with a scowl.

“Phillip, I don’t think that was necessary,” Edmund commented after a particularly rude remark.

His friend only responded with a frustrated huff.

“Perhaps we should take a break?” Grace whispered over the distasteful noise of their companions, her eyes fixing upon a point in the distance.

Edmund followed the line of her gaze, easily landing upon a pond which sat nestled under the enclosure of leaning willow trees.

The sight was just that – there was nothing particularly enticing about it. From this distance, Edmund could tell the pond’s edge would not house the entire party. The time it would take to ensure a complete watering would be detrimental to their journeying efforts.

Or at the very least, detrimental to his journeying efforts - Edmund wanted to make it to the Western Wood by nightfall. There was a particular surprise which would only have full effect in the light of day. A surprise which he did not plan on missing.

It was for that reason that Edmund shook his head, “It would likely do more harm than good to our time constraints. Weren’t you the one who was worried over such a thing but days ago?”

Grace gave him a look, no doubt reliving the awful moments of that sunlit afternoon, “I think in this case it’s necessary.”

The last word was punctuated with a look to the Talking Horses - they had moved a pace apart in their anger.

Edmund noted the loss of Grace’s leg warmth with a mild disappointment.

There was little Edmund could do to bring Phillip to his senses, and he tried. The huffing and snorting continued as they unblinkingly split around the invisible boulder of their argument.

As their positions neared the edge of the travelling line, Edmund felt his anxiety peak. The distance between he and Grace would be insurmountable should there be any kind of attack, and from his view of Starlight, she showed no signs of stopping once they were cleared of the party altogether.

In a last-ditch effort, Edmund placed a hesitant hand upon his friends chestnut clad shoulder. He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so commanding as it did, however it seemed to do the trick, “Towards the pond, if you please.”

The Talking Horse snorted but veered all the same.

-

“What is this about, Phillip? I’ve never seen you act thusly with Starlight,” Edmund questioned as he leant against the bark of a willow.

The Talking Horse paused his drink at the sandy edge of the pond, “Filly started it when she called me old.”

There was a mild annoyance in Edmund’s features as he rebuffed his friend, “Her petition has been heard and accepted by the Court and so the name Starlight is legally bound.”

Phillip snorted, “Not to me, it isn’t. It’s an affront to the people who raised her!”

“How so?” Edmund quirked a brow, “From my understanding she still honours the name she was given, she simply wishes to go by another now that she’s grown.”

“I’m sure you’d share my annoyance if you knew the lengths that were undertaken for her safety,” Phillip grumbled, “Ma Ivy sheltered that foal as though she were one of her own.”

The name tickled something in Edmund’s mind, conversations from a lifetime ago between a young boy and his riding companion, “Ma Ivy?”

Phillip nodded, “A mare of fearsomely strong character. She took on many foals near the end of the hundred-year-winter.”

“And Starlight was one of these foals?”

“Not exactly,” The Talking Horse replied as his eyes glazed over, “I remember the day when a snowy mare barged down the stable doorway, huffing and puffing about this and that. I was but a yearling, my own mother had left to join Aslans army a year before.”

The frayed edges of his friends story knit a clear assumption in Edmund’s mind, “She birthed Starlight in the stable?”

Phillip spared a look to the King, “And left straight after. Something about ‘Agents of the White Witch’ being on her tail.”

Edmund’s arms crossed against his chest, “This doesn’t explain why her change of name is so abhorrent to you.”

“I was getting to it,” Phillip protested, “It wasn’t long after Filly was produced that they came. Maugrim and the rest of the wolves surrounded the stable, threatening to tear us all to pieces if we would not give up the mare. We tried to explain that she’d gone, but they knew she had been carrying and couldn’t have made it far.”

“We hid Filly with the other Foals,” he continued, “Though, it was plain to see she was new. Her size was smaller and she was still covered in birth.”

Edmund could see where it was going, “Maugrim would have sniffed her out.”

Phillip affirmed the suspicion with a snort, “It took him all of five minutes. I remember what his snarl looked like. His mouth was dripping with the blood of another. The only thing that stood between Filly and that beast was Ma Ivy and I.”

A suppressed shudder rattled Edmund’s spine, he knew the sound of the dead wolf’s snout all too well, “How is she alive?”

“It was touch and go at first. Ma Ivy only convinced them to leave by trampling a wolf that snapped too closely. She saved us all.”

Edmund’s brow crinkled. He’d read over many of the Secret Police’s reports and knew it was rare for many to be left alive, and those that were found themselves dead soon after.

“I’d imagine the relief was temporary,” He voiced thoughtfully.

“We left the stable that night,” Phillip confirmed.

The tree steadied the sway of Edmund’s memory; rough bark etching into the bare back of his hand and grounding him to the reality of the moment, “This still doesn’t explain why the name change bothers you.”

The Talking Horse let out a noise of annoyance, “That is because you keep interrupting! The point to the story is that I gave her that name.”

The knowledge stunned Edmund, “You did? I thought you said it was Ma Ivy-”

”I said,” Phillip sighed exasperatedly, “That it was an affront to the people who raised her.”

Edmund chose to hold silent, still confused between the trajectory of the story and the reason for his friend’s offence.

Phillip continued, “Once the agents of the White Witch had retreated and the muck was cleaned from her coat, Ma Ivy moved us south; past the Dancing Lawn to the border of Archenland to the encampment of the Southern Herd.”

There was a soft snort as the Talking Beast returned his muzzle to the clear pond water, “The journey was long and there were oft times when the little foal would lean on me for support. I remember pitying her – she was so soon taken from her mother’s side and pushed on the run. It’s a wonder she survived.”

“You almost sound like you care about her,” Edmund remarked.

“I came to care for her in a way you do your own,” Phillip returned evenly, “Regardless of how she irritates me, that remains the point to which I stand.”

Edmund didn’t know what to say to that. It was already obvious that he understood Phillips regard, he himself having siblings which brought him to the edge and back again repeatedly.

The reason behind both Phillip and Starlight’s arguments settled against each other in his mind. The right of autonomy against that of guardianship. It was a difficult judgement, one that Edmund did not yet see a path through.

As if to drive the weight further even, Phillip whispered, “I named her Filly. Not for her age, but out of the same care my mother showed me as a foal.”

The vibrations of his voice caressed the pond with soft ripples, a song of time across generations.

Edmund’s brow crinkled, “But you are no longer called Filly?”

Phillip’s dark eyes returned to his friend once more, “No. My use of that name passed when my mother did.”

Compassion filled Edmund’s heart, the clear sight of his friend’s troubled one tugging at its strings. However, the half which remained mindful of his duty sat distantly – steadfastly attached to the Law he’d sworn to uphold.

“Starlight’s request has been heard and accepted in the Court of Aslan, Phil,” He began cautiously, “Neither you nor I can change that now.”

Phillip looked dejectedly into the mirror of sunlit trees.

Edmund regarded him with a pursed lip, his compassionate side spinning elaborate plans and promises he was not sure he could keep, “But perhaps, she might be willing to make allowances for family…” He trailed, the last of the sentence delivered at a point, “If you were to ask her nicely?”

-

“I sincerely hope Starlight is in a better mood,” Edmund muttered as he lowered himself into the grass beside Grace.

“She is as well as she can be,” Grace returned equally, a torn piece of grass pulled tight between her hands, “I did what I could.”

The grass twisted with a fresh crunch and snapped at the middle. The noise made Edmund cringe.

“And Phillip?” Grace asked, discarding the broken stem to the side.

Edmund returned her look of exasperation, “I did what I could.”

A sigh, followed by the sharp sound of another stem plucked from the ground, “At this rate, we’ll be walking to the Western Woods.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Edmund disagreed, “Phillip can be quite persuasive, he made some meaningful points to me.”

A disapproving brow arched on Grace’s freckled forehead, “What argument can be made against basic rights?”

Edmund shook his head, “It’s too personal to share.”

There was a nod of acceptance as the blade of grass twisted in her fingers. Grace did not pry for once. It was an action which was met with both incredulity and relief.

Inwardly, Edmund allowed the cautious reprieve – he did not know whether he could deny her the information if she truly asked. In fact, ever since that morning at the Stone Table, he wondered whether he could truly deny her anything. If the darkest moments of his past were not off limits, then what would be?

As if sensing his thoughts, Grace looked to him with the full force of her incandescent gaze, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Edmund muttered shortly. He had no wish to repeat their moment upon the stone table, no matter how much solace it had begun to provide.

The grass snapped again with a squeaky crunch.

“Will you stop that?”

Grace froze, stunned at the tone of his voice, “Stop what?”

“Picking at the grass,” Edmund snapped, “I don’t like the noise.”

There was another perfect arch of her brow, “You don’t like the noise?”

“Yes,” Edmund grunted, “Please, stop doing it.”

Grace regarded him oddly, “Seems like an overreaction over a bit of grass.”

The weight of her knowing gaze settled uncomfortably upon his face. Edmund bristled under it, the feeling only adding to the discomfort he already wore outwardly.

One of Grace’s more irritating traits was that she was persistent, and so it should have come as no surprise to him that she stared with that petulant knowing until she got her way.

Edmund sighed, “Tis nothing but my impatience.”

“Your impatience?”

Edmund grimaced on the admittance, “I’d hoped to reach the Western Wood before nightfall.”

Her gaze relented, “Oh.”

A silence settled between the two under the pond’s shadowing willow trees. Grace resettled against the rough trunk as she seemed to think, no doubt trying to come up with a solution.

Edmund had already tried and failed, knowing that they would be sat here for at least another hour – judging by the slow speed at which the Narnian’s drank at the edge of the glassy water. Only half had managed to quench their thirst in the time it had taken Edmund to speak to Phillip, the other waited patiently for their turn.

“How long until we reach the woods?” Grace asked.

“A few hours at least,” Edmund answered, eyes drawn skyward to the midday sun filtering between the billowing willow vines, “I could see the curve of The Great River this morning when we departed. We will cross it soon.”

Grace leaned towards him, “And then?”

His sight of the sun-bleached leaves was traded for the glimmer in her eyes, “We move onwards until we reach the first trees of the wood.”

This peaked her curiosity, “The first trees?”

Edmund’s felt his lips curve at the pleasure of her interest, “You’ll see them first. In the distance there will be a great wall of green as far as the eye can see. Thick, obstinate and never ending.”

At his description, Grace’s eyes glazed in wonder. Her lips parted minimally, the long-drawn breaths between them a high-pitched whisper as the imagination of such a place enthralled her.

Edmund couldn’t help the way his grin grew. This had been what he hoped to see, the wonder which only new eyes could bestow.

Now, he was no Margrove, nor a Centaurian storyteller, but Edmund liked to believe the learnings of the West had had some effect on his storytelling approach.

With slow purpose, Edmund leaned across the twisted expanse of willow roots and whispered, “They are not always so obstinate, you know.”

If it were possible, Grace’s eyes grew brighter at the hooked words.

He felt his cheeks warm at her attention, “If the weather is right and you ask very nicely, some say that the trees will move.”

“Moving trees?” Grace wondered whisperingly, her auburn hair catching on the soft breeze.

Edmund shrugged lightly, “We have to get around the woods somehow. After the Great Peace began, more saplings propped up than we knew what to do with. The elders had to make way for the new.”

“So they moved,” Grace surmised.

Edmund nodded, “And so the reach of the Western Wood grew nearly twice the size.”

If he did not get to see her reaction to the Swaying Path today, Edmund would settle for this. The unencumbered light in her eyes made him hope for something he could not yet understand.

“I hope we see it today,” Grace whispered, her voice carrying the short distance to his ears.

The sentence tugged Edmund back to the reality of the situation. He heaved a deep breath, the distance the sun had travelled compared to how far they still had to go weighing heavily upon his mind. They would reach the Western Woods this day – that point remained undoubted – but the question was whether they would reach it before nightfall.

“Perhaps the water will refresh the party enough to pick up speed?” Grace ventured, a clear grasp at empty air.

“Perhaps,” Edmund murmured defeatedly.

At the noncommittal reply, Grace visibly slumped.

Edmund followed the movement, one hand landing on the roughly woven sack he’d pilfered from Phillip’s back. He reached into it, the weight of the bag a reminder of his duty. As soon as the encampment was made there were three matters which would need to be settled posthaste.

One; the wood rot pandemic would need to be assessed and the findings sent to Lucy.

Two; A journey to Beavers Dam would be planned so that Edmund might oversee the dispute of incursion on their property.

Three; Edmund would have to send for Mr Tumnus.

The roughness of his hand trailed across plush ribbon as he tugged a stack from the bag.

The green velvet bounced as the parchment was tugged to his lap and Edmund leaned over it to locate his quill and inkwell.

“Are you working?” Grace demanded.

“Yes,” Edmund quipped, a triumphant noise in his throat when his hand felt the tickling of a feather, “We’re likely to be here for a while, what else am I to do?”

Grace only stared. Edmund didn’t need to turn to confirm the gaze’s existence, he could feel it.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” She asked.

“I’ve done nothing but ‘take a break’ since we left Cair Paravel. There is not much work that can be done upon horseback – trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Don’t lie, I heard your quill scratching in your tent this morning,” Grace returned with narrowed eyes.

Edmund’s eyes lifted with surprise, he hadn’t even realised she’d been awake.

It was true that he’d whittled away at some work under the dim candle light of that morning. It couldn’t be helped. Waking before the rise of the dawn was a habit Edmund had honed through years of practice which had been instigated by an incessant anxiety over the amount of work sitting atop his desk.

As time wore on, it had become easier to ignore the burn of his eyes and the jittered feeling which clung to the edge of his senses. Noting of course that they still remained, despite the amount of sleep Edmund obtained.

He wondered whether there was something inherent to the pattern of rest. Whether time and effort had no bearing on these things if ones body was so disposed to a particular sleeping pattern.

As it was; regardless of what time his head hit the pillow, Edmund knew he could sleep until noon.

He’d made an attempt that morning, under the dim freezing light of the stars which filtered through his tent opening. He’d rolled one way, then rolled back when the dirt pressed against his shoulder uncomfortably. There was some peace there, shuffled against the leftmost wall of the tent. It billowed towards him in enticing waves, as if on the breath of another.

Edmund had nearly fallen asleep again, eyes drooping just past the point of no return… when a snort had woken him again.

It was at that point that he had given up.

But surely, Grace could not have known he was working? By the time Edmund had stopped, she had yet to stir in her tent.

He decided to call her bluff, “Was that before or after you woke me with your snoring?”

The pale, freckled expanse of Grace’s cheeks was overtaken by a red and furious flush. It was her embarrassment which rattled Edmund out of the pleasure of his comeback.

“Sorry, that was rude,” He apologised.

Grace sniffed, “Don’t be. I’m sorry I disturbed your precious sleep.”

The chill of her tone shamed him into silence. He sat awkwardly for a moment, unsure how to amend the breach he’d made, one finger fiddling with the loop of the velvet bow in unrhythmic tugs.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Grace asked, her voice clearly out of necessity rather than actual care to assist.

Edmund glanced between her and the tied sheet. Regardless of the authenticity of her request, he found the grasp of his stricter self-holding his hand in place. It was the first insurgence of that voice he’d heard in weeks, as if it had been biding its time for this very moment.

They were in the open now, and Grace no longer had the sanctions upon her which had kept the order. Now, with no borders to confine them, what would stop her from taking the work and simply running away. The old terror gripped with a renewed strength, nearly overpowering the lesser voice which Edmund had become accustomed to.

He shook his head, “This business is based in decision not paper work. Mr and Mrs Beaver have filed a complaint regarding an incursion on their land,” the stack of green-tied parchment was held aloft on display, “I must read this to determine the parameters of the decision.”

The answer was accepted with a stony expression, though, Edmund could see the questions that burned away in the grey of her irises, “How long will that take?”

“However long it takes,” He replied, tugging the bow loose and coiling the green ribbon betwixt his fingers, “There can be no true guess. I will see to the matter directly after we have reached the woods.”

The silence that followed was tense and unyielding. Edmund could feel the cool and unsympathetic eyes of the Daughter of Eve remain upon him with an uncharacteristic coldness. His comment had clearly bruised her pride.

“Well then,” Grace murmured when the air could be stood no longer, “I suppose I’d better leave you to it.”

She moved to stand, the motion straining Edmund’s sight with stress, “Where are you going?”

“You’ve said I’m too loud twice now, first with the grass and now with my… snoring. Clearly I’m a disturbance,” Grace rambled.

Edmund didn’t wait, one hand snapping into the air and onto her sleeve, the fabric was long steeped in the warmth of her body which simultaneously welcomed and burned.

“Grace, wait-”

Grace rolled her eyes and jerked her chin to a willow nearby, “I’m only going over there,” There was a slight tug on his grip as she muttered, “Like I would get far without Starlight.”

“Regardless, I maintain the request that you stay by my side,” Edmund ordered, “If only for your safety rather than my sanity.”

Grace regarded him levelly as her attempts to free her arm continued, at the second tug it was released, “Would it change your mind if I told you that I plan on making a ridiculous amount of noise? The kind of noise that would irritate you?”

Inwardly, Edmund felt his insides curdle in distaste – he held no doubts that Grace knew exactly what to do to get on his nerves. Outwardly, he replied, “I’ll bear it.”

She glared at him levelly, the flush of anger in her cheeks apparent and unyielding as she assessed his entreating eyes.

“Fine,” she settled.

Grace reseated herself upon the tree roots with an overexaggerated huff, her hands instantly thrown into a similarly coloured sack of belongings. From its depths she tugged a bulbus carving of wood, it’s neck strung with strings of varying thickness.

It was a lute. The realisation came to Edmund dully, like an expected visit from a friend.

Immediately, Grace cradled the instrument atop the green swathed dress of her lap. Her fingers ran over the smoothened wood with a familiarity Edmund wondered at before she plucked one of the taut strings.

He cringed, the grip on the feathered quill briefly faltering when it sought to cover his ears. The instrument was woefully out of tune, no doubt due to the carelessness with which it had been packed. Edmund didn’t have the heart to contradict her, however, and so she continued working while he himself attempted to pen a note of comprehension on the Beaver’s letter.

A feat which in and of itself was near impossible.

After a minute of plucks, Grace let out a disappointed sigh, “It doesn’t sound right.”

Edmund replied without looking up from his work, “That’s because it’s out of tune.”

The object was noisily inspected in her inexperienced palms, “But that doesn’t make any sense, it was tuned when Margrove gave it to me four days ago.”

Edmund looked at Grace, the grimace on his lips difficult to conceal, “That’s because you haven’t stored it properly. Did Margrove not give you a case?”

Grace’s eyes widened, “No, was he supposed to?”

Her questioning eyes were traded for the polished lute as Edmund inspected it. He’d seen it before – the Faun in question prized the instrument. Notably spending his first few months at court with it strapped to his back so the Narnian might burst into song at any moment.

It was quite funny until Susan had put a stop to it.

Edmund jerked his head in the direction of the leather, “It is supposed to be carried upon your back when not in use. I’d imagine Margrove kept it on a stand otherwise.”

At the information, Grace slouched, “He never told me.”

The King’s lips twisted with humour, “You need to be told when the strap is right there?”

Grace’s answering glare only served to seal his lips tighter, “It’s not funny! I was supposed to learn how to use it before…”

Edmund caught the tantalising end of her sentence in interest. He leaned forward, “Before?”

Grace looked at him. Really looked at him, the knowledge held in her eyes dancing at the edge of Edmund’s intuition. Surely, she did not know?

There had been no word spoken between them, no promise that this was her return to Spare Oom. Yet, Edmund now recalled the words she spoke two mornings ago. Her spoken fears that he planned to visit the Wardrobe without her.

The instrument was tugged tighter to Grace’s chest and those eyes bolstered with something more than courage, “Before we reached the Western Wood.”

Edmund attempted to hide his anxiety under a raised brow, “Why the time limit?”

The hesitation was enough to make her next statement questionable, “I was planning something.”

“Planning something?” Edmund echoed as he determined her deceit.

Grace grew bolder under the perceptive gaze, “A performance.”

“A performance?”

Her face narrowed, “Do you live the life of a parrot or do you simply speak like one?”

Edmund recoiled a fraction at her tone, “Forgive me, I am only surprised. The Lute is a thorough instrument, it cannot be learned completely within a week. You could grasp the basics, but I fear a performance might be unpalatable to your pride.”  

“I already know basic chords,” Grace bargained, “It’s only practice I am lacking.”

Her negotiations crumpled under disappointment as Edmund shook his head, “It is not enough.”

The instrument was cradled amongst the green ripples of Grace’s dress as she lowered it, a dejected frown upon her face.

Edmund returned his focus to the work upon his own lap, mind torn between the inked words and the dismayed Daughter of Eve at his side.

The hope that Grace did not know the true purpose of this trip was beginning to drown in the realisation that she was smarter than Edmund had given her credit for. It should not have surprised him so that she would have put two and two together. Or that Margrove might have told her; either explicitly or inexplicitly by giving her his prized instrument.

Edmund found he could not fault the Faun. The relationship between the Leader of the Orchestra and his charge had grown substantially over the month they had worked together. Grace’s contributions to Narnia’s music had not gone unnoticed and so had given the pair a reputation. Something of which Margrove coveted with a finesse unlike any other.

“How did you know the instrument was out of tune?” Grace’s curious voice tugged at his conscious.

Edmund’s eyes snapped unwillingly to her face, finding the renewed strength there gratifying and frightening, “Pardon?”

“The lute,” Grace explained, “You said it was out of tune. How did you know?”

He found it difficult to maintain the staring match she was set upon, “It’s quite obvious that it doesn’t sound as it should.”

Grace’s head shook, “Not to me, it isn’t.”

Edmund’s scant attempt at avoiding her suspicious gaze was ousted when Grace leaned into his field of vision, “You know how to play it, don’t you?”

Her face was inches from his own and Edmund had to lean back in order to avoid a forehead altercation, “I never said any such thing.”

“But it was insinuated,” Grace persisted.

Edmund held his distance, pure survival instincts overriding any decorum he’d learned. There was no telling what the expression upon his face was or where his hands stood. All that was known to him was the insistent storm of her irises and the scent of smoke that wafted from her hair.

Her breath ghosted over his face, “Teach me.”

Edmund’s resolve briefly faltered, “Grace, I barely know enough to sustain a lullaby. It will be of no use to you.”

“That’s better than the simple chords I know,” Grace argued, the determination in her voice an indicator that she’d already won, “With your knowledge of the instrument and what I already know of music, you could help me piece this song together!”

There was a nagging realisation, a thought which he’d processed before in passing that had begun to take hold in absoluteness. Edmund was now certain that it would be hard to deny Grace much of anything, especially when she looked at him like that.

“I thought you were looking to perform?” His voice was thoughtless with a touch of something else. It washed against Edmund’s ears like an unknown birdsong. Curious and foretelling.

“Yes!” Grace whispered ecstatically, “It would be much easier to remember a song rather than learn a whole new one. That and the songs from Spare Oom seem to cause a stir here, don’t you think?”

The memory of the music played at Susan’s birthday ball came to mind. The Long Trot’s newer shroud had proven to be lively and beautiful. It’s otherworldliness shining like an enthralling beacon, even through instruments for which the song was clearly not made.

Edmund nodded – an odd feeling when one’s neck was already stretched as far backwards as the bones would allow.

As if sensing his discomfort, Grace returned to resting on her ankles. The lute was plucked from the roots of the willow tree and held aloft in the space between.

“So, you’ll teach me?” She asked with hope brimmed eyes.

For a moment, Edmund only stared at the instrument. His senses had returned with the absence of smoke and lightning, the aftermath of the storm a welcomed calm. His hands reached across the space until the warm wood touched his skin.

The transfer was as natural as breath, the weight of the instrument wearing familiarly in Edmund’s hands as his lips twisted wryly, “You do seem to enjoy being my student, don’t you?”

Grace scowled, “Not when you say it like that, I don’t.”

Edmund chuckled as he focused. One hand cradling the thinner end of the instrument as the other gently fiddled the pegs into tune.

It was a slow process of inching and plucking and if Edmund was honest, he was not absolutely certain each string was right. It did not matter, for Grace watched on with the intense interest she seemed to always hold; her stare burning holes into his fingertips as he worked.

“Who taught you to do this?”

Edmund didn’t spare a glance from the slow turning peg in his grasp, “A faun by the name of Tumnus.”

“Tom-nus?” The word was sounded slowly on Grace’s tongue, the odd inflection of it a circumstance of her accent.

“Yes,” Edmund confirmed. His fingers moved to the next peg in the box, skilfully twisting this way and that as he mulled the repercussions of his next omission, “You may know him as Margrove’s uncle.”

It had the desired effect. Grace’s shoulders opened, her eyes widened and bore into his own. The spark of recognition within them undisputedly familiar with the topic.

So, Margrove had mentioned his uncle after all.

“Will I get to meet him?” Grace asked.

Edmund cringed as a note fell flat from his fingers, “I would hope so, considering he is to return to Cair Paravel with us.”

If it were possible, Grace’s eyes widened, “Why?”

“Court business.”

Those same eyes narrowed just as quickly, “Do you still not trust me?”

It wasn’t that. For once, Edmund could claim his vocal interference was not a circumstance of their strained relationship. This defence mechanism had built itself into his conscious months before her arrival – from the very first speech Susan had made of diplomatic relations with Calormen.

Edmund considered his response as he fiddled with another peg, “It’s a topic I do not wish to discuss right now.”

His words must have held enough weight to occupy her mind, for Grace did not question him further. There was a moment of peace, only broken briefly by the discordant sounds of untuned strings and the shuffle of fabric as Grace reseated herself against the willow’s trunk.

There was something to the air that hung about the place. It danced across whispering vines and settled on the dewed grass like a small bird landing from flight. In response, the willow sang; it was small at first, the whistly tune drafting through it’s hollow and tinkling across the lance shaped leaves.

Between the soft hum of the earth and the ever-sweeter sound of the instrument betwixt his fingers, Edmund began to feel his entrenched soul soften. It warmed itself at the hearth of the ordinary and puddled comfortably into it’s cracks.

As he sat on the repetitive motion of tweaking and plucking over and over, it occurred to Edmund that he could not remember the last time he’d done something so simple. Something without an ulterior motive. It was a peace of purpose he had not known for a very long time.

Edmund fell into it’s welcoming haze, eyes glossing over as he gave over completely to his senses. A keen knowing stopping his fingers at just the right point before he moved on to the next.

The wind continued to coax it’s own music from the world around him; a haunting ripple on the ponds surface, a feathered scratch when it flattened his hair atop his forehead... And something else. Something much throatier… something much more human.

The voice didn’t harmonize with the music of the breeze, in fact it seemed to follow a tune of it’s own. The melody bobbed and weaved over the baseline of the world, wrapping it in something more substantial.

“That’s nice,” Edmund whispered.

Grace spared him a brief glance, “Thank you.”

She didn’t launch into some tale of its background like he’d expected. As soon as she’d spoken the words, her focus returned to humming once more, as if she’d lose the train of thought if she let it pass her.

Edmund wondered at the edge to it, how the song stirred the puddle of his soul to a curiosity that could not be satiated. He’d heard it before, he knew he had. In passing, a brief fragmented memory.

“Is that the tune you were thinking of before?” He asked.

This time, the look Grace threw him held traces of annoyance, “Yes.”

The fiddling of Edmund’s fingers stopped, “It seems as though you’ve managed to put it together.”

“Seems so.”

The short answers were becoming irritating, but whilst Edmund was no stranger to drawing the truth from unwilling parties, he didn’t believe brute force would be the tactic to follow here.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” He reattempted, “The song you conjured for the Long Trot – how did you put that together?”

“Memory mostly,” Grace replied simply.

He leaned forward in interest, “You have such a thorough memory of music?”

There was an infuriatingly easy shrug, “It comes easily when you can listen to it all the time.”

The fact was not difficult to reconcile and yet, Edmund wondered at it. How was it managed? Was Grace truly wealthy enough in Spare Oom to enlist her own orchestra to play songs repeatedly?

Something in him yearned to remember anything from the land he’d once called home, if only to have some common ground with which to discuss it with Grace. Edmund had never envied Susan as much as he did in that moment, to have the recollection of their past life so close to her fingertips… so easily coaxed to the surface.

“What spurred it?” He spoke before thinking, the tug of want at his abdomen taking total domination over his mouth.

Grace’s hands smoothed over the bunches of her skirt, “At the time it was a memento of Earth,” She omitted, “Something I used to stay sane. Margrove picked up my humming and convinced me to teach him the song.”

“No,” Edmund dismissed, “I meant, what made you remember?”

That was how it worked right? That was how it was for him. A chilled wind, the unexpected brush of fur, a tinkle of a bell.

“My emotions I suppose,” Grace looked to him openly, the sheen in her eyes the only barrier between him and her soul, “The tune coincided with how I felt at the time. Tenuous, like I was on thin ice constantly. It spoke to my fear of living on it forever.”

Edmund grimaced, “Sorry”

He was consoled by her warm smile, “It’s alright. I no longer fear you, your Majesty.”

Your Majesty. Edmund felt an uncomfortable jostle at the address. It was not like the first time she’d spoken it in the words; with such imagined venom as to make Edmund snap at her. The address felt different now. Warmer, like she meant it.

The genuineness felt wrong. She who had seen him at and knew of his worst yet had continued to support him in any case. It was a feat which warranted a reward better than distanced greetings and stoic good byes.

“Edmund.”

The warm expression slipped, “What?”

He held her gaze, hoping his eyes were half as open as hers had been just moments ago, “If you are to witness my darkest moments, you may as well know me by name.”

There was a beat where none said anything. Even the wind had stilled to bear witness.

It was different to the usual battle of wills they found themselves under. One of a King offering a well-earned gift and a quasi-subject near denying it’s value.

She would not win, however. Edmund would not allow it. The words had been spoken and decided and anyone who knew him would tell you that he would always return the victor. Whether it would be underhanded or not, Grace would bow to his will.

The Daughter of Eve looked away, the sigh on her lips restarting the wind’s song, “Alright.”

Edmund waited for the rest of the sentence. He was disappointed when her lips closed, when her storm ridden irises returned to the skirts of her dress. The sigh he released was covered by the wind as he returned to tuning the strings.

It took a moment for the humming to return and even then the sound was thoughtful, wracked with the inner turmoil ricocheting within Grace’s mind.

Edmund didn’t need to watch the instrument closely now, the motion almost reflexive as he picked at the strings until they were near-perfect. Instead he watched Grace’s hands.

They were pale against the worn green, the thin limbs lithely bunching and smoothing the fabric in maddening repetitive motions. The humming only made the movement seem wilder, as if it was the last dredges of her sanity she was grasping at.

Perhaps he might have offered his familiarity too soon.

“What made you remember this one?” Edmund wondered, hoping it would serve as distraction enough to stop whatever cliff she was leaning over.

Grace’s nose scrunched with a guilty conscience, “Our conversation at the stone table.”

There was a shrill noise as Edmund veered the peg he’d been tuning.

He cringed at the sound and her implication, “Do I dare ask?”

“It’s nothing derogatory,” Grace promised, hands raised as if she meant no harm. Finally, she met his eyes with her own. The gaze softer with the memory of two mornings ago, “It’s just the way you spoke of it. It inspired me.”

Edmund wished it hadn’t inspired anything. He mulled over the melody as he returned to twisting the pegs. How could such a melody hold such a horrible meaning? At once the song became as abhorrent to him as his own memory did and Edmund plunged into the feeling and let it fester.

He did not know how long he spent within it, but eventually there was an unseen sigh and Edmund began feel the impatience of his student.

“Are you almost done?” Grace bristled.

“Nearly,” He grunted, the practiced callouses of his hands spinning the last peg into place.

Another sigh, this time drawn out and dramatic. It coaxed a tilt at the edge of Edmund’s lips and spurred away a little of the veiled depression he’d allowed himself to fall in to.

“There,” With a flourish to match, Edmund lifted the – now tuned – instrument into the air, beholding to all under the shade of vines to its completeness. It was returned to his lap with a contented breath before Edmund plucked each string in equal testing succession.

He supposed it would be good enough to teach with.

The instrument made no noise of protest as it was held aloft to Grace. She looked between the two for a moment, as if trying to decipher if there was more to the extension than the simple hand over of the instrument.

And knowing him, there might have been. But as much as Edmund would have liked to barter at that moment, he knew it would be difficult amongst the overpopulation of emotions he already felt building inside his chest.

He liked to assume that it was the honesty in his eyes which made Grace accept the bulbous carving of wood. It was taken into her lap similarly to before, only this time there was no horrendously untuned sound at her fingertips.

Grace’s bright grin was well worth the effort to place it there, “Alright, where do we start?”

Edmund took a once over of her position, “Well, for starters, you’re holding it wrong.”

Her brow furrowed as she argued, “But, Margrove holds it like this?”

“Margrove is experienced and set in his ways,” Edmund leaned across the twisting vines of the willow tree to place the instrument correctly in her hands, “You’re a beginner without the luxury of choice.”

“Fine,” Grace muttered petulantly. She allowed the corrections he offered, only recoiling from his touch when his hand met with the bare skin of her forearm

“Good,” Edmund returned at an equal tone, “Now we need a song to practice with.”

That task would be a feat all it’s own for Edmund had not lied when he’d told her he could barely string together a lullaby.

Her practiced hands strummed the strings in unison testingly, “You don’t want to try to develop that song with me?”

The grimace Edmund’s face undoubtedly bore served as enough of a deterrent from that course.

Thankfully, Grace didn’t press the matter, “Alright, do you know of any songs you can teach me then?”

He looked at her obviously, “I know of many songs, but unlike you I do not have a mind catalogue I can choose from at whim.”

Grace’s storm ridden eyes narrowed at his tone, “Fine.”

She blinked and the discontentedness was gone, hidden somewhere behind the glazed thoughtfulness which had rooted in its place.

Perhaps he ought to have assented to the song – Edmund was unsure he would be able to reliably teach her any Narnian music. Even if he could, there was no chance his teachings could be a match for that of Margrove. He knew the songs well enough to sing them and understood the instruments behind them and that was about as far as his learnings had gone.

In his attempt to offer her kindness and teach her new things, Edmund knew there was a backhand that was his irritability. It spiked often in Grace’s presence which was often returned with her own. There was a chance that he may have irritated her enough to cause retaliation and with the knowledge he knew she held, that could mean anything.

The song from Spare Oom was sounding more appealing by the second but before he could take back his abhorrence, the Daughter of Eve seemed to obtain a thought.

Grace’s head whipped in his direction, her warm eyes spun with a myriad of ideas, “Do you know any fast-paced marching songs?”

Chapter Text

XLIV

EDMUND

No Light, No Light – Florence + the Machine

It should have come as no surprise to Edmund that many within the travelling party held their own instruments. The Western Wood was hailed for its love of music and storytelling, with some of Narnia’s most beloved pieces originating from under its shadowed branches.

All walked at a speed faster than before, somewhat spurred by the rhythmic beat of a tambourine or the skilled pluck of a lute. The ruckus proved both as a disturbance and an intriguing distraction to all who lived in their passing.

The music lulled them from the safety of their homes; many crawling, climbing and swooping in the direction of the noisy procession.

At the very centre of the line, sat Edmund himself; saddled securely upon Phillip’s back as he waved cheerfully to the onlookers.

To his right, Grace smiled as she tugged the barely practiced tune from the bulbous wood. Her voice one of the loudest amongst the party. She’d taken to the music quickly – much to Edmund’s surprise and envy. It had taken him months to master the difficult passages.

Granted, Grace still struggled a little. The intricate weaving of fingers sometimes falling flat when she missed a note, but the Daughter of Eve did not falter, she simply kept going.

Edmund admired the trait from afar as he hummed and nodded along to The Reindeer’s Stride. It was a very good choice of song, for it was repetitive and fast paced with lyrics you sang over and over, faster and faster until you had to stop for breath.

He clung to the hope that the pace was fast enough as the line moved in equal tandem with the fall of the sun. If they continued at this rate, they would witness the tree line just as the warm orange of the dusk began to swathe across the sky.

Which would begin at any moment, judging by how the light which filtered over the hill in streaky beams.

Beneath Edmund, Phillip trudged onwards in silence. Thankfully, his mood had nothing to do with the argument he held with Starlight hours ago. That seemed to have all finished now, with both Phillip and Starlight reaching some agreement that remained undiscussed.

No, Phillip’s silence was due to the focus he honed. Both eyes staring determinedly towards the ground with a frustration and vehemence. The path forwards was different now – fraught with the dancing figures of the party as they nearly caught underfoot. He’d nearly bitten three Narnians now by Edmund’s count – an unspoken warning that they should be watching their footing.

As the top of the hill neared, Edmund wondered whether it was this or the next that he would finally be gratified. The days journey had already seen them wade through the shallowest part of The Great River and many hills after that, however, Edmund did not know the exact number of hills to be forded before one could see the beginnings of the Western Wood.

Was it eight? Or perhaps nine?

As if in response to his itching hope, two things happened simultaneously.

One, the Narnians who reached the peak of the hillside began to fan out along it’s ridge and make way for the rest of the travelling party.

Two, the sky began to turn a magnificent shade of orange.

Edmund jolted to attention as he signalled for Phillip to move. The Talking Beast followed the instruction gladly, taking off at speed to climb the last of the grassy terrain.

“Make way for King Edmund!” Someone called, the effect of the declaration providing just enough space for Phillip’s stride.

Grace was behind him, he was sure of it. The steady rise and fall of Starlight’s hooves were unmistakable after four days in their presence.

Phillip began to slow as they neared the top, mindful not to trample any wayward Narnians who had not heard the call. As his footsteps changed pace and the rush of air ceased around him, Edmund’s irises were met with the full force of the setting sun. He shielded them instantly, one hand still gripping the horn of the saddle as not to fall off.

Grace came to his side, her own hands mirroring his position as she adjusted to the fading beams of dusk.

“Are we here?” She asked, slowly retracting the temporary shade as her eyes adjusted.

Edmund discarded his own without thought, his dark eyes squinting in the direction of the tree line beneath them.

“We’re here,” He breathed.

In moments, the squint settled – the blinding brightness now replaced by the sight of golden tipped trees and hills spanning his entire length of view. He grinned - it didn’t matter how many times Edmund saw the Western Wood, it was breathtaking just the same.

There was a glint of copper at the corner of his eye which danced tantalizingly out of sight. Edmund followed the strand with his eyes; instantly distracted from the sight he’d longed for and yet rewarded with another.  

Grace stared at the Western Wood with an enrapturement that was deep and all consuming. Her eyes were lightened with its reflection. The golden tipped leaves leaving flecks of a similar colour across their endless warm blue, it almost looked like stars in the clear light of day.  

“How do we do it?” She whispered, her voice barely carrying atop the wind which tugged at her fire spun tresses.  

“Do what?” Edmund questioned softly, his eyes securely fixed upon the wonder of her face.

The spattering of stars danced across her irises as Grace turned to look at him, “Ask the tree’s to move?”

Edmund felt his lips stretch into an all-knowing smile, “We do not need to ask.”

Her brow’s pulled inwards with confusion, “But you said-”

In a swift movement, Edmund held a single finger to his lips – a signal for silence – which was then pointed towards the tree line.

Grace didn’t catch on immediately, her entranced stare tracing across his features as her confusion remained.

Edmund’s stare turned stern, “Heed me or you’ll miss it.”

She did as asked, her eyes returning obediently to the gold hued view splayed across the western side of the continent.

Nothing happened at first and the world fell into a baited silence – only interrupted by the brush of the winter breeze which lingered lazily on their skin. Edmund refused to be disheartened by the pause, maintaining faith that the fruit of his impatience was worth the wait.

Grace saw it first; a fact evidenced by the expression upon her golden freckled face. Her lips parted in awe as the familiar rustling of leaves and roots in earth reached their ears. The interest in such an impossible moment keeling her forwards with a white knuckled grip upon the saddle horn.

Despite himself, Edmund felt his cheeks grow under the weight of his smile. Once he was fully satisfied with her response, his observance returned to the sight he knew all too well.

Even from this distance, the view was remarkable. The thickly nestled roots of trees lifted into the air like the crawling legs of a spider. Ploughing and shifting as they carried their trunks over the dark dirt. They crept apart slowly and purposefully, opening a path directly in the way of the party.

Something in Edmund’s chest released at the sight of home, like a forcefully coiled spring which had grown tighter since his last journey to the Westen Wood. The snap of return didn’t hurt, however, it only replaced what had shrunken over time. It stretched across his chest and relaxed there, melting into the warm recesses of home.

Beside him, Grace continued to crane her neck above Starlight’s head, the interest now taking a feverish hue as she nearly stood from the stirrups.

An action which caused Grace to shriek when she toppled sideways.

Edmund reached out on instinct, relieved when his hand connected with the warm material of her upper left arm and stopped the quick descent.

Her shriek cut short at the point of his grasp, but everything else remained in motion. Grace continued to flail about, one pale hand gripping at the air in an attempt to right herself.

“Stop, you’re tilting the saddle,” Edmund grunted as his fingers crawled along the muscle of her arm to obtain a better grasp.

Grace’s voice strained with exertion and panic as her left hand clung to the saddle’s horn, “I’m slipping!”

And so she was. It was slower now, the friction of skin and fabric against leather providing a buffer which was sorely needed.

Against his better judgement, the remaining hand upon Edmund’s own saddle flew to catch her waist. The movement nearly threw him overboard as he contorted awkwardly to ensure his thigh’s still clung to Phillip for balance.

For all his efforts, Grace finally stilled; one hand remaining caught on the horn of the saddle while the other gripped the edge of the other end. She’d have nearly slidden clean off of the leather if it weren’t for the one fabric covered knee poking over its seat.

Edmund would have laughed at the warped position if it weren’t for the dire likelihood that she would fall. His lips tightened with humour as he attempted to keep it at bay.

Slowly, he helped Grace return to a seated position, taking care not to release her until her feet were firmly in the stirrups again. It was easier once she’d stopped flailing – the grasp of his hands upon her body now steadied despite their awkward positioning.

Edmund almost choked on his humour as he asked, “Are you alright?”  

“I think so,” Grace winced as she adjusted her seating, “Thank you.”

Now that she was safe and settled it was hard to disguise the unbidden grin which spread across Edmund’s face, “There’s no need to thank me. If I had realised you would fall over at the prospect of moving trees, I might have forgone the grand reveal.”

Grace scowled, “I didn’t fall over at the prospect.”

“You didn’t?” His eyebrows raised in light hearted mocking, “Could have fooled me.”

The scowl faltered as Grace lowered her eyes in shame, “I just wanted to see it better.”

Edmund’s grin softened at the admittance, “You liked it, then?”

He was rewarded with an expression of wonderous enthusiasm, “Very much.”

“Good.”

Beneath him, Phillip shuffled his feet impatiently, the fast setting of the sun had begun to set a dim and darkened nature that would not be released until dawn. They’d need to move quickly or they’d be tripping on tree roots.

“Onward!” Edmund called, one short pat to Phillip’s mane to signal movement.

This time, he and Grace took the lead. Hooves stepping side by side in equal rhythm as they approached the tree line.

“It’s called ‘The Swaying Path’,” Edmund uttered towards Grace, “We named it for its changeable nature.”

The returning whisper overflowed with interest, “It’s changeable nature?”

“The Swaying Path is unplottable due to its interchangeable course,” Edmund explained, “The trees are told of the journeys destination and accommodate accordingly.”

“I remember you said that the forest was overcrowded,” Grace acknowledged, “But I still don’t understand something.”

Edmund waited for her explanation in silence.

“How did they know of our destination when no one was sent to ask?”

A familiar smile warmed his features. If Edmund was honest, he’d never had to ask the trees to move. They always had.

By his third trip to the Western Wood, Edmund had grown confused with the all-knowing trees and stopped to ask one personally. The reply had been startling to his own pride.

“There are two things which spread rapidly on Narnian soil,” Edmund replied, his tone slightly conspiratorial as he leaned towards her, “One is feared and the other revelled in.”

He felt the weight of Grace’s gaze before he returned it, “What are they?”

“The first is wildfire,” Edmund’s lips tightened sadly, “A devastating foe. It takes more homes than it regrows.”

Grace nodded, her glance flickering to the very thick and very flammable line of trees before them, “And the other?”

The previous dismay Edmund had felt began to lighten a little under his own cheek, “Gossip.”

-

The crackling of passing fires provided comfort as Edmund’s footsteps swept over the forest floor. There were five camps in total, tonight - the number having to be vastly reduced due to the risk of fire catching onto the thick expanse of tree life.

Thankfully, the number of encampments seemed to have produced little difference in regards to resources. The trees of the wood did well to shelter the heat by regurgitating it back into the air, and so the heat of five fires felt like the heat of many.

At this rate, the ecosystem would last long after the fires were put out, providing enough warmth and shelter against the winter raging outside until morning. This was lucky as there was hardly space to pitch a tent or to huddle many bodies together for warmth.

“All heads are accounted for, Sire,” His companion, Sterillion, reported.

“Good,” Edmund nodded, “Are there any complaints of hunger or warmth?”

The Centaur confirmed there were none.

A sigh of relief slipped past Edmund’s lips, “Good. I want blankets to be distributed in any case and please do not spare any worries for food. We can resupply before we begin our departure to Cair Paravel.”

“Is there a date in mind for our departure, your Majesty?”

Edmund paused in thought, his mind running over the list of tasks that would have to be completed before they could leave, “From tomorrow? Three days hence.”

Sterillion gave a singular stoic nod of acceptance, “Will you need any to join your party tomorrow sire?”

Edmund looked appreciatively upon the Centaur, “No, not this time. Grace and I will journey alone to Mr Tumnus’s home.”

“And…” Sterillion paused, his expression wavering only briefly from the stoic mass of its usual expression, “Will Miss Grace be returning with you?”

Unwillingly, Edmund’s sight drew towards a flickering fire in the distance. It was the furthest into the wood of the five, accumulating the group of Dryads, Talking Beasts and Centaurs which had made up the front most section of the line.

It was perhaps the quietest fire of them all, the only sound protruding from it being the deep russet tones of Casys’s storytelling. Edmund had a feeling he knew who had requested such a thing.

Edmund’s sigh levelled his own inner turmoil of emotions. No matter what tomorrow brought, there would be a turning point. Either Grace would leave and that would be the end of it… or she would return with him. The forked path lay heavily before Edmund as he viewed both sides through narrowed sight.

The implications of either option were no longer as simple as he previously thought them to be. For, if Grace left tomorrow, where would that leave him? Or Lucy who had also grown close to the Daughter of Eve. He knew that the Queen and her friend had said their goodbyes and parted in peace but after the events of tomorrow, could Edmund say the same?

At some point in their acquaintance something had shifted, and the distaste Edmund previously held for Grace had turned on its head. It grew in the direction of friendship with a renewed vigour as he learned to live side by side with the stranger he’d feared.

If she was forced to stay, there was no telling what the future would hold. Edmund knew the fundamentals would need to be looked after; Grace would need to be given a station of permanence, the ability to fund her own life and live as she saw fit. But after all was said and done, what then?

An impossible number of implications sat daringly on the edge of Edmund’s thoughts and he decided then, that it was better to be cautious than to be caught unaware.

“Prepare for the return of all parties involved,” He replied, returning the list of travelling party members to Sterillion’s hands.

The Centaur took it, the hand immediately crossing against his chest as his head lowered, “Your Majesty.”

Edmund nodded his dismissal, slightly relieved when he was no longer under his General’s piercing gaze. His feet wandered closer to the firelight of the distance. Half-step in beat with Casys’s story as it reached his ears.

He knew it well, the story of Baccus and Ariadne was one of Susan’s favourites. The idea of instantaneous love had always been a fantasy she sought after, and so Susan held the story in high esteem and knowingly compared her own relationships to it.

It was one of the few nonsensical traits his sister held and it often baffled Edmund how she of all people could believe in such a thing.

He supposed, however, that his own definition of love was non-existent past that of the familial. Edmund never had time for such things before and found the eventuality unlikely in the future. For if love took time – as he believed it should – then how did those with no spare time manage it?

The story neared its end as Edmund reached the ring of firelit faces. All watched on, enraptured as the Centaur eclipsed them with images of starlit skies and forgiving goddesses.

The circle was as thick as the woods which surrounded them but Edmund found no trouble in his footing. He easily sidestepped the Talking Beasts and Dryad’s as he waded towards the only empty spot in sight.

Grace didn’t look up as Edmund seated himself on the grass beside her, her fascinated expression bathed in the flickering light of the fire as she listened to her friend speak.

The Centaur sat at the foremost point, his thick legs all tucked comfortably beneath him as he regaled them all with his tales. The sight of a Centaur and his story was not a rare one by any means, but that made it none-the-less revered.

Casys’s dark eyes glazed over, a perfect black mirror of the fire’s dance in his dark irises. As he spoke, his hands mimicked the words gracefully, adding a heightened level of performance to his speech. The image was completed by the solemn and assured look of his features – the kind of expression which could spout the most outrageous lie without falsehood.

An end to the story brought the sound of paws, hooves and hands on the dirt forest floor. It thundered across the space and encouraged all to join it - even those in the encampments over.

Casys lowered his head in thanks, a wave of emotion swept up in his dark eyes as he received the praise.

“Iterum!” One Talking Beast encouraged.

A Centaur joined the call, “Yes! Another one, brother!”

At the prospect of stories, Grace’s eyes lit with a fervour, “Can you tell us another?”

Casys looked upon the Daughter of Eve kindly, “It is my regret that I cannot, I have duties to attend.”

Edmund knew well that Casys’s watch would begin within the hour and atop that, there were other duties which would need to be completed before then. It was for that reason only that the King did not egg the crowd on, “We thank you for your attentiveness to your duties, friend. Perhaps another story may be expected from you on the morrow?”

The Centaur’s lips twitched gratefully, “You may expect as such, my King.”

“Then go in grace, Sir Casys.”

Any discontent that may have been founded upon Casys’s departure was swiftly broken on the promise of the morrow. The hum of the Narnians who sat comfortably around the multifaceted orange flame settled into a developed calm as time went on.

Now free from her point of focus, Grace reseated herself upon the soft grass, her skirts draping over her legs languidly as she turned towards the firepit. She said nothing to Edmund, though, he knew she was aware of his presence by the set of her shoulders.

Her eyes glistened a dim blue as they stared ahead. There were troublesome thoughts within them that were nearly readable through the thin glass.

“Are you well?” Edmund asked, surprised when the words fell unbidden from his lips.

Grace sighed in that long and drawn-out motion she had taken to, “I’m fine.”

One thick brow raised heavily upon Edmund’s forehead, “Are you sure?”

There was a slight annoyance to the creased corners of Grace’s eyes as she regarded him, “I’m only thinking of the stories.”

Edmund felt his face fall blank as he struggled to make the connection, “What about them?”

“It was something your sister said,” Grace whispered, “If only there was a way to bottle such a thing and take it home with you.”

“You want to bottle the stories of the Centaurians?” A slight tinge of sarcasm coloured Edmund’s tone.

Grace’s eyes narrowed at it, “I think she meant to wonder at ways to listen to the stories without having to have a Centaurian present.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the point?” Edmund reasoned, “The stories are half loved due to the way they are told.”

“Exactly,” Grace agreed, “Tone, wording, expression. These are all valid tools used to tell a story.”

Edmund grimaced, “They are also all tools that are difficult to replicate outside of first-hand experience.”

At the excellent point, Grace’s shoulders slumped with defeat, “Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Silence befell them again, though the troublesome thoughts did not cease behind the clouded eyes of the Daughter of Eve. Edmund fumbled on the thoughts in his mind, at a loss of solution to the dilemma she deemed so important to her.

It was difficult to look at such a matter when one was so close to it, so physically attached to the memories and nostalgia of moments lived. The idea of reading the stories without the booming voice of a Centaur seemed wrong to him.

Aside from the reflexive reaction to the idea, Edmund found there was a little merit to it.

As it was, the only way to hear of the stories was from the source itself, which became difficult when one did not come across a centaur in everyday life. A disappointing fact, considering the stories were well written lessons that should be freely available to all on Narnian soil.

As a King of Narnia, equal opportunity was a cause that remained close to his heart.

“You could…” The words faltered on Edmund’s lips, held briefly under the idea of such a task and the likely danger it imposed, “If it were possible to convince a Centaur to recite their stories at a speed which you could follow on pen, the words may carry some of the effect.”

Grace’s expression visibly lit up at the prospect, “Do you think any would be amenable? I would ask Casys but he has told me his knowledge of the stories are not complete.”

“It might be difficult due to the proud tendencies of the Centaurian personality,” Edmund replied thoughtfully, “And any that might be amenable within our party may not hold the prerequisite knowledge for such a task.”

“Perhaps I might ask around tomorrow?” Grace wondered, “I’m sure Casys would know of someone who would be up to the task. Either that or perhaps I might combine the stories of many until they are all collected.”

At the mention of the morrow, Edmund shook his head, “Neither of us will be available tomorrow.”

Grace looked to him, the light of the fire only encouraging the curiosity in her eyes, “Oh?”

“That is…” Edmund cleared his throat with anticipation, “If you wouldn’t mind joining me in a visit to Mr Tumnus’s house?”

If curiosity burned then want was a raging blaze. It leapt from the darkened grey circles and danced across her cheeks as her neck craned towards the words he’d offered.

“You want me to come with you to visit Margrove’s Uncle?” Grace clarified.

“Yes.”

A moment passed where Grace did little but assess him. There was a slow but sure trickle of disbelief that cracked at her perfect want. It soured the emotion, replacing it with a guarded disbelief, “What’s the catch?”

Surprise lifted Edmund’s brows to his hairline, “Pardon?”

“The catch,” Grace repeated unhelpfully, “You expect me to believe that you, King Edmund the Just, plan to take me to an unspecified location with no guards, orders or assurance to the outcome?”

Edmund scowled, slightly burned by the truth of it all, “Yes, I do. We have long been past such things.”

Grace’s eyes tightened, the beginnings of the narrowed gaze he knew all too well, “I suppose that is true.”

It was a small victory that she did not continue the argument. The peace serving as the sought-after chance which Edmund would grasp with both hands.

“So, you will join me?”

The disbelief continued to lie snugly in the set of her lips as she considered, “You swear there is no ulterior motive to this?”

In a motion much similar to the Centaurian Bow, Edmund covered his chest with his right forearm, “You have my word.”

There was an odd feeling to those words as they were released. Edmund knew it was partially due to the small lie within them. There was an alternative motive, there always was where he was concerned.

But surely, the half-truth was not so consequential? Surely, there was no harm in concealing something for the greater good?

Regardless of his own inner turmoil, Grace seemed to believe him. Her expression relaxed minimally and allowed for some of the pure desire he’d barely glimpsed before. The excitement that paired with it was nearly all-encompassing as she released a high-pitched sound of joy and sprouted from the ground faster than Edmund’s eyes could follow.

She weaved through the crowd of Narnians with light-footed ease, somehow always managing to find an empty space to land her toes. Edmund followed, only slightly perturbed by her speed and efficiency.

They broke through the edge of the circle at speed, but Grace did not stop.

“Wait!” Edmund called as he barely dodged an unseen risen root.

Grace turned on her heel, her shadowed face seemingly surprised at his presence, “What is it?”

“Where are you going?”

She looked at him oddly, then pointed one finger in the direction of the next encampment over, “I’m going to get my tent?”

A rush of exasperated air left Edmund’s throat, “And where did you think you were going to put it?”

There was a brief second of thought, punctuated by the opening and closing of Grace’s mouth as she tried to form a reasonable explanation from it. She looked to the tree tops, then the ground, then the lack of space between the trunks surrounding them.

Edmund leant against one such pillar of bark, “They won’t move for a simple tent, Grace.”

“Then where are we to sleep?” She demanded, “I’d imagine we will have to rest before visiting Margrove’s Uncle tomorrow?”

One of Edmund’s thick brows quirked with obviousness, “Why, under the stars, of course? There is no truer Narnian way.”

“You mean…” Grace trailed, eyes caught between their previous camp and the one over, “In a sleeping bag directly on the dirt?”

Edmund nodded.

Her lips pursed in thought, “Then, where will you sleep?”

The question pulled him up short. Every night before this one there was a purpose in the placement of his tent. Narnia was as wild as it was civil and often it was easy to become caught between the two.

From what Edmund saw and inherently knew of Grace, she held no survival skills to speak of. The dagger he had gifted her had offered some level of solace to Edmund’s worries on that part, however, her knowledge in wielding it remained slight and so the solace matched its weight.

The Western Wood was no safer than the Northern Reaches or the Lands of the South. There were still many who were loyal to Jadis tucked in its deepest and darkest crevices. Edmund’s mind drifted hauntingly to the anecdote Lucy had attempted to calm him with – of the Hag and her own bravery in defeating it.

It would be insupportable to leave Grace alone here, and since she was so opposed to guardianship it seemed Edmund was required to continue taking matters into his own hands.

“I’m sure the dirt beside you would be tolerably comfortable.”

Grace’s expression lightened with a touch of scandal, “Would that be proper?”

The realisation tugged at his mouth in an odd way. Edmund had never thought of what was proper when communicating with Grace before. He hadn’t ever needed to. In terms of society she was a ghost, the court only knowing whispers of her personality by the second-hand knowledge of others.

The thought now occurred to him in blaring brightness; the closeness between he and the Daughter of Eve constantly sat on the borderline of unsuitable. Their mutual love of banter and outspoken wit would prove highly improper for the sight of others. Atop that, the sheer amount of time in which Edmund and Grace spent together alone went beyond what was usually allowed outside of family or courtship.

Edmund shuddered at the thought of Susan’s disapproving gaze at his lacklustre show of manners.

Of course, the issue remained non-existent for the moment. Grace’s greatest desire remained to return to Spare Oom and Edmund’s friendship with her had only grown from his agreement to help her. There was no desire for friendship there, not initially anyway.

But what would happen if Grace could not return home?

If she were to continue living in Narnia, there would be repercussions upon all aspects of her life. Regardless of where she went or who she became, Grace would be beholden to the customs of the court, just as he was.

Edmund shrugged off the thought, there was no point in worrying over it now. They were not under the watchful eye of his elder sister just yet, and there was no telling what tomorrow may bring.

“Perhaps it may not be entirely proper,” He mused lowly, the skin of his cheeks becoming unbearably warm,  “If you are truly concerned for your virtue then I am happy to organise a chaperone?”

The dusky blue beneath Grace’s eye lids rolled, “Don’t worry about it. Considering how many Narnians will also be sleeping under the stars, I doubt it will be an issue.”

Edmund’s eyes cast to the blackness of the forest floor as he tried to focus on something other than Grace’s face, “You aren’t bothered then?”

“No,” She replied easily, “Where I come from we don’t really think of such things.”

Edmund met her unbothered eyes with surprise, “You don’t think of such things?”

Grace’s lips frowned with nonchalance as she shrugged, “Not really.”

The fluster in Edmund’s cheeks amplified as he considered her response. His assessment, however, proved for naught. Grace did not falter, nor were there any signs of deceit in the relaxed set of her features.

“Right then,” Edmund muttered, convinced but no less perplexed at the strange world of Spare Oom, “I suppose that settles that. Please, fetch my sleeping bag whilst you are there.”

He had half expected her to scowl at the order, to make some rude remark and tell him to get it himself. But Grace still seemed to hold some of the excitement obtained from the knowledge of tomorrows events.

Her eyes were bright and mischievous as she lowered into an intentionally misshapen curtsey, “Of course, your Majesty.”

Before Edmund could object, she was gone. The only tell of life being the distant rustle of her shoes upon the leaf covered forest floor.

His eyes narrowed into the darkness, a slight irritation tickling his throat as he grumbled, “It’s Edmund.”

Of course, there was no response but the sound of leaves rustling between the topmost branches of trees. If one squinted, the noise was most alike the scandalised whispering of a crowd after a particularly risky manoeuvre at Court. He knew it well.

Edmund looked upwards, his dark eyes catching glimpses of starlight through the brief openings of leaves.

Silently, he hoped that there were no Dryad’s nearby to interpret the sound.

Chapter Text

XLV

EDMUND

No Light, No Light – Florence + the Machine

Sometimes, Edmund believed that he and the Western Wood were connected.

It was as if his soul stretched further than basic form of title, than the duty he had upheld these last three and ten years. It was an unspoken intrinsic connection which was soft yet strong, enduring yet fragile, harsh yet kind. It was a dance, each side ever shifting to the needs of the other.

That is why when Edmund awoke to the soft pelt of droplets, he was unsurprised at their arrival.

It was light at first, a drizzle that barely surpassed the enclosure of the thick foliage above them. It continued uninterrupted throughout breakfast, only broken briefly by the foretelling patter of one or two larger drops. There was little doubt of a deluge before midday.

In preparation, Edmund had requested an umbrella – half hoping the presence of the fabric covered stick would act as a deterrent to the heavily clouded sky.

He could not help but compare the skies to the raw seesaw that teetered within his chest.

This was it. There was no chance of putting it off, no further reprieve to be offered from the true designs of their last-minute adventure.  

Grace would be going home today.

Edmund tried to reconcile to the dry and humourless fact, despite the part of his mind that niggled towards doubt. A preparation for the worst would always prove better than a wish for the unlikely. It was a fact he’d honed in his time as King.

There was little resistance from Grace when Edmund came to collect her.

The Dryad, Lilis, had braided her damp hair simply that morning and he had joined them just as her expert fingers fiddled at the ends. The two had banded around each other closely – almost melding together by the darkened brown of cloak and skin – deep in discussion of something which seemed worth the hushed tone of whispers.

Once Edmund was spotted, the whispers ceased and both parties looked rather unapologetically sheepish, like thieves caught in the act of their trade.

Although he was curious, Edmund didn’t ask. The minds of women and creatures of female tendency were a mystery he’d prefer to remain as such.

He grimaced at the memory of the last time he’d ventured into affairs which were not his own.

Lucy and Susan had looked similarly to Grace and Lilis, though their whispering had been of a more feverish nature. Edmund – being barely sixteen years of age and not yet understanding the boundary between the sexes – had demanded to know what they were whispering of. In response, Susan had informed him in extremely fine detail of the flattering cut to Aldous, the son of the Lord of Galma’s armor.

Safe to say, he never interfered with his sisters’ whispering again.

Edmund’s hands found comfort in a jointure behind his back as the two friends shared an embrace.

As time slowed and his eyes connected with the Dryad’s atop Grace’s shoulder, he tried to wordlessly convey the gravity of this moment. The success of such a venture was hard to gage without words, thankfully, Lilis seemed to catch at his meaning. The rough bark of her skin crinkled around her eyes as she clutched her friend tighter and whispered some words of parting in her ear.

It was almost too difficult to watch.

His frown deepened under the soft drizzle of rain. The greyed light of the sky washing over it and all the world in sight until everything was covered in a shade of mourning.

Grace emerged from the embrace sombrely, turning on her heel to join him at the camp’s edge.

There was no dance in her step nor light in her eyes as she meandered to his side and Edmund knew that if there were any doubt in her mind that she would find the Wardrobe during this trip, it was trampled beneath the parting words of her friend.

As they walked, Edmund tried to smile at her. His mind throwing itself into the pursuit of breaching the wall of her thoughts with some humorous anecdote or jilting jibe. Every thought and whim brought forth being present with the need to feel the comfortable peace they had enjoyed in their previous interactions. But as they began to near the edge of the last campsite, he began to feel the forthcoming melancholy in earnest.

It was a ridiculous emotion which Edmund scolded himself for. He had known Grace for barely two months and half of that time was spent wary of her existence. There was less reason for he to mourn her departure than Lucy, and even his sister had managed to wave Grace off with an encouraging smile.

In an effort to keep the endless emotional seesaw at bay, Edmund squared his shoulders and rejoined his hands bracingly. He refused to acknowledge the comforting warmth of her arm which brushed against his knuckles as he did so, nor the single droplet of rain which had stained her cheek on its journey to the forest floor.

Cold logical thought would be his minder and his adversary for the remainder of the day. Any thoughts or hope were firmly locked behind it in a casket he prepared for burial.

Another droplet reached them as their toes crossed the threshold of the wild expanse of the Western Wood, followed by another…. and another.

Buckets were not enough to describe the complete and utter downpour which then came down.

Grace shrieked, the high-pitched sound nearly drowned in the roar of water on bark and leaves. Her body immediately wrapped itself under the closest tree in an attempt to find shelter.

Edmund joined her beneath it, suddenly glad he had chosen to don his cloak that morning. The extra layer proved as added protection against both the cold and the wet, leaving behind only a slightly heavier weight upon his shoulders.

A tap on that wet shoulder tugged Edmund from the thought.

“Maybe we should postpone?” Grace asked. Her voice strained over the volume of the deluge and though it was hard to determine under the noise, Edmund could have sworn he heard something akin to hope in her tone.

It almost made him agree, a slight falter in the cold and logical thought line which was immediately yanked back into place. Edmund’s mind drew to the umbrella he had stuffed haphazardly into his belt, it’s presence awkward beside the hilt of his sword. He tugged it from its hidden place.

There was no difficulty in deploying the stick, no rust or hinge sticky as Edmund swept the material in the air and held it aloft. He stepped beneath it testingly, pleased to find that the material provided adequate shelter from the downpour.

Grace looked at Edmund like he was mad. Her eyes continued to shift between him, the umbrella and back towards the camps in quick succession as if she was looking for an escape.

He cut off her attempts with an offered hand, which suck out from beneath the shade of the umbrella and sparkled with the shifting light of raindrops against his skin.

“Come on,” He coerced, “Where’s your sense of adventure? ‘Tis but a twenty-minute walk to Mr Tumnus’s Home. It’ll be dry and warm there, and if we’re lucky, he might even have some sardines!”

At the latter offer, Grace’s nose scrunched with disgust.

Edmund frowned dejectedly at the response to his plan – it had worked on Lucy, he reasoned to himself.

“Twenty-minutes in this? You’ve got to be joking!” Grace exclaimed.

He was most certainly not. An earnest hand inched forward as Edmund attempted to keep his features schooled.

The effect was as desired when Grace ceased her glances towards the campsite of Narnians. When she’d seemed to all but give up, there was one last attempt which verbalised unexpectedly from her lips, “Do you have another umbrella?”

Ah. He did not. Edmund’s carefully structured mouth faltered as the realisation struck him. Why had he brought only one umbrella for a party of two?

Probably, too caught up in self-pity, the louder of his thoughts chastised. It’s voice startlingly reminiscent of a snarkier and younger version of himself.

As the voice was shoved down, Edmund fumbled internally for a solution which would not end with either of them shaking like a leaf on arrival at Mr Tumnus’s. Much to his dismay, there was only one.

“There’s only one,” Edmund called over the downpour as he tilted the stem towards her, “Here.”

Grace stared at the object like it was foreign, “What are you going to do?”

Her puzzled expression almost made him laugh. “Well,” He mused falsely, “Perhaps if you hold it between us, it may shelter us both.”

For a beat of the Narnian heart, Edmund could have sworn Grace’s cheeks had blossomed the most captivating colour of red.

Grace took his hand gingerly – unflinching as her touch was met with the slippery and cold texture – and accepted his assistance to step under the midnight blue shade. It was probably the most amiable that Edmund had ever seen her behave.

“You hold it,” She said as she huddled into the dry area, “I’ll only end up hitting your head.”

“At least it would be dry,” Edmund muttered as he began to herd her between the thickly nestled trunks of the wood.

In truth, the disparity in height was not so great between them. At her tallest, Grace’s hairline could be found at equal with Edmund’s brows, a fact that became more apparent at this proximity.

There was no space for chatter whilst they moved in equal tandem. Both cautiously watching the ground and each other to ensure there were no slips or falls into the now muddy forest floor. The shade, of course, did not completely cover them both and as time passed under it Edmund found himself allowing more of it to expose his right shoulder in order to better cover Grace.

Said right shoulder was now soaked through, however, there was no expected shiver to Edmunds bones, no frost which numbed his skin. Or if there was, it was entirely unnoticeable next to the pure and utter warmth that came from being huddled closely to the Grace. He tried not to focus on it too closely, lest he trip and take them both onto the ground.

As they continued on and on and on, Edmund began to wonder whether they travelled in the correct direction. It was hard to tell in this weather, the sheets of water covering everything in a grey speckled haze which was nearly as bad as fog.

The relief that seized his throat upon seeing a dim yellow light in the distance was hard to disguise. He marched towards it, one arm wrapping across Grace’s back to guide her as they picked up pace.

The doorway grew larger with the speed of their approach and before long Edmund could make out the shape of the doorway and the shadows of those which stood under it.

“Ho there!” Came the familiar voice of Mr Tumnus, his unmistakable shadowed form taking shape in the light of the doorway.

“Hello, my friends!” He called out to them in his deep and cheerful tone, one tea towel fixed between his fingers as he waved it toward them like a beacon, “This way, this way! We must get you out of this rain at once!”

Grace was thrust through the entry way first, followed swiftly by Edmund. He only stopped once under the safety of the sheltered doorway to collapse the now drenched midnight blue back onto its metal stick.

The umbrella was lifted from his grasp as Edmund was ushered into the warmth. Any debacle of the rain finalised with the crisp closure of the panelled front door.

Edmund grinned at the sight of a friend, “Mr Tumnus!”

The old Faun opened his arms in welcoming, a large and friendly smile upon the lines of his face, “King Edmund!”

They embraced warmly, hands clapping upon each other’s back with hearty regard as they were reunited. Upon their separation, Edmund lodged both of his hands on the even height of Mr Tumnus’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length as he assessed any changes.

There were none. The Faun had not changed a bit since his departure from court, except perhaps a few more whitened hairs upon his scalp and brows which melded with the mouselike brown of well-worn age.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” Edmund grinned happily.

Mr Tumnus clapped him soundly on the shoulders, “And you, my King. Please come in and seat yourself by the fire. I’d imagine it has been a long and trying journey.”

Edmund followed the Faun’s outstretched hand towards the armchair surrounded fireplace, all too happily removing the drenched and heavy cloak from his shoulders.

Grace was already there, kneeling as close to the grate as possible without burning her hands upon the orange-tinged metal.

“I shall order us some tea,” Mr Tumnus offered as he ushered Edmund into one of the plush red armchairs.

As the Faun swept around one of the rock-walled corners and out of sight, Edmund surveyed the room. His last trip to the West had been nearly three years ago and at that point Mr Tumnus was still a permanent fixture of the court. His home had been shut up due to its disuse then, all books unshelved and furniture covered in dust-gathering white sheets.

Edmund had seen it when it was lived in before – though, the memories were very slight and fuzzed at the edges with age. Regardless of time, however, it seemed that little adjustment had been made to the cave-like home. No stone was overturned, nor book reshuffled from its  original placement. Even the armchairs remained just as Edmund had remembered them.

The lack of change was comforting in a way, a reinforcement against the great changes he knew would come.

A the reminder, Edmund’s sight drew unwillingly to the Daughter of Eve as she knelt upon the plush carpeted rug. At some point in the kerfuffle of their arrival she had removed her cloak, the material falling loose over her shoulders and landing on the floor in a brown, crescent ripple.

Her dress looked significantly less drenched thanks to both it and the umbrella, a fact which Edmund noted with pride. Between the two of them, the most they had walked away with was some wet socks and – in his case – a drenched shoulder.

“Tea will be out in a moment!” Mr Tumnus proclaimed as he sauntered around the corner into the sitting room. In his hands sat two silver plates, both nearly overflowing with biscuits and sandwiches.

The Faun sat on the opposing armchair from Edmund with a relieved sigh, quickly placing the food upon the small wooden table in between.

Grace craned her neck from her position by the fireplace, her eyes casting curiously between the two and the plates of food. She looked so ravenous it made Edmund wonder whether she’d eaten breakfast that morning.

Mr Tumnus caught her gaze immediately, his face returning her look with equal curiosity.

There were few moments where Edmund could see the relation between nephew and uncle – that is to say, since he had been made aware of its existence – but now as he looked on to the slowly warming features of the elder faun, he wondered how it hadn’t been noticed to begin with.

As Grace returned her questioning gaze to Edmund once more, a startling remembrance of propriety came to him.

“Pardon me,” He murmured apologetically, springing to alert from the plush confines of the armchair, “I believe I have been remiss at organising introductions!”

“Indeed you have,” Mr Tumnus commented wryly.

“Grace,” Edmund began, addressing the Daughter of Eve with the imperiousness that came with his position, “May I introduce you to Master Rupert Tumnus, Sheriff of the Western March and Retired Councillor of Narnia.”

The dampened edges of Grace’s skirts scraped the floor as she stood, one hand extended greetingly towards the Faun, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Edmund turned to his friend, “Mr Tumnus, this is Grace. Current Ward of the Crown. She is seeking shelter under the Lion’s Benevolence until we can safely return her to Spare Oom.”

Mr Tumnus took her hand with a bright cheeked smile, his thick fingers nearly encompassing hers whole, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madam. Formally that is-” the word was punctuated with a humorous look towards the Just King, "My Nephew, Margrove, has mentioned you more often than not in his letters.”

Grace looked at the Faun through the rippled concerned of her brows, “All good things, I hope?”

“Only the best,” Mr Tumnus comforted her, “He is especially pleased with your progress in music as well as your contributions.”

“An admiration which he shares with many others,” Edmund intercepted supportively, “Grace’s conveyance of Spare Oom’s music has been a most invigorating fixture of the court.”

At the praise, Grace’s cheeks reddened.

Mr Tumnus regarded the King with interest, “Is that so? Well, that certainly is an accomplishment indeed!”

The Faun grinned as he returned to Grace, taking her gently by the elbow as his other hand gestured to the red armchair, “Please, please, sit down. You must tell me all about this music which you have so dutifully carried.”

Grace settled into the offered seat like she’d been born to it, the muscles of her face and shoulders relaxing as they sunk into the soft velvet, “Thank you. The music is nothing special. Just some songs I love which have carried over with me to this world.”

“Some songs?” Mr Tumnus scoffed, he made himself busy by the mantle of the fireplace – the shaky grip of his fingers holding a lit match as he attempted to light a candelabra, “I have heard tell from Margrove that you have penned nearly two dozen now, with the hope of many more to come.”

“She is working on one as we speak,” Edmund commented knowingly. He stepped forward as the third wick struggled to light, voicelessly ordering the Faun to take the seat the Edmund had just vacated, “The process has begun in earnest from what I have heard.”

Edmund could feel the burn of Grace’s glare upon his back, “Yes, His Majesty King Edmund has proven quite inspiring to my efforts. My most recent reminder is all his own work.”

I suppose I set myself up for that one, Edmund acknowledged with an inward scowl. The last wick flickered to life under the matchstick, giving him the perfect excuse not to respond as he extinguished the flame tipped wood.

“Truly? How wonderful!” Mr Tumnus exclaimed, sounding quite overjoyed at the prospect, “Tell me of the song, is it near finished?”

“Near enough,” Grace replied with a slight indecipherable hesitance, “I have the lyrics completed and brief passages of music drafted but I’d need the Orchestra in order to pull it together.”

Edmund turned in time to see the Elder Faun wave off her concern, “There is no need for the Cair’s Orchestra! We have a perfectly adequate band here in the Western Wood. Surely they can assist you with the tune?”

Grace’s pleasant smile wavered under hesitation, the triangle cut sandwich in her lap indented with the shape of her fingers, “I suppose so-“

“Then it’s settled!” Mr Tumnus clapped his hands together with excitement, “You must perform the song tonight at the Dryad’s Grove. There is always a celebration upon our Just King’s first full day in the Wood and I imagine your song will be the sparkling pinnacle of the event.”

“Do you truly think it would be well received?” Grace asked, a sparkle in her eyes.

There was something that tugged as Edmund’s mind caught it’s gleam. A kind and honest smile gracing his lips as he replied, “If the Court of Aslan finds the music pleasurable, I assure you that any Westerner will enjoy it ten-fold.”

The lines of her worry smoothed comfortably at his words and Edmund found himself strangely gratified.

Mr Tumnus turned to him then, his dark enquiring eyes eager for news, “Speaking of beasts; Tell me, how is the court?”

The candelabra was warm under Edmund’s grasp as he placed on the table betwixt the plates of sandwiches. As his hand retreated, he managed to discreetly swipe a triangle of bread and meat from one of the softly lit silver platters, “As well as can be expected. Since your departure We are yet to see any truly concerning fires – excepting that of the Northern Situation.”

Mr Tumnus’s face shifted with unease, “Ah, yes. Lucy wrote to me of the matter. The news of Ritilian’s passing was quite a shock indeed.”

Edmund grimaced around his mouthful of sandwich, only lamenting after swallowing, “It is a disgrace that we were not able to give him a proper burial.”

The Elderly Faun agreed with stoic sadness, hands pressed firmly in his lap.

“But he did receive one,” Grace interrupted, her face a still mask of confusion as all eyes laid upon her, “Lucy said she gave a service. He was buried beneath a juniper tree.”

The words twisted oddly at Edmund’s perception of time and space. He wondered simply if he had misheard them… or if the warm air had gotten to his head, “What?”

“Pardon,” Mr Tumnus corrected automatically, “That is quite comforting to hear, Grace, however, Lucy never mentioned any such ceremony to me.”

“Nor I,” Edmund added, the inward corners of his eyes tightening as he scrutinized the now very sheepish look which Grace displayed.  

“Well I…” She trailed off. Her eyes turning blank as if she were suddenly at a loss on how to recover from the slip.

Edmund did not await her explanations, sure that they would be full of falsehoods he did not have time for, “It’s quite odd that the tree you say she mentioned was juniper – considering that there are no such specimens to be found in the Marsh-wiggle territory.”

In response to his theory, Grace stiffened. Her eyes walled against him, stubborn and solid, “I promised I would say no more.”

“But you will,” Edmund ordered, his tone as unyielding as the eroding sea, “Right now.”

“There is nothing else to say,” Grace objected obtusely, “Lucy travelled just far enough to find a Juniper and buried Ritilian beneath it.”

She was lying, it was a fact clear to Edmund despite the lack of telling outward signs – he just knew. His dark eyes narrowed in accusation, “No, there is more to say. You’re hiding something from me.”

The Daughter of Eve shut her lips so tightly that Edmund could see the outline of her teeth beneath the skin. She glared at him openly in front of their company, a clear refusal to reveal anything further.

Truth be told, Edmund did not need her traitorous words, there were enough facts to imagine as to create a story of his own. He had thought that Lucy had been a little cagey with the details when she’d delivered her report a week ago.

At the time, Edmund had not called her out on it, assuming that her emotion was the reliant factor to her secrecy. Ritilian was a great friend of Lucy’s and it was a perfectly understandable excuse that his passing should be left outside of the discussion.  

The story Lucy had weaved was rather boring in comparison to the one Grace eluded to but neither he or his siblings had thought it unlikely or suspicious… for, what reason would his sister need to hide anything that was not forbidden from her.

Edmund cursed his lack of foresight, especially after he himself knew that Lucy did hide things in order to maintain her hard-fought independence.

“The cut on her cheek,” Edmund murmured in slow realisation, “Lucy said she tripped.”

The stoic mask of Grace’s expression faltered – the slight crinkle of concern at their corners the only confirmation that Edmund needed.

“Were there any other injuries?” Edmund beseeched her, the fear clawing at his throat growing difficult to bear.

It was soothed minimally with the small, agitated shake of Grace’s head.

The emotion did not last, and soon Edmund found himself entrenched in a different one altogether. It was grim and dark as it clung weight to his shoulders and cheeks, the effect on the King like a leering shadow over a Daughter of Eve who remained perched unfearingly on the edge of her seat.

“Tell me what happened.”

The answer was much the same to the previous, though this time the shake of Grace’s head was guided by a defiant fervour.

Edmund refused to allow such a blatant disregard of his wishes, “Tell me, Grace.”

His voice was near unknown to him, a mixture of low depth and emotion he’d never encountered. His surprise at it did little to rattle him from the slow-burning fury which had begun to build. It darkened the edges of his vision, the sole focus of his ire churning on the image of Grace.

The bite on her lips released as the fire contorted shadows across her concerned face. Somewhere in Edmund’s mind, he compared the expression to the last time he had been so cross with her.

There was no fear upon Grace’s features this time, no withering of soul under the heated weight of his glare. No, this time she knew more of him than his complex and shifting anger. This time, Grace regarded him with care.

As the fire danced in her irises, Edmund noted their brief flicker to a point at his side. There was no waver in consideration when her eyes returned to his, but whatever Grace found there seemed to knock her to sense, “There was a small kerfuffle at the burial.”

“What was it?” Edmund questioned impatiently, “Hags? Werewolves? Ogres?”

There was another option which frightened him most, it sat languidly on his tongue like a taunt towards the soul.

Grace only gratified its persistence, “Two giants.”

Edmund closed his mouth firmly, his thin lips a mirror of his stretched anxiety. Acid lapped at his throat, threatening to make him retch the feeling upon the earth-coloured rug beneath his shoes.

“Perhaps I should go and check on that tea,” Mr Tumnus murmured quietly, there was a soft rustling of skin on material as his hands supported his rise from the velvet cushion.

“No, Sir,” Grace stood, her greyed eyes as entreating as her words, “Please, stay. I will need a witness to ensure the Just King doesn’t stab me.”

The bile in Edmund’s throat filtered his voice into a sneer, “Do I truly look as though I mean to stab?”

Grace’s eyes held an obvious warning as one hand ghosted in the direction of Edmund’s waist, “Your hand is upon your blade, sire.”

The information was clocked at startling speed, the effect being the immediate connection between the palm of his hand to his senses. Edmund could feel the rounded pommel of the blade boring into the skin, its presence binding the fury to something much darker.

Grace’s concern did not waver with the information, if anything it only grew as her hand cautiously ghosted close enough to brush his skin, “I understand that you are upset but please understand that your sister is my friend. I would not and have not put her personally in harm’s way. Nor would I ever want to. All I have done is keep her secrets.”

“From me,” Edmund gritted.

“I wasn’t about to betray your sister’s request for silence easily,” Grace defended, “Or would you have me return the favour by telling her of everything we speak of?”

Her words hung in the air, a distant but present reminder of frost-bitten wind upon candleflame and glimmering stones under sunlight. Edmund’s hand gripped under the memory, the muscles of the limb contorting uncomfortably around the skin-warmed metal.

Grace sighed, the breath of it wafting over Edmund as she closed the distance between their hands. The weight only added to that upon the metal, but he found that his grip became less rigid, the muscles soothing and rippling over the cylindrical shape.

“It’s alright to be upset that she kept such a thing to herself,” Grace murmured, “but can’t you see why she thought it necessary with a reaction such as this?”

The words stung in a way which caused Edmund to remove his hand with more force than necessary, “You mean my concern for my younger sister?”

“Your grown younger sister,” Grace pointed out, fire lit brows raised in challenge, “Who – might I add – has fought many battles without any lasting injuries.”

Ah yes, Lucy’s battles. By no means was his sister lacking in the valiance she had been named for but Edmund knew – as both Grace and Lucy were yet to learn – that her efforts on the front of war were heavily controlled, “She might think it an accomplishment but there were plenty of handicaps placed to ensure that outcome.”

Grace shook her head, an incredulous set to the wide shape of her eyes, “And yet again I ask why you wonder that she didn’t tell you of this?”

The sense she spoke was warped but still held presence and weight. This was now the second time he’d heard tell of Lucy’s adventures – not the ones she spoke of herself – those, he could recite with hand on heart to her character – rather, the second of the adventures which Lucy was too afraid to speak of.

It was odd. He didn’t understand how a person who spoke such little sense usually – a person who lived by the run of emotion and whim – could somehow offer the most clear and transcendent council when it was most needed.

There had been three times in their acquaintance where Grace had been on the receiving end of his ire and one where she had managed to sooth the ire he’d turned unto himself. Edmund ran over the instances with a startling clarity. He could see the droplets of salt washing over cheeks in the Eastern Woods, the darkened reflection of starlit irises upon the moonlit balcony, the whisper of the wind in auburn hair on Emperor’s Beach.

So many deals and agreements, many of them broken upon both sides. At the end of the day, they were meaningless to the pillar of their acquaintance, the cracks glued together in incandescent webs of silver.

Grace read his mind like an open book, her own dusty eyes mirroring it’s path, “I sincerely hope you aren’t planning to imprison me again over the simple task of keeping a secret.”

The corner of Edmund’s lips tilted wryly, “I believe the deal was a beheading.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, “Only if I betrayed Narnia! I do not believe this is that severe.”

“You have betrayed me,” Edmund offered, the end of the sentence curving upwards like a question. It was a weak attempt from a side of him that was small in stature. The side which remained unreconciled to the comfort and sense which Grace offered.

She took the bait, brows raising nearly to her hairline in defensive challenge, “Have I? Or have I simply endeavoured not to betray my friend?”

Edmund breathed deeply, the shuddering growth of his chest meant to calm but it did little to soothe the side which jumped about and stamped its feet like a spoiled child, “We said no more secrets, Grace. That was the deal.”

“This one wasn’t mine to tell,” Grace reasoned softly, “Technically, I have not broken our bargain.”

As technicalities were already an irritating fixture of Edmund’s life, he found the presence of them in this friendship to be most vexing, “Then I’m extending it to include situations such as this."

Grace threw him an exasperated glare, “I will not spy on your sister for you-” She lifted a pointed finger to silence Edmund when he moved to argue, “-nor vice versa, as far as I’m concerned you both can work out your issues and leave me out of it.”

Her statement was accentuated by a swift spin on her toes, the motion wafting the smell of earth and rain from the loosened strands in her braid. Grace returned to her armchair, dropping within its cushioned confines with a huff that seemed to end the argument.

Edmund looked to the carved ceiling of the room, exasperated by the theatrics.

For a moment, he attempted to look past the tempestuous side of his mind. The rest of the organ seemed composed, easily embracing the ultimatum she had provided. At the end of the day, the fact of the matter remained – Edmund would prefer it if she kept their discussion at the Stone Table to herself.

It wasn’t due to trepidation on his part – Edmund’s family were the very pillars of kindness and love – no, it was because their concern could be downright suffocating at times. Due to his past, Edmund felt like he was the most watched of the four, they always tiptoed around certain subjects in his presence, as if they lived with the very fear he would explode at the mention of them.

Edmund felt the amount of care was unnecessary. He found the presence of silence around topics such as winter and Jadis an insufferable weight under which he was suppressed.

It was not as if he could not speak of such things. In fact, Edmund almost wished they were spoken of more often, the repeated contact likely to desensitise him to the topics.

He supposed in a way, it was coddling of a softer and less spoken of nature – a care for the person rather than the soul which drove it. Within that epiphany, there was a split second where Edmund could sympathise with Lucy’s constant demands for autonomy.

As his eyes returned to the expansive sitting area, the flickering fireplace behind him cast long shadows across the space. Somewhere in his emotional tirade, the candles of the candelabra had blown out, returning the room to the dim light provided by the fire.

Grace had resettled comfortably in the chair and while she did not hold his gaze, Edmund knew she was thinking over their conversation. Her elbows perched comfortably on each velvet arm, the angle of them just so to allow her fingers to meddle in the space between – an expression of thought which Edmund had often observed.

His sight flickered to the opposite armchair, expecting the disapproving gaze of Mr Tumnus awaiting him… but it was not. The chair sat empty, the plush red buttoned in cushioning lumps with a taunting vacancy.

“I’m afraid we’ve been incredibly rude,” Edmund murmured, his eyes cast towards the corner to which Mr Tumnus had disappeared earlier.

“You have,” Grace objected as she plucked a sandwich from one of the silver platters. She took an eager bite, her appetite apparently restored after their argument.

Edmund grimaced in the direction of the hallway, the implications of what such a display could cause weighing heavily on his mind.

It was Mr Tumnus who had taught them appropriate manners as children, as well as a few other skills he could offer. It was one thing to react as Edmund had before company, but such a display in front of his teacher. The shame crawled uncomfortably over his back, tugging his shoulders forward to outwardly project the abhorrent emotion.

“I should go check on him,” Edmund whispered to himself.

“You should,” Grace replied, hand covering her mouth which remained half full of sandwich.

And so, Edmund swept from the room, the sound of his boots upon the wooden slatted floor grounding him to time like the ticking of a clock. His hand caressed the corner as he traversed it, following the path he recalled lead to the kitchen.

The murmur of voices could be heard at its end, growing louder with each passing drop of his boot.

“You’ve strained the tea?” The deeper of the two asked.

“Yes,” The lighter answered.

“Twice over?”

“Yes.”

Edmund’s knuckle found the carved entryway, a quick rap upon the cool stone meant to signify his appearance.

All the same, Mr Tumnus looked startled, “Your Majesty! My apologies, I was just checking on the tea.”

Edmund tried to smile in a manner that was comforting, but he feared that his shame shone through in the form of strained cheeks, “It’s alright, sir. I came to check on you after… well, I believe an apology is in order.”

The Fauna to the right of Mr Tumnus stood hesitantly. Her light blue eyes blown wide at his unforeseen appearance. The stretched blond of her hair to shook this way and that as those eyes shifted constantly between he and Mr Tumnus in question.

Edmund addressed a polite nod was addressed in her direction as she cradled the cozy covered teapot in her fingers. An act which only caused the Fauna to look further displaced.

Mr Tumnus took her by the shoulder gently, “Cassandra, dear, would you go deliver the tea to the sitting room. Grace will likely desire some company.”

“Yes, Master Tumnus,” She mumbled, eyes lowered as she swept from the room.

Mr Tumnus did not look at him directly yet, his dark eyes remaining fixed upon the plate of scones he had been arranging. Edmund could only watch, shame stilling him to silence as he awaited the reprimand.

“Your emotional response appears to have improved slightly,” Mr Tumnus noted unemotionally, his dark eyes briefly flickering to Edmund with acknowledgement.

“Yes,” Edmund noted equally, “But I have not yet mastered the art.”

The Elderly Faun shrugged, “Considering the circumstances with Lucy, it was understandable.”

The comfort provided at such a statement was minimal. Truth be told, emotional response was something that all in his family suffered with. Over years of teachings, Susan was the only one who had truly mastered the art, so much so that the deep running flow of her heart could only be interpreted by her family in direct social situations.

Second to her, came Edmund. It was Tumnus who had taught him how to school his features, how to hold his body just so in preparation for verbal attack. These guards had allowed him to come to a mind regarding his speech, the quick wit and return a gift he had honed under their shield.

Peter and Lucy hadn’t truly needed the lessons, for their emotions were the very rock of their rule. Happiness and aggression came hand in hand to them, like a controlled strike of genius which inspired all to action.

“Regardless of how it was handled,” Edmund breathed to steady himself, “I apologize for the display.”

Mr Tumnus’s fingers paused in their movement as his chin tilted to grant him a better view of the weak apology, “I believe that your words are wasted on me, Edmund. I have long forgiven your trespasses by now.”

The forward set of Edmund’s shoulders rolled back slightly at the omittance.

“However,” The Elderly faun added as he sucked a drop of jam from his thumb, “You may wish to extend that regard to the Daughter of Eve in my sitting room.”

Edmund started at the mention of Grace, “I think I owe a lot more than apologies in her case.”

Mr Tumnus regarded him with knowing eyes, “I had wondered as such. Truthfully, I was surprised at the initial strength of your reaction. I have not seen such a thing form you for many a year.”

Edmund’s eyes widened, “But you said-”

“I said that it appeared your emotional response had improved,” Mr Tumnus explained obviously, “I never said that it was all your own work.”

All his own work? Who else’s could it have been? It was not as if Grace sat by in wait for the moment he’d explode; prepared to step in and soothe the larger part of his mind with her touch.

It was true that she had offered him support – the unwavering presence of it had proved comforting to Edmund when he needed it most. But that should not have indicated any more than a preservation of self, never mind an applaudable achievement.

“Edmund,” The greying Faun caught his attention, “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

The stare Edmund provided could only be described as dumb, at best, “No?”

Mr Tumnus looked at him in a way which indicated that Edmund should know the thought he eluded, but it caught to nothing in mind. There was no wafting of interest nor calculated manoeuvre with which he ducked the recognition, for Edmund truly had no inkling of what the Faun spoke.

“Never mind,” Mr Tumnus muttered, his thick fingers deftly balancing the tray betwixt them, “Let us take these to the ladies.”

He brushed past Edmund, the clacker of cloven hooves on the floor quickly joined by the heavy step of boots.

The corner brought a sight that was not surprising in the least. Grace and the Fauna stood barely a step from her armchair, their voices as quiet as the crackling of the fireplace.

“Ah, I can see you two have become well acquainted,” Mr Tumnus commented as he deposited the tray next to the knitted tea pot. He then turned to address Edmund, hands clasped behind him humbly, “I apologise to you, sire, that you have not been afforded the same courtesy.”

Edmund shook his head firmly, “Think nothing of it.”

Mr Tumnus only smiled in that knowing manner, one hand reached towards the blonde-haired Fauna with warm familiarity, “This, is Cassandra Cantor. My most recent ward and caretaker in my old age.”

Cassandra was ushered towards him, her eyes cast towards the unpatterned rug as she tip-toed upon it.

Greetings and pleasures were exchanged, Edmund being the more robust of the two. He was keen to show Mr Tumnus he had not completely forgotten his manners.

When all was said and done, Cassandra turned to her mentor with large and entreating blue eyes. As if he’d been trained to the response, Mr Tumnus leaned sideways to receive her whisperings in his eardrum.

“Of course my dear, go on,” He nodded kindly, one hand splayed openly to the path back to the kitchen.

The Fauna’s smile was grateful, tucked beneath the tilt of her head as she first knelt a curtsy to Edmund, then Grace before alighting from the room.

Mr Tumnus watched her go with little to no surprise, ensuring she was clear of hearing distance before explaining, “She’s a bit shy.”

“Ah,” Edmund attempted to look like he had not already reached that conclusion himself.

“I think she’s lovely,” Grace commented from her perch on the couch, “A little soft-spoken but there is most definitely a presence behind her eyes.”

“It surprises me none that you managed to draw her form her shell with what I have heard of you,” Mr Tumnus mirrored her position in the opposing chair, his rosy cheeks widening with fast fondness, “You must tell me what you did so I may repeat the treatment.”

Edmund shuffled further into the room as they discussed, the unthinking stride drawing him closer to the fire.

“I was tasked by her parents to coax her into society, you see,” Mr Tumnus explained, “I will admit it has been a challenge to fulfill.”

“How long has she lodged with you?” Edmund asked as his eyes cast over the furnishings and decorations of the mantel piece.

“But two months now,” The Faun replied, “It was my hope that I may bring her with us to the Cair? I’ve tried all methods but throwing in the deep end – so to speak – and am near running out of options.”

Behind him, Grace made a sound of disapproval, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound rude, but is there a reason her parents are so determined on her social behaviour?”

Mr Tumnus chuckled, “No offense taken, Madam. Cassandra is a Cantor you see, she comes from a line of great vocalists in the Western March. As the only child of her parents, you can understand how her shyness is a risk to the family legacy.”

That was all it took; any of Grace’s previous misconceptions lost within one simple detail, “She can sing?”

“But of course!” The old faun exclaimed, “The blood of the Cantor line is nothing if not potent. I have heard her humming away about the house when she thinks I am not home.”

There was the odd sound of fabric against fur as Mr Tumnus adjusted in his seat, “If I were to confide in you, Grace, I would say she is the very best of them.”

Edmund peered over his shoulder towards the two, unsurprised to find the Faun leaning over the end of the arm chair. Mr Tumnus’s regard practically dripped from him as Grace listened with rapt attention.

It was an easy request, one which Edmund would agree to without issue, “Of course Cassandra may join us. Please remind me to notify Sterillion of the extra party.”

The answering beam of the Faun was brilliant, “Thank you sir.”

“I do wonder,” Grace said, her words edging onto the end of his gratitude with barely controlled patience, “If I or Lilis might help her find her voice? There is a song we have been working on which is unsuitable for our voices alone.”

Mr Tumnus looked delighted at the prospect, perhaps even a little eager if it weren’t for the doubt which joined his features, “If you can convince her to sing, Madam, I would be eternally indebted to you.”

Her blazing grin at the acceptance was enough to make Edmund smile, “Then I must convince her! If she is as good as you say, then she might be just what we need.”

“And if she isn’t?” Edmund entered. He cursed himself for the words after they were spoken, a lack of thoughtfulness on his part he had not intended.

Grace looked to him, her desire-lit face unperturbed by the question, “No song suits every voice, but you will always find a song to suit the singer. Even if you have to write it yourself.”

Edmund didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Well then,” Said Mr Tumnus as he leant a hand across the warm air between them, “I leave Cassandra in your capable hands, Grace.”

The Daughter of Eve took the hand with an enthusiasm unmatched and the agreement was struck, stronger in words than anything that could be committed to paper.

Mr Tumnus stayed aloft in his seat long after the embrace, keeping his hands busy with the pouring of tea and placement of food upon plates which were duly divvied among the group.

Pleasantries were the time of the day then. There were the usual asks; the health of Edmund’s siblings, the current appetite of the court, various questions as to the running of the household –Edmund could only guess at those based on his discussions with Susan.

All throughout, Grace sat serenely upon her velvet chair. It was undeniable that she ate sandwiches and smiled at the appropriate times, but at no moment did her eyes – or her smile – leave the form of Mr Tumnus.

An effect which the Faun picked up on very quickly.

“I do believe you are smiling at me,” He commented, eyeing her through fond squinted irises, “Pray tell, Madam, what is it?”

At first, Grace did not move. There was a studying air about her as she took in the Elderly Faun.

“You remind me so much of your nephew,” She replied in a wistful whisper.

“Ah! Yes, I’m sure you can see the family resemblance,” As if to accentuate his point, Mr Tumnus cut a finger across his jawline – which so happened to be the very picture of Margrove’s.

“It’s not just that,” Grace disputed with a shake of her auburn skull, “It’s in the way you speak. In the inflections which reveal your mind. You have the air of showmanship about you sir. Just as Margrove does.”

The Faun leaned on the plush right arm, his elbow hanging off the red cliff as his eyes zeroed in on the Daughter of Eve. “Madam,” He spoke in low and teasing tones, “Where do you think he gets it from?”

Grace’s presence only caught the words at face value initially, Edmund could see the slow realisation as it grew on her face in the form of a large and rather over eager grin.

“Then, might I also assume you are an accomplished musician?” She asked.

Edmund knew the answer before the Faun spoke it. His eyes drew to their corner, silently eyeing the flute which sat on the mantelpiece in a glass lock box. It had been sealed away for as long as Edmund could remember.

“No,” Mr Tumnus regretfully answered, “But I ask that you do not pity me. All in the West find our own way to live our stories. I have found the spoken word to be most inviting. Some might even say I have a knack for it.”

Edmund need not look to see the way Grace’s eyes lit at such a prospect, “Like the Centaurs do?”

“Oh yes. Though, I do prefer to put my own spin on things. Don’t you?”

Grace shrugged in the glass reflection of the lock box, “I find I’m not experienced enough with music to change anything. It is usually Margrove who manages the music after I have jotted it down.”

“He always was the creative one,” Mr Tumnus noted, “Did you know that of all I have fostered under this roof, there has never been a child of Narnia so outspoken and curious. It has gotten him into many troubles indeed.”

Edmund felt his cheeks stretch at the omission, his own fond memories of Margrove’s antics coming to mind.

He nearly flinched when Grace’s hand came down upon the padded chair arm, “Yes! Poor Margrove! Sometimes I think he just can’t help it. He told me you punished him for eavesdropping once!”

Mr Tumnus laughed, “I wish I could recall the exact moment you speak of, for I believe there were many repeated incidents of that type.”

“He’s still a snoop now,” Grace remarked, this time it was her turn to lean forwards with a secret.

Edmund had to strain his ears to catch her words.

“I caught him a few weeks back with a list of music I had hidden away. None of it was finished yet and I wanted to keep it under wraps until it was, you see.”

“What did he do with the list?” Mr Tumnus enquired. His voice already indicating that he knew the answer.

Edmund didn’t. His curiosity tugged him back to the innards of the sitting room, just in time to catch Grace’s eyes widen with a look of scandal he’d seen only on the ladies of Cair Paravel.

“Gave it to Queen Susan, of course! And right in front of me no less!”

There was a boisterous laugh between them, a shared moment over the relation they both loved so well.

Grace took to it like a match to a flame, her joy radiating with every beat which passed her lips. It was an odd and new sight for Edmund, a letdown of walls he subconsciously knew were present in his interactions with her.

As the bleating calmed, Mr Tumnus wiped the joyful tears from his dark eyes, “Ah, that boy will never learn. Nor will he ever grow out of it, I fear. I have received many queries from him regarding the land of Spare Oom recently. It is my regret that I have not had to time to reply to them fully… My other correspondence has taken much of my time.”

The emphasis on the word tugged Edmund from his stupor. There was an unwilling slowness to the way his eyes shifted from the Grace to the Faun, and once the movement was complete Edmund was not sure he was glad to have completed it.

Mr Tumnus looked at him, a deep pool of thought and emotion all compiling to one wordless sentence.

May I?

The frayed end of Edmund’s mind dangled a foot over the edge, knowing there was no return once it fell to the clutches of the dark unknown.

What other choice was there? His mind scrambled, a million plans disapproved and yearned for as the clock began to tick. Even if Edmund were to bar this now, Lucy would surely step in later and he did not want to be on the receiving end of her ire when she found out he had mis-stepped again.

It was inevitable. Grace would be leaving today.

The nod of acquiescence was resigned, reluctant and rueful all at once. Emund found himself grieving the decision before the Faun had even begun to relay it’s consequences.

The Faun returned the nod – an indecipherable jitter compared to Edmund’s own. He returned to the entreating eyes of the Daughter of Eve with an air of something else. Was this what Grace had called ‘showmanship’?

“Perhaps if you have the time for them, I might tell you a story or two now? Then – if the rain has cleared – I may show you their inspiration?”

Grace nodded, absolutely and utterly hanging on to the Fauns spoken word.

Edmund returned his lean against the wooden mantel piece. He could not bear to watch her shift to the edge of her seat, to see the way her blue eyes turned molten under the heat of her hair. For that moment, the only presence he held on this plane was physical. His mind drifted as the darkening set of his gaze continued to bore into the dancing flames.

All troublesome thoughts were banished fervently. Their image replaced with the languid feeling of legs upon Phillip’s sides, the lilting birdsong above the tallest reaching treetops and the fascinating lullabies of Spare Oom beside him.

Chapter Text

XLVI

EDMUND

No Light, No Light – Florence + the Machine

And

I Know The End – Phoebe Bridgers

And

Strangers – Ethel Cain

“Come along, you two! The day is still young but there is no telling when the rain shall return to drench us!”

“We’re coming,” Grace called, lifting her skirts in order to step over a large root.

Edmund remained behind. A hand splayed, half ready to catch her should she slip.

“If I had realised how thick the woods had grown this far in,” He muttered to himself, “I would have asked the trees to form a path.”

“Is it too late to do so?” Grace whispered back, her eyes thrown upwards towards the branches as if they could hear her.

Edmund shook his head, “There would be no point now. I’m sure we’re nearly there.”

Grace squeaked, the sloshing sound of the muddy ground accompanying the startling noise. On instinct, Edmund’s readied hands caught her with a firm and bruising grip.

“Watch where you’re going!” He admonished.

She shrugged him off as soon as she was able, “I am! I can’t help it if the ground is slippery.”

“You can if you see it first and choose to step somewhere else,” Edmund grumbled.

It had been nearly fifteen minutes of this so far. The trek to the Lantern only proving slower atop the deep-set mud.

“Careful!” Edmund snapped after Grace stepped wobblingly over another root.

The glare she threw his way could have set the mud ablaze, “I am! What’s got your knickers in such a twist?”

A flush of unbearable heat reached Edmund’s cheeks; he was already rattled by impending events, the mention of his knickers only added a twinge of embarrassment to it.

“None of your business,” Edmund grumbled, eyes catching her step towards yet another puddle, “Stop looking at me or you’ll trip.”

The glare remained as her head flicked away but Edmund caught the glaze of concern that reflected there.

“You’re not still mad about Lucy, are you?”

Any comprehensive understanding of her true emotions was lost within his irritation, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Grace sighed, “I thought we were past this.”

“Leave it, Grace.”

She spun on her heel, the concerned sheen now a bright and unmissable glow. It was met with a stern set of brows and eyes so guarded that Edmund could feel the hardened heaviness on his pupils.

“Fine,” Grace huffed. She returned her eyes to the ground, showing the same amount of care towards her footing as she had previously.

As he readied himself for yet another slip, Edmund knew he was being unreasonable – that his title of The Just perhaps went the most undeserved in that moment. In fact, there were many times in Grace’s presence when his behaviour had proved less than savory.

He couldn’t help it, the Daughter of Eve had a talent for getting under his skin. In fact, Grace was there so often that Edmund had wondered once or twice whether she had taken up permanent residence. It was clearly not by choice – it was obvious that her presence there irritated her just as much as it did him.

It taxed her so much that at multiple points of their acquaintance Grace had requested peace. For Edmund’s part in the matter, he had tried; it just so happened that the success of that endeavour completely relied on the flip of a coin – which was unfortunately thrown by a hand forged in the darkest crevices of his soul.

But then she followed him into that corner and everything turned on its head.

There was still a coin and the hand that flipped it, only this hand did not seem as dark and foreboding as it had previously. There was no mistaking the appendage was the very same, it was only Edmund’s perspective of it which had shifted.

Even now, as he vented the sadness of her departure in snarky words and aggressively handled care, Edmund knew the fault did not lie with her. It was a stark contrast to the view he’d held of the Daughter of Eve before their conversation on Emperor’s Beach mere weeks ago.

As the light of a clearing began to filter through the whispering branches of the trees before them, Edmund swallowed. His mouth had become unexpectedly dry, the numb and fuzzy feeling battering openly against the shield of his irritation. A shield which was dropped without much resistance.

If this was to be the final moments Edmund would spend in Grace’s company, he would not ruin them with his own snarky retribution.

There was no time for apologies or amendments of speech, for an opening in the trees made itself known in the form of mist filled light. It filtered between the edging branches and danced across the last dredges of the muddy forest floor.

Grace rushed towards it, nearly tripping thrice in the effort of stepping over puddles and roots. She breached the opening before he and subsequently released a grateful sigh at the warmth on her skin.

Edmund’s cheeks tugged upwards, narrowing his eyes into thin slits which barred against the sudden light. The burning of his retinas proved nothing compared to the warmth that danced over his clothes, the effervescent weight upon skin beginning to defrost all it touched.

As his eyes adjusted, Edmund could make out more of the view. The sun tipped trees had stopped their growth in a near perfect circle of glade. The earth in the space between a mixture of evergreen grass and patches of sun-dried dirt.

There were shadows over the floor of different hued greens and browns, cast by the overhanging branches of the circular trees. While the trunks maintained their safe positions within the expanse of the circle, their limbs leaned dangerously towards the middle. Some branches were so long and stretching that Edmund wondered how the trunks remained balanced.

It was a dome – a branch filtered, sun lit, natural dome – with a singular point of focus. For all branches, rocks, even leaves seemed magnetized towards one singular object.

The Lantern stood apart from all others. It’s perfect, pinnacled existence at the centre of the natural world. It was not exactly as Edmund remembered it – though his memory of the object had been slight and worn by the passage of time.

The pillar of black iron stood firmly upon the ground, its base tendrilled twistingly as if it had grown roots of its own. There was a bumpy and rough texture to it which could be seen in any refraction of light, like skin on a sunlit face.  

A long and straight cylinder ran from the root to the tip, only opening once in a bulbus shape with four windows of see through glass. Even in the light of day, the flame within them was unmistakeably bright and danced on the wind it could not possibly feel from inside its cage.

Had it grown taller? Edmund could not tell from this distance, for he had also grown in the past thirteen years.

“Here it is,” Mr Tumnus grinned from his place beside Edmund, “This is where I first stumbled upon Lucy.”

“It’s beautiful,” Grace whispered. The wispy tendrils of her voice reaching Edmund’s right ear sweepingly, gone as quickly as he could comprehend it.

His chin inched in her direction, dark eyes stretching to their limit to perceive her reaction. As expected, her mouth was agape. It was not enough to add humour to her expression – on the contrary, Edmund thought the miniscule parting only added to the wonder which sparkled in her eyes.

There was no sound, no footstep or crunch of grass as she closed the distance to the Lantern and placed an uncertain hand upon its surface. As if in response to her touch, a slight breeze danced across the space. It tugged at branch and skirt alike, all moving in unison with the southern pull.

“It’s lit,” Grace noted. Her head whipped towards the Elderly Faun as she questioned, “Does someone maintain it?”

Mr Tumnus motioned to the negative, “No one does, Madam. Though each day and night it remains just so,” Then his voice dropped, taking the tone of the storyteller once more, “There are some that say it is living.”

Grace returned her view to the billowing flame inside it’s metal and glass cage.

“Living iron?” She whispered, the noise barely carrying on the wind, “It makes you wonder if the mountains also breathe.”

Edmund knew from personal experience that they did.

Half a step drew from his foot, an unintentional inch in the direction of the Daughter of Eve who stared searchingly at the little flame.

“Do you remember the way you came from?”

The other foot froze mid-air, “What?”

“Pardon,” Mr Tumnus reprimanded quietly.

Grace turned to Edmund, the full force of her imploring eyes making the impact of a runaway beast, “The direction you originated from the first time you came here?”

This time, it was Edmunds lips that parted. There was no wonder within it, rather an outward expression of the dread which had been building since he’d first begun preparations to visit the Lantern Waste.

He searched the trees for any hint of familiarity, but none came – His memories clouded by the flurry of white specs and the heavy set of snow upon bare branches. These were conditions that could not be replicated at this moment and even if they could, Edmund did not believe he could point in any direction with certainty.

After all, it was Jadis who had told him how to get back to the Wardrobe in the first place.

Edmund’s lips tightened against each other, their firm line only adding to the negative shake of his skull as he answered her.

Grace’s posture hunched in disappointment. It seemed, however, that she would not lose hope, turning to beseech Mr Tumnus instead, “Do you know the direction which Lucy used to return?”

The Faun’s physical response did nothing to alleviate the disappointment, “I am sorry, Madam, for I do not. If it is your wish to locate the Wardrobe, however, I am happy to join you in a walk?”

The offer did a little to reignite the spark as Grace’s gaze returned to Edmund’s. There was a dim reminder there, one of hesitant glances and maps in a firelit study.

Would that be alright?

The correct response would have been assuage her worry, to smile, to give some kind of nod of acceptance… but Edmund found he could not.

“We could be looking for hours,” It was a poor excuse.

The dejection at his denial was not easily ignored, “You don’t need to come if you have other matters to attend to...”

“It’s not that,” Edmund blurted, stunned when the thoughtless words surged past his lips.

Grace returned to him expectantly.

Edmund floundered, his mind cacophony of answers – none of which were acceptable in the current situation. Yes, you can go. No, please don’t. Both sat on his tongue, firmly held back by the closure of his lips and absolutely nothing else.

He couldn’t understand the endless turmoil he was putting himself through. Was this not the chance of normalcy he had practically begged for since the day he’d met Grace? It was right here, two months after the fact. A perfect opportunity to be rid of the unwitting spy he’d continuously painted her as, and yet…

Edmund couldn’t bear the idea of normalcy without her presence.

The selfishness of the thought made him sick to the stomach.

It didn’t help when she looked at him like that, her eyes so filled with brazen trust despite all of ways which Edmund had proved unworthy of it, especially now when he could think of nothing but ways to make her stay.

Those same eyes presently entreated him, a kaleidoscope of blues and greys which were haunting and enticing all at once. It made him want to give in, to offer to walk her to the door himself, to send her off with the wave and smile she so desperately needed in order to pass through.

He remembered it now, the moment she’d stood over him and demanded he teach her to play the lute. In that second, Edmund had wondered whether he could truly deny her anything.

Now he supposed, the answer was obvious.

Grace’s expression brightened with bittersweet joy at his singular and jutted nod. There was no time wasted as she spun on her heel, Lilis’s carefully woven braid flicking over her shoulder in one russet blur. Her hand remained fixed upon the iron pillar of the Lantern, using it as leverage in her stride.

Beside him, Mr Tumnus stepped forth, one arm aimed towards Grace in a means to escort her like he’d promised.

Edmund remained, feet stuck to the ground like shoes in a wax seal. His eyes remaining firmly upon the pair as he watched them walk away. Any and all insides dropping to the soles like lead and instead being replaced by the insistent and sickening tug of being left behind.

Sometimes, Edmund believed that he and the Western Wood were connected. It was moments like these, where the sun was overtaken by clouds and the wind picked up speed – he knew it to be true.

Without sunshine the breeze turned frigid, it ran through clothes and pierced him right down to the bone marrow. He shivered, regretting his decision to leave his cloak on the warm velvet armchair.

Neither Grace nor Mr Tumnus seemed as bothered as he. They conversed easily beside the Lantern, only throwing worried looks towards the darkening sky every now and then as they organised themselves.

It was difficult to hear them over the roar of the wind. It billowed in deafening fury and tugged at the branches of trees, making the leaves scratch together in ominous and humanlike whispers. It was a sound which Edmund had grown used to during his trips West. Here, nearly every tree was ensouled and undoubtedly alive. The whispers they passed between them were as common as birdsong.

However, there was something more unsettling about the sound which encased them in this small, natural dome. The human-like aspect of the whispering branches grew more prominent… and disturbing - like the scrape of wood being carved or a whistling wind through a cracked window.

A sound too haunting to pay attention to yet too alluring to be ignored.

Again, only Edmund seemed perturbed by it. He looked on as Grace and Mr Tumnus continued to discuss, only bothered by the wind’s furious tug at strands of hair which whipped across their faces.

Something in him seized at the distance between them. It clawed at his throat with a fear that swallowed dryly. If something were to happen now, he might not be able to prevent it.

The whispers persisted, drafting over Edmund like a chilling breeze. It spurred the grasp of his throat and the fuzzy dryness on his tongue.

They were maddening. Their eerie symphony simultaneously maintaining a muted volume which deafened. They called to him and then they spurned him in the same breath, the difference between the tug and pull indecipherable as Edmund felt his very being pulled in both directions.

And then the voices harmonized and Edmund’s hair stood on end.

It was as if they had become one, joined in a singular direction. Edmund could pinpoint their source, the pathway like a beacon of sound which could be followed past the Lantern and through the trees to who knows where.

The tone was soft and inviting now. A voice which tugged upon a memory of a memory. It was a near perfect replica of Susan’s sensical and melodic voice, yet it held more depth, was matured in a way which only years could provide. It made his heart ache for something he did not remember.

Edmund stared into the direction the voice beckoned from. Was this the Wardrobe Grace coveted? Did it call to him now as it had when he was a child on the other side?

Something yanked him forwards in response, a dominant hand of spirit around the eased thrum of his heart. It would not let up for anything – not even the wax which had sealed his boots to the ground.

Edmund followed it without much resistance, his mind floating on a wistful grasp at memories he no longer held, of people he’d perhaps once known.

His hand grasped the iron pole of the Lantern as it passed. The warmth the metal still bore was comforting, seeping into his fingertips and defrosting the small bones there.

Then, something soft brushed against Edmund’s hair, the sensation awakening him from his dazed pace. It was a white petal; small enough to be carried on the current of wind which fluttered in dizzying circles until it landed upon the grass.  

It was joined by another; equal in shape, texture and size as it laid on the soft bed of green beside it’s twin. Edmund marvelled at it, briefly distracted from the whispers to trace his dark eyes over its beauty.

It wasn’t until another brushed past his cheek that he traced it’s source.

Three petals, twenty – there was simply too many to count. They blew in from some distant tree on the frigid breeze, dancing across the glade in the space where the light had been. Each fell at a separate lilting velocity. One petal dropping while the other coveted the breeze, the endless dance between them an entrancing sight before they covered the ground in an expanse of white.

It almost looked like snow.

Edmund gasped, startled by the parallels his mind drew. His thoughts ricocheted, tugging him back into the recesses of darkness where the memories he abhorred lied. Frozen fingers, hot chocolate, whispered promises of a sinister nature.

Edmund dared not close his eyes for what he knew would be seen. Instead, he searched for something better to focus on. Something good.

The feathery fall of Grace’s braid glinted in the dim, cloud-covered sunlight. A gleam of fire light which caught his peripheral vision like relieving warmth on a winters day. He maintained its focus, watching it float in the air as his thoughts were gathered from the cloud on which they’d perched.

The voice continued to urge in enticing whispers. It’s volume had grown insistent… and louder. So much so that Edmund could hear little else above its call.

There was no rustle of the branches as they brushed against each other, nor could he hear the crackling of the Lantern’s flame, and as Edmund looked back, he realised he couldn’t even make out the words of Grace nor Mr Tumnus.

He checked his senses, hearing the simple snap of skin upon his fingertips clear as day. Then, he turned to his companions, hoping to confirm the existence of sound. However, neither seemed to be paying any attention to him.

The two were speaking animatedly, their hair billowing in the strong wind as pieces of petal lodged within it. There was a clear conversation between them, a smile, a glance to the sky, a laugh when a particularly large petal landed in Mr Tumnus’s open mouth.

There were no overly exaggerated motions, no expanse of their throat where they tried to shout over the wind. No, it was perfectly clear that Grace and Mr Tumnus could hear each other.

It was Edmund who could not hear them.

He balked, the fear seizing his throat with a renewed strength. It dug into his skin with sharp claws and restricted his breathing to short gasps.

Magic.

There was no other possible explanation for it. How could there be?

Memories flitted across his mind in quick succession, each more confirming than the last. He had been here before – granted his last nemesis had held a physical form but a magical one none-the-less.

How had he not made the connection sooner?

It was true that the magic he’d been subjected to was cold, succinct and threatening. Jadis may have been a master manipulator but there was no covering the core of her being when she wielded its power.

This magic was different to hers. A stark contrast of warmth and persuasion with voices he no longer knew. It felt right in a way that made him squirm at the very thought of ignoring the call.

The memories of his first brush with magic rattled the bars of their well-hidden cages – screaming warnings and swearing at him in a collective of creative ways. Don’t do it, Go back now, It’s a trap!

He allowed himself to listen, the relief and comfort of finally acceding to the rational side of himself like a breath of fresh air. It had been weeks since he’d done such a thing, the command of the smaller allowing him time to truly open up to Grace.

But now, as he sat between the two feared evils of his rational self, not even the voice could deny that Grace was the better choice.

He took an involuntary step towards her, ignoring the burn of dryness in his eyes as they stayed affixed in their placement. The braid continued to swish as she spoke to Mr Tumnus, her animated speech barely carrying over the voices in Edmund’s ears, but it carried, nonetheless.

He anchored his mind to the sound of her voice and the image of her copper-woven braid. Each foot nearly stumbling over the other as he closed the distance back to the Lantern and her side.

The voices had separated again, however, the directional pull had been maintained. Their call had grown more fervent and demanding, speaking in tongues and tones of a primal nature. It only served to strengthen Edmund’s resolve.

Whatever lied beyond those trees, it was decidedly not a wardrobe.

He reached them at a speed that was near glacial – worn down by the crescendo of voices in his mind and the twisting of his insides at neglecting their call. The weakness of his muscles was odd, something Edmund had not felt since his very first days in Narnia.

When he reached the Lamppost, any attempt he made at speech was met with emptiness. There was no vibration in the dry flesh of his throat, it must have been lost somewhere between exhaustion and fear.

At last, Mr Tumnus peered in his direction and paled – his survey no doubt revealing a cold and sweating King with the complexion of sun fearing snow.

He murmured something inaudibly to Grace, some measure of words whose volume could only be determined by the small expansion of his lips.

Grace spun on her heel, nearly whipping Edmund’s face with the object of his focus.

There was a beat of assessment as her eyes traced over him, the soft but sure crinkle of worry growing with each passing moment. She was mouthing something, some words that could not be comprehended over the gaining volume of the whispers.

Edmund shook his head – both to dislodge the voices and to signal that he had not heard her. His eyes fixed determinably upon her face, refusing to give thought to the desperation with which the voices spoke and urged from beyond the trees.

He was drawn into a constant dance between knowing and oblivion, one foot over the edge of a chasm and ready to drop should he give in to the urge… but he would not. He refused to fall into the traps of the past, to succumb to the version of himself he thought lesser-than. If this path would reveal the same as it had before, Edmund refused to step the same way twice.

Grace’s eyes were wide with worry and somewhere beyond the edge of the conscious battle of Edmund’s mind, he knew he should say something.

There was a grip on his arm which shook roughly, jarring an old battle wound he’d had long thought healed. The pain was good in a way, a deterrent – a grounding presence against the lilting pull of otherworldly voices.

The grip gained strength and Edmund winced at the cutting of sharpened nails over the thin under shirt. His eyes refocused on the windswept figure of the Daughter of Eve as she stood, shadowed by the equally concerned expression of Mr Tumnus.

Her lips moved again, their shape caressing the unmistakable form of his name in a way that made Edmund want to groan.

Of course she would say it when he couldn’t hear her.

Behind her, Mr Tumnus’s thick and reddened brow furrowed under the weight of his worry. Edmund’s lips moved again but there was no sound to the form of his tongue and after the third word, he wondered whether he’d truly spoken at all.

Grace turned towards the Faun, both of their lips moving with indecipherable speed. At the loss of a focus point, the whispering returned in earnest, displeased at the ignorance Edmund displayed towards it.

His chin inched, a miniscule falter in their direction as they harmonised again. The flow of the melody like an enticing scent. Meant to be followed… directly into a trap.

Edmund’s hands found the hilt of his sword easily, it’s weight and smooth texture beneath his palm providing the reassurance of preparation.

For what? He did not yet know, but if anything was to be gathered from the insistent lure of voices, it would be good to start with distrust.

His eyes closed, no longer focused on the swish of a braid or the concerned eyes of a friend. Instead, Edmund drew his attention to the malleable leather beneath his palms and the trust he held in his ability to wield it.

As Edmund focused, the silence of all but voices became less oppressive, it’s presence near inconsequential to the thrum of his voiceless prayer for assistance. He let it build upon itself, an unspoken cry to Aslan to end the torment of magic he had been placed under.

The respondent crack of skin upon his cheek tore through the whispers at last.

“Ow!” Grace cried.

Edmund wheezed in pain, one hand upon his face as he tried to make sense of the ringing in his ears.

“That might have been a little harder than necessary,” Mr Tumnus commented pointedly.

Grace huffed, “I didn’t see you stepping in to help.”

The Faun ignored her, “Sire?”

Edmund groaned, his previously calm and centred hands affixed permanently upon the pounding of his skull.

“I told you it was too harsh,” Mr Tumnus scolded.

“Well it’s too late to take it back now,” Grace replied. The lament was covered by the shuffle of her skirts as she knelt at Edmund’s side, “Your Majesty?”

Edmund’s jaw gritted from the pain, “I’m fine. Stop talking.”

His eyes opened to the bleary light of the world, the blackened roots of Lantern being the only darkness amongst a flurry of white petals. The voices had gone, replaced by the previously foretelling whistling of wind and the ringing of impact within Edmund’s ears.

The expanse of his lungs breathed freely with relief, a return to normalcy which was both a blessing and curse in disguise.

“Are you alright?” Grace whispered beside him, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else to do-”

Edmund held a silencing finger in her direction, “I’m fine. Stop talking.”

He truly was fine, the clear emptiness of his mind a welcome relief despite the pain he endured to reach it. If it weren’t for the incessant loudness of their voices, Edmund would have been right as rain.

 “Do you think it broke him?” Grace addressed Mr Tumnus, “He’s repeated that twice now.”

There was a slight sense of mocking as Edmund met her worried eyes, “I’m fine. Please, stop talking.”

Her eyes narrowed into laughingly annoyed slits, “Right then. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Edmund squinted under the pretence of humouring her, “Three?”

Grace flickered her pleased eyes to Mr Tumnus, “He’s fine.”

“Help him off the dirt at least,” The Elderly Faun muttered unenthusiastically, “I can just imagine the verbal beating I’d get from Susan if I let either of you return to Cair Paravel with dirt stains.”

Edmund batted away the hand that was offered to him, “Don’t, I can help myself.”

So he did, with only the slight quiver of the weakness that remained in his bones. His knees bent and straightened like a line of string pulled taught. The ringing remained, as insistent in presence as its forebearer.

At the thought, Edmund surveyed the opposing line of trees again. He did not to be urged forward this time, the step of his own accord as he approached the dancing branches. They moved much the same, their rustling reminiscent of the whispers which had now disappeared.

Edmund’s hand inched reflexively towards his sword, “Master Tumnus?”

“Yes, Sire?” The Faun replied.

“I want you to take Grace back to the encampments immediately.”

The Daughter of Eve in question made a noise of outrage, “He absolutely will not.”

Edmund ignored her, “She can show you the way. Once there, please deposit her with the band and send for Sterillion.”

“Excuse me-”

“What am I to tell him?” Mr Tumnus asked dutifully.

“We haven’t even tried to look-”

“He must gather a group of volunteers to meet me here, post haste,” Edmund instructed.

“Will you both stop talking over me?!” Grace demanded.

Mr Tumnus rebuffed her with an expression that could make wild lions cower. It reminded Edmund of a look of Susan’s, which he hardly ever dared to be on the receiving end of.

“I think you’ll find that His Majesty and I were the ones conversing, Madam,” the Faun chastised, “You are the interrupter here.”

Grace froze, mouth half open with the indignation she’d previously felt.

Edmund grimaced with second hand embarrassment. He had been on the receiving end of discipline more times than he’d care to count as a child, but none had felt worse than the harsh words of a friend.

Grace apologised lowly, lips set in a anxious frown, “It just that I don’t understand what is happening,” Her eyes beseeched Edmund, “You said I could go.”

“I did,” Edmund allowed, “But the circumstances have changed and I fear it is no longer safe to wander these woods.”

“No longer safe?” Grace’s forehead wrinkled, “How on earth did you come to that conclusion?”

Edmund’s skin prickled at the memory of whispered lures, “It doesn’t matter how I came to it. We should turn our focus to caution proceeding.”

Mr Tumnus turned to him, eyes wide as saucers as he connected a different set of dots, “Cassandra.”

Edmund nodded, “I will see to her after we have cleared the wood. She should be safe so long as she does not leave your home.”

At this the Faun calmed a little, “No risk of that then. She normally must be dragged to such a task,” He linked an arm through the Daughter of Eve’s, “Come along then, Grace.”

But Grace would not move. She stubbornly stood her ground, shoes affixed to the forest floor as if they’d grown roots, “I can’t, it’s right there. The Wardrobe is my only chance to go home. You can’t just give me hope and then immediately take that away.”

Mr Tumnus murmured something to her lowly, a tone of warning as he continued to pull her away.

She stared at Edmund with large insistent eyes. He faltered briefly – they would have reminded him of Lucy’s if it had not been for the outbalanced blueish grey.

Edmund sighed tiredly, “I’m not stopping you from leaving. I’m simply ensuring the path is safe.”

“But the Wardrobe…” Grace protested.

“Is somewhere around here,” Edmund finished, feet traversing the space between them before he’d known they had stepped.

Grace looked at him rather like he’d reached the point of her sentence, and he had, the only matter was that she did not understand the point of his.

Hesitantly, his hands lifted, their equal grasp placed upon her shoulders in a means to comfort, “I’m not withdrawing my approval to your departure. I’m merely delaying it. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for the Wardrobe and if I see even a trace of the thing, you’ll be the first to know.”

Grace’s lips parted with a soft and uncertain breath, “Are you willing to sign your name to that in blood?”

His hands tightened under the echoed memory, “I give you my word. It’s a seal as good as.”

There was a relief when she seemed to accept his oath.

As Edmund’s hands left her shoulders, the weight of them grew tenfold what they did before. His heart sank with the finality of the offer, that he would be the one to seek the thing he’d dreaded.

Well… only after he found whatever lied behind those trees.

They still danced, even without the breath of the wind to guide them. Edmund wondered just how sentient the trees were; did they create a path with their branches, slowly egging him on to whatever had tried to lure him before? His mind itched to find out.

“Don’t fall into it,” Grace cautioned, clearly referring to the Wardrobe and not the trees, “I don’t think your brother and sisters would ever forgive me if you did.”

The remnants of nerve bolstered themselves in Edmund’s stretched cheeks, “I’m not going anywhere. Fear less for me than yourself, Grace. You are the one who promised to perform tonight.”

Chapter Text

XLVII

EDMUND

No Light, No Light – Florence + the Machine

And

All is Soft Inside - AURORA

There was no amount of Narnian time which would prove ample enough to explore the Western Wood in its entirety. Edmund himself had spent hundreds of hours under the light of stars and the soft bidden rustle of branches and even he found countless new sights to behold each day.

It had been Five hours of searching – of listening for what could not be heard. There was nothing to show for it; no hags hands nor witches wand. Not even the location of the Wardrobe.

Edmund had not stopped since Mr Tumnus had managed to tug Grace out of sight, the rush of danger fuelled adrenaline both maddening and exhausting simultaneously. He’d overturned rocks and drawn his sword at any suspicious rustle of trees but nothing had appeared. If anything, it was as if the area had been vacated completely of anything living.

It had taken just under an hour for the party to arrive, their urgent pace clearing to his ears before he caught sight of them. Not a moment was spared from then, and the group was split to scour and conquer the area accordingly. All but Sterillion cleaved into separate directions, the latter advised to stick with Edmund should he fall under the spell of the whispers once again.

When not a single shred of life was found and some in the party began to complain of fatigue and hunger, Edmund had called it – certain that whatever had attempted to lure him had long since fled.

Sterillion walked beside him on their return, expressively drawn as he lead the march of the party and left his King exclusively to his thoughts.

Edmund wished he wouldn’t, the spiral of his mind only growing steeper as he edged on the realisation that he would be the one to tell Grace the Wardrobe remained hidden.

“I want you to commandeer some volunteers to reinvestigate the Lantern Waste tomorrow,” Edmund ordered towards the Centaur lowly.

 “Certainly, Your Majesty,” Sterillion obliged, “Might I ask if we’re looking for anyone in particular?”

“A hag perhaps?” Edmund edged, “Or perhaps even a witch? Either would be likely considering the circumstances.”

Whether it was Edmunds tone which caused alarm or what he had alluded to, he did not know, but the effect seemed to be instantaneous upon the Centaurs stature.

“If I may, what cause have you to think of such things?” He asked, concern laced in his deepened voice, “There has not been such a creature in these parts since the Great Peace began.”

Edmund shook his head, wary of the outcomes which a confession might imply, “It’s an assumption.”

Sterillion nodded once, a solemn frown upon his lips and brow, “As you wish, Sire. My men will be prepared at first light.”

The Centaur’s gaze was met with a King’s gratitude, “Thank you. I hope you will not mind my absence from the party, as I have matters to attend of the first priority.”

Sterillion did not seem surprised or offended by the knowledge. He simply nodded again, the light of the fast-setting sun casting lengthened shadows across his face, “A report shall be yours as soon as I am available to give it.”

There was nothing else to be said after that and as the group’s toes at last edged the beginnings of the camp grounds there was a collective sigh of relief. The sounds of the hustle and bustle of camp were all consuming, the warmth of reaching fires and aroma of good food enough to make one promise to never leave such a space again.

There was something else to the air that called to Edmund, some sound amongst the others that wafted on the breeze to his grasping ears. His head tilted awkwardly to hear it better – half concerned that the traitorous voices had returned to trouble him once more. This voice, however, was singular… bright, and whilst it held allure it was nothing of the magical sort.

“Ah, you’ve made it back safely.”

Edmund jumped, “By the Lion’s mane, when did you get there?!”

Mr Tumnus grinned, fingers clasped behind him like a child on their best behaviour, “I’ve been around, there are a great many people of my acquaintance in this travelling party.”

A steadying sigh brought Edmund’s heart back into its natural rhythm, “Yes, I believe the distance between visits has caused something of an event. This party has doubled the last.”

“Has my Cassandra joined you here? I had hoped Grace could introduce her to the band and perhaps begin on what we discussed.”

Edmund nodded, eyes drawn to where the party had dispersed to, “She’s gone to the third encampment, just over from this one.”

Mr Tumnus peered in the direction which Edmund indicated, “Perhaps I should see to her now...”

“Perhaps,” Edmund agreed dismissively, head turned once more towards the voice lilting through the trees.

Mr Tumnus did not move, however, his eyes affixed searchingly upon Edmund’s face as if he expected to find something worth the effort there.

Though the look was not as pointed as his nephew’s had been that dim day in the study, Edmund still felt the familiarity, “Is there something bothering you, Mr Tumnus?”

The difference lied in the response, “I can’t think of a reason why something would be.”

It was a tone Edmund knew well, one that irked him as a child; of a guardian who expected their student to come to a long-forgone conclusion and join the collective consciousness of the world.

Edmund sighed, “Out with it.”

“Please,” Mr Tumnus offered correctionally, “I was only wondering at the effects the Lantern had on your person. I’ve never seen you act thusly, but I suppose it might have been expected considering your last interaction would have been when-”

“That’s quite enough thank you,” Edmund warned, eyes cast over his shoulder lest they were overheard.

“Alright,” Mr Tumnus conceded softly, “Perhaps then, I may ask on the effect the Daughter Of Eve had in bringing you back from your dazed state?”

Edmund’s brows raised unwittingly at that one, “You mean… by force?”

Mr Tumnus ignored him, “Of course, I have now seen this effect twice by my count, but your knowledge of it seems to run far deeper and so I must assume that this is a regular occurrence.”

Even if Edmund could oppose the conclusions to which the Faun had drawn, he would have found it difficult by the firm way in which his lips had set against one another.

 “And so, again I must ask you – my dear friend – if there is something you wish to tell me?”

The look of Mr Tumnus was unbearable; a mixture of knowing and questioning which only saw to its own confirmation. It didn’t matter what Edmund responded with, the conclusion was already drawn, written and published…

And Edmund hadn’t the slightest clue of what it was.

He was fond of Grace, that much was certain. She had an effect of calming his more irrational side which had come to her advantage more often than not… but so did Lucy, Susan and Peter. There was no specialty to her degree of touch – not from Edmund’s experience. There was no attention between them past that of necessity – and these days all of their interactions were necessary.

“I don’t know what you could possibly be alluding to,” Edmund answered honestly.

One deeply reddened brow raised on the Elderly Faun’s face, “Don’t you?”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed, “You seem to have the stretch of the matter in mind already, what need have you of my confirmation?”

“I suppose that I do,” Mr Tumnus agreed, “It only surprises me that you do not. Have you not given thought to any of this at all?”

A tired hand rubbed at Edmund’s eyes, “In all honesty, I have simply tried to stay afloat in this mess of a situation. Grace’s appearance has caused quite a stir.”

Mr Tumnus made a noise of suspicious agreeance.

Edmund tilted his head once more, but there was no longer any voice to catch on the wind. He sighed disappointedly, “Please do not wave an epiphany in my face and refuse it’s satisfaction. If you have something to point out my dear friend, please do so at once.”

The Faun looked surprised at the bluntness of the interaction, but Edmund found he could not be sympathetic. His patience had long since worn thin on the long hour of the day and the impending revelation of the Wardrobes nonexistence.

“I’m afraid this kind of revelation should not be offered,” Mr Tumnus replied, his tone edging on the suggestion that he was not sorry at all, “You must make it yourself.”

“Then what was the purpose of bringing it up?” Edmund asked irritatedly.

The Elderly Faun returned the expression, “To share in a mutual understanding, of course. That is, if you wished to speak about it. My understanding of such things would suggest that most do.”

The response was frustrating on a level which could barely be conquered and Edmund’s jaw set despite himself, “What a shame I have yet to make the revelation as you have then.”

Mr Tumnus looked upon him kindly, “Don’t worry, I believe there is still hope for you yet.”

-

As day wore into night in the form of a darkening sky, Edmund found his irritation abate under good food and thought. Solitude became a necessary factor in the slow unravelling of his mind, it’s tempered peace a comfort whilst he laid every fact and facet for analysation.

Mr Tumnus’s words had done more than the Faun ought to have meant. They tugged gently at that slow understanding that Edmund had not yet gained. It was frustrating and fascinating all at once.

Time under the expanse of such self-absorbed thought passed quickly, and soon Edmund found himself at the edge of the Dryad’s Grove. His body one of hundreds nestled within the space and the expanse of trees surrounding, all focused on one centre pointed object – the bonfire.

It was odd, the way the world constantly mirrored itself. Whilst Edmund knew that bonfires at the Dryad’s grove had been a long-standing tradition since the rein of King Frank and Queen Helen, the very picture of it reminded him of the Lantern – wrapped in a natural dome of leaning trees.

The difference lied in the sheer size of the grove, for the space consumed was much larger to allow for ample distance between tree and fire. The empty expanse was filled with Narnian’s of all shapes, sizes and ages. All mingled with one another with the cheer which Narnia was famous for – the sheer volume of their speech enough to drown out even the loudest of crickets.

Edmund watched from the edge of the line, comfortably leant against the sturdy bark of a birch tree as he nursed a wooden cup of mulled wine. It was still warm, steaming in wisps of pale swirls before they dispersed.

His eyes closed again, the backdrop of many voices proving as loud as silence as he stared upon each fact once more. He felt near madness from the conclusions he drew – none adding up to what Mr Tumnus had alluded… and yet, Edmund knew there was an answer that would fit. He simply had to unwind the connecting strings and begin again.

For the twentieth time that day.

It was hard to know what to look for without a starting point. The only clue in the matter being Grace’s ability to temper his darker nature.

Was she a witch? A master manipulator? Some long-lost relation that provided comfort similarly to his family? Edmund grimaced at the last.

The only certainty was her friendship, a bond unspoken but none-the-less offered. What else could it be between them? It was not as if Edmund could allow her to fall back into unimportance, not with what she now knew.

The backdrop of his thoughts changed, rippled under the beginnings of strings and whistling wood winds as the crowd of Narnian’s quietened around him. Edmund’s eyes opened of their own accord, seemingly perched upon the same edge as all within the crowd as they awaited the reason for the interruption.

The tune was unlike anything heard before, a soft ode of long drawn noise like a choir on breath. It hummed this way and that, a repeated tune of fours circling once more as a shadowed figure stepped out into the roaring light of the bonfire.

Their hair lit of its own accord, a braided mass of spun fire upon scalp which cascaded over their shoulder and stopped shortly afterwards. As Edmund’s eyes adjusted, he could make out the carved nerve upon Grace’s features.

The circle of breath rewound again, however this time it was joined by the voice of another. Edmund started at its memorized scratch, for it was the very same voice he had heard that afternoon!

It matched the pitch perfectly, the slight lilt enough to throw him off kilter as he stood, leaning dazedly upon his supporting trunk as he attempted to gather it’s placement.

None amongst the band moved, no other face revealed themselves as Grace had previously. His toes bore the weight of his stretch as he tried to see over the band and into the woods behind… but none were present amongst the empty space of trees and the only movement in the stunned stilled space was that of Grace’s lips.

It took every shred of Edmund’s sensibility to realise it was Grace’s voice, to match her passionate expressive brand of speech to the powerful projection of song he was faced with now. The two were like night and day, so different from each other and yet cut from the very same cloth.

Edmund felt his mind try to refute the idea, but there was no denying the way her lips matched the words spoken - their perfect synchronicity insurmountable proof towards the unreconcilable fact that Grace could sing.

She was not the most beautiful vocalist Edmund had heard, for he had personally listened to the otherworldly tones of Sirens, Merpeople and Harpies. No, the most striking feature of her voice lied in her passion.

It should have come as no surprise to him that the single tie between Grace’s true voice and the one he heard now would be something so typically her.

It was this aspect of her soul which allowed her to project farther than the instruments, to reach the ears of all Narnians within reach despite the boisterous music directly behind her. Her voice coated them all in it’s warm embrace and then held them there, awestruck at the ferocity of its presence.

The words could not be focused on over the wonderment of her voice. Edmund knew he should have been bothered, he knew the song she performed had been inspired by the darker parts of himself that he cared not to shed light on… but there was no part of himself that found the space to care.

Grace held her own among the throng of Narnian’s, carving her breath through words in far between spaces that made Edmund’s head spin to contemplate. Margrove had worked well with her, teaching and perfecting ways of expression that had been seen never before on any Narnian Citizen.

He was right, it was human voices he needed. What shame that only one of the Court could be produced… and what luck that that human had been Grace.

Just when Edmund thought she had reached her limit, Grace managed to pull air from nothing. She held a singular syllable far past it’s necessary length and somehow still kept in tune, though Edmund could see as she gasped for breath at the end that she was still in fact, human.

All too soon, the music finished and with it the physical hold of Grace’s voice over the crowd. The stillness passed for a moment more, a recollection of selves as all in the light of the bonfire thawed from their admiration.

Edmund stamped first, boot upon a soft and rootless section of the floor as he lead the applause. He was soon joined with the sound of paws and hooves upon ground, their volume near deafening as all in the Dryad’s Grove praised the performance.

Grace bowed lithely, much as Edmund imagined she had that first day upon the docks of Cair Paravel. It was just as Susan had described it – more like receiving praise after a performance rather than in respect for station.

There were calls for another, all of which were deftly ducked and swerved by the Daughter of Eve as she wandered out of sight, accepting any praise she was offered as she attempted to merge into the shadows once more.

Edmund didn’t think she’d have much luck after a show such as that.

As if queued, the band continued into something livelier. The audience stirred, many clearing the way for a ring of space around the bonfire.

Edmund prepared to watch by resettling against the trunk of the birch tree and taking a sip of mulled wine. He preferred to observe when he was not forced to participate, finding the view of dancing Narnians to his favour more than any other. There was something to the wild simplicity of movement as they circled endlessly around the flame. It might have been called nostalgic to those who had seen such things for far longer than he.

When a ring of chained hands had formed, the band picked up the beginnings of The Satyr’s Folly and the true dancing began. The going from the start was fast paced – though it was nothing like The Long Trot. It was viewed through the flickering light of the bonfire like a collection of drawn pages to be flipped through – a cycle of weaving arms and bobbing bodies to the oddly compressed beat.

Few jumped out of the line, either tired or too elderly to keep on when the music picked up. Many more jumped in. Edmund watched the edge of the circle where Grace and Lilis stood arm and arm, clearly contemplating joining the fray of dancers.

“Your Majesty,” A voice entered, it’s whistly tune very telling of the vessel which carried it.

Edmund nodded with respect, “Pintalane.”

The Elder Dryad smiled a set of milky white stumps which contrasted perfect to the darkened bark upon her face, “I hope you are enjoying the festivities after your time away.”

“I am, thank you,” Edmund replied, eyes inexplicably drawn to the two bodies which had decided to enter the skirmish of dancers after all.

Pintalane joined him there, perched against the trunk of the birch tree as her evergreen eyes hung on the dancers movements, “We give thanks to Aslan for your return. Especially considering the current ordeal with which we are faced.”

Edmund gave a hum of acknowledgement, “How is the tree rot faring? I had planned to meet with you tomorrow morning to oversee its treatment.”

“The Healers you issued have been instrumental in reducing the impact, sire. However, we are not out of the woods yet, so to speak.”

“So I have heard,” Edmund murmured sadly, “To that end, I have brought a knowledgeable party from Cair Paravel. Lilygloves is Chief Mole and specialises with getting to the root of the issue, literally. We hope that by examining the trees in their entirety, some light may be shed on the sickness.”

“And the Queen Lucy?” Pintalane questioned softly.

Edmund was sorry to disappoint her, “My Royal Sister sends her apologies. She has recently returned from a long journey and was incapable to make the trip so soon afterwards.”

The Dryad lowered her head respectfully, “Of course.”

“I hope you will not be too disappointed with me,” Edmund added in an attempt to lighten the mood, “Whilst my knowledge is not complete, I promise you that Lilygloves is second to none on such matters.”

Pintalane looked to him, a light scold in her tone, “Never say such things, Sire. It is your presence the Westerners revere over all others, except perhaps the High King or Aslan himself.”

Edmund grinned at the Dryad cheekily, “I was only teasing.”

His dark eyes latched onto the familiar form of Grace once more as she circled the bonfire with Lilis and her kin. The stab of slight envy at her matched elegance came unbiddenly and unsurprisedly to him. It’s presence a reminder of the first time he had watched her dance.

So much had changed since then.

“I see my sapling has taken special attention to the Crown’s ward,” Pintalane commented, her eyeline following that of her King’s, “I hear the two are near inseparable.”

Edmund hummed in confirmation, his breath cut short when Grace’s eyes cast a brief and fleeting look in his direction.

“I also hear,” Pintalane murmured as she leant across the tree to his ear, “That Lilis has taken to doing the Daughter of Eve’s hair of a morning.”

The edge to the sentence drew Edmund’s attention fully. It was a conversation he’d not prepared for. Only now, as it sat glaringly before him did he realise the misstep he and his siblings had taken.

“I assure you, it is not in the capacity you are concerned of,” Edmund swore, meeting the eyes of the Foremost Dryad of the Grove with an equal sincerity.

Pintalane was not convinced, “Whilst I understand that a friendship has been formed, I feel I must make Lilis’s station within the Court clear. I assented to her incursion at Cair Paravel under the condition that she serve the Queen Susan and learn what it means to govern a region. Now, I hear that she is spending most of her days in the Music Room of all places. That she spends more time with this Daughter of Eve and less in the position I secured for her.”

Edmund felt his lips form a firm line. Whilst he did not appreciate the tone with which Pintalane referred to Grace, that could not outweigh the agreement which the Crown had made with the Dryad’s Council.

“Lilis will step into my role as Foremost Dryad of the Grove within ten years. I must reconfirm upon you, Sire, the importance of her education. Dalliance in the Music Room for the purpose of dance is acceptable but singing is not a required talent for one of her position.”

“I hear your concerns,” Edmund nodded gravely.

Once more, Grace’s chin whipped in his direction. An undeniable sheen of curiosity upon it as she weaved through Lilis’s arms. The Dryad in question caught Grace as she tripped over another’s foot and the two laughed boisterously into the air.

Pintalane’s voice continued to hold clear doubt, “Do you?”

Edmund returned to her wrinkled expression and softened at the apprehension there, “I assure you that Lilis’s conduct has proven nothing short than what is expected of her. Her time is split evenly in service to my Royal Sister and the Music Room.”

He waited for any further argument and when none were presented, honed his focus on damage control, “As I understand it, the agreement between she and Grace is only spoken. There has been no contract of official service drawn and so if your concerns are for her station, then I am happy to confirm there have been no changes in that respect.”

“Do you think, then,” The Elder Dryad edged anxiously, “That she means to demean herself with such a bargain? I know that she and I have had our differences regarding the estate, but I had not thought she would take it this far.”

“I do not believe she means to demean herself,” Edmund replied, watching as the two circled each other arm in arm, “Only to assist a friend.”

The noise of their laughter only sought to seal the wax which he had dripped upon the hypothesis.

The Elder Dryad had stilled with thought, almost the perfect image of her rooted tree as she contemplated Edmund’s thoughts.

“I apologise,” He offered over the escalating finale of the music, “Perhaps she might have not saw a need if my Royal Siblings and I had thought to assign her a maid. Any oversight on that aspect is an error which will be remedied accordingly.”

Pintalane seemed satisfied by this, dropping into a low and gratuitous curtsey, “I thank you, Sire.”

Edmund nodded, “Of course. If there is anything else the Crown may do to ease your fears, please advise us immediately.”

As the last notes of The Satyr’s Folly wafted over the grove, Edmund joined the crowd in sure-footed applause. The sound of feet upon dirt was not drawn out this time, quickly replaced by the beginnings of another tune.

He cast his attention towards the dancing circle once more, eyes glazing over each member for a very specific shade of hair. It was caught at the edge of the ring as Grace tried to pry herself from Lilis’s grip.

“No Lil,” She protested laughingly, “I need a drink. Dance a few without me, I’ll be back soon.”

Her friend only seized her arm tighter, attempting with all her sturdy strength to pull her back. But Grace would not be swayed, she stubbornly moved her feet forwards, leading them both through the crowd and unknowingly towards Edmund’s position.  

Or at least, he had thought as such until she looked him dead in the eyes and grinned.

“You seem to be in a much better mood,” Grace noted.

The comment was unexpectedly direct, and Edmund found himself blinking away the surprise, “Pardon?”

Grace’s eyes then caught the form of the Elder Dryad and any retort fell short on her lips. Lilis too noted the Foremost Dryad’s presence and quietened her laughing beside her.

“Elder,” she greeted Pintalane with a respectful nod.

“Lilis,” The Elder Dryad returned the gesture.

The Younger Dryad glanced between Edmund and the Foremost Dryad sparingly, looking much like she’d rather be anywhere else.