AN: It took me all weekend to come up with this idea and write it out, and don't even get me started on how long it took me to decide on a title! Anyway, I think I've come up with something pretty good when all's said and done, and I hope you'll agree. Okay, so enough of my ranting, what's the plot of this story? Well, I don't want to give too much away, but basically this is going to be an AU story inspired and based on fairy-tales and a few other old stories. The main pairing will be Peter/Susan but (later) there will also be Caspian/Ramandu's daughter and some possible Edmund/Lucy. No flames please. Oh, and if you're wondering, yes, I know this story starts off slow and sort of light, but I mean for it to get darker later on, ergo the reason it's rated T.
Susan Pevensie's new house was just shy of being on the corner of one of the narrowest, busiest streets in London. Directly on the bend, across the street, a few inches away from being parallel to the house, was a round-walled, dimly lit-shop.
She and her parents had just moved from a narrow house in a row of houses packed close-in that they were-until now-sharing with Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta. Susan was glad enough to be leaving them behind.
Now Uncle Harold was not so bad a person to deal with; but he was ruled entirely by his wife who was a penny-pincher and a vegetarian, and a new-age natural medicine taker. This in itself might not have been so terrible if Alberta had been the sort of woman who kept her opinions to herself and fancied that everybody else could live as they pleased. However, she was nothing of the kind. Her word was the law and the law was her word. And since they were all living in the house she-well, technically her husband-paid taxes on, they had to abide by her.
It was largely in Susan's nature to admire-and even to love-good, practical persons; for she herself was very sensible and fond of order. Alberta's way of order however was not nearly so sensible as one might presume. By age six, Susan was so tired of the frozen apricot preserves that her aunt insisted she eat, claiming they would help her avoid hemorrhoids later in life, that she almost thought, even in her childish good sense, that hemorrhoids couldn't be as bad as everyone claimed.
What was worse was that if there was any secret to be fleshed out of her, Susan knew Alberta would track it down like a blood-hound. She could keep nothing neatly put away in her tidy little bedroom (which was always on the cool side because Alberta was big on leaving windows open) in a calm mind since she knew her aunt was going to go poking through her belongings the moment she went out. Needless to say, this made for a very uncomfortable childhood.
Harold and Alberta had no children. Or at least, they had no children currently. Their only child, a son, had disappeared as an infant from his crib. It was so sudden and unexpected that nearly everyone had fallen all over themselves trying to figure out what exactly had happened to the boy. They never did, though. His name had been-unfortunately-Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he was much too young for anyone to know whether or not he was to be a blighter who almost deserved it.
Anyway, now that Susan was fifteen, her parents had managed to save up enough so that they could both pay back the money Harold-thanks to Alberta's greedy bidding-insisted they owed them and could afford their own home-at last. Although it had been a very nasty affair having Mr. Pevensie fighting in the second world war-especially for Susan and Helen who had suffered tremendously because he had been reported missing twice during the time of the great fighting-it cannot be said that his army pension was not a big part of the reason this was so.
As soon as Susan saw the house for the first time, she felt her sprits lift. It was a neat, white, medium-sized place with two-floors for living in and an attic for storing things. If she had been a very different sort of girl, or perhaps been a mite younger, she might have been curious about what was stored up there since they'd been told that there were things left from other families who'd lived in that house before them; and it was a very old house in spite of being so well-maintained. As it was, she was only faintly amused by the notion, much more keen on the fact that she would have a new bedroom which could be relatively private and a good deal larger than her old one.
This was, in fact, the first thing she went to inspect when she came over with a box of odds and ends, beginning to move a few personal items over.
The room had four square walls, two closets (one a small cupboard-like opening and the other a graciously-sized walk-in), and a sweet-looking bay window with the nicest oak-wood window-seat you can imagine under it. It would have been about seven times more comfortable in addition to being so pleasant to look at if one thought of adding cushions or at least a pillow. Her bed was brass-framed and although there wasn't a mattress there yet, she felt she could rightly assume it would be a good deal wider than the lumpy hand-me-down twin-sized bed she'd been sleeping on in Aunt Alberta's home.
How perfectly lovely this is all going to be, Susan thought, smiling as she placed the box down and went to take a peek at the other rooms.
There were two living rooms, one which would likely become the parlor for when they had guests for tea; and two bathrooms; and four hallways with space for framed photographs to be hung up; and even a spare room that would make a splendid study for Mr. Pevensie.
Looking out from a window in one of the still-bare living rooms, Susan could see the street below. This pleased her because she enjoyed watching people and wondering about where they were going. There had rarely been anyone interesting to watch where she'd lived before; and not even so much as a dull, fat milkman's doings to ponder over when she had spent a month in the country during the children's evacuation. Here, though, it was different. She could see rich ladies with positively scrumptious visiting hats and coats, as well as children playing with each other and cars going passed, and a few vendors, too.
Here a seemingly unimportant detail took place. Without it, however, there is the chance that this story might have not been worth telling. Susan happened to lean a bit closer to the window and she caught sight of the shop. It may sound pointless, but she would remember it later and that is how the adventures began.
Over the next few days there was a lot of packing and unpacking and moving things, and setting furniture and pictures and books and shelves and decorative tea-sets into their proper places. After all this, Susan was too tired to think of much besides supper, a glass of warm milk, and bed. But finally they were all settled in. And as it was late summer and the term at her boarding school had not yet been started, Susan was left with ample leisure time save for visits and visiting, and the occasional trips down to the seashore for swimming-of which there were very few since it was a wet August that year.
On one of these rainy days, there was a break in the clouds that seemed as though it would last for a couple of hours at least. And so she happened to go out to run an errand for her mother, thinking there was no chance of getting wet, when, quite suddenly, on the way back, the sky darkened and raindrops feel so quickly she could barely see through them.
Susan was nearly to the house but she was soaked and chilled to the bone, thinking that if she should get any colder or wetter she might catch something. So she did what felt at the moment to be the most sensible thing. In reality it turned out to be the least sensible thing she had ever done in her whole life, but it is lucky that she did it anyway. She ducked into the shop she remembered seeing from the window. All but blinded by bullet-like rain, she thought she was very fortunate indeed to have found the door-handle.
As she stepped inside, closing the door behind her, Susan inhaled deeply and, wiping her damp brows and eyelashes on the back of her hand, started to look around.
The lighting was rummy, made by the little, dirty sort of lamps that cast awkward shadows on the walls. Because of this, she couldn't tell what colour the paint was (it may have been black or else dark gray), but she could see-clearly enough-a few rows of shelves with books messily thrown on them. A few were neatened out and dusted, but looking at them one got the feeling they were going to get dirty again by the time the others were cleaned. Some books had strong copper and gold spines (she assumed these were very expensive and tried to steer clear of them lest she knock one from its poorly kept-up place and end up paying the price); many others looked borderline ratty with strings dangling from their beat-up, torn sides.
It was not only a bookshop, Susan soon realized. There were many other things there, too. Boxes of what must have been old china, piles of different fabrics, and the most peculiar-looking stuffed owls you ever saw were heaped about any which way, only leaving enough room for a path that was little more than a tight rope or a balance-beam's worth of space when all was said and done.
Looking back over her shoulder, trying to make out the last glimpses of the natural gray cloudy-day-light before going further into the shop and losing it altogether, Susan could see the backwards inscription on the foggy window. Written in deep, red and green Edwardian-script letters were the words: Ketterley Palace.
Palace indeed! Thought Susan, a little primly.
She did have some excuse for thinking this. Her feet ached and she was cold all over, except for her face which felt hot and flushed. The last thing she wanted was to walk such a narrow path when any good, normal shop that wanted to keep itself in business would have made it wider or at least better lit so that their costumers could see where they were stepping.
When she thought she would jolly well give up and wait by the door until the rain stopped, never-minding whatever was back here, she came to a counter. It was relatively clean, which made the whole ordeal less alarming, and she nearly felt like laughing at herself for being so up-tight and fussy. Behind it, whatever sort of things that could be put in jars were stacked on a high shelf and there were a few boxes of peppermint candy just like any normal store might carry. One of them was open on the counter as a display, showing the pretty white, red, and green stripes-a lovely contrast to the rest of the gloomy place.
At first there didn't seem to be anyone there managing the shop. Susan thought this very poor planning, but figured that they simply must not get much business anyway, so they might be in the back (she could see a dark purple curtain from where she stood) smoking pipes or having their tea early; whoever they were. The Ketterleys, she of course presumed.
While there was a polished golden service-bell hanging from a small ebony arch, Susan didn't think it would be a very good idea to ring it. She didn't plan on buying anything. Feeling foolish, she wished she had stayed by the door after all. What really had been the point of coming all this way?
Before she could turn around and head for the door to check if it was still raining, a very tall, very thin, man with long white fingers appeared behind the counter, rubbing his hands together so that his knuckles cracked.
Coming from the average person, perhaps such a gesture is not all that shocking, but from a man with so long a face and a wild head of busy fleece-white hair, his eyes glinting so intensely, it was unnerving.
"Hallo," said the man.
"Are you the, uh, K-k-ketterley?" stammered Susan, feeling a bit angry with herself for stuttering like that. She had been rather famous (or infamous) as a young child for being a fluent speaker; she did not wish to tarnish that reputation now-it didn't matter that there wasn't anybody much around to see it.
"Andrew Ketterley at your service, my lady." He gave a little bow as though she was a grand queen rather than a pathetic, wet-haired, dripping figure standing shivering anxiously in his shop.
Perhaps he's not truly mad at all, thought Susan, taking in his lucid tone and noticing that his eyes seemed to be shinning a very little bit less now. And that was comforting in itself.
"What can I help you with?" he asked.
"Well," said Susan, wanting to tell him that she hadn't been looking for anything in particular aside from a dry place to wait-out the rain, "I wasn't really-"
She hadn't finished when he cut in with, "Ah, don't tell me, you're looking for something very rare, right? Something only the Ketterley Palace specializes in."
Susan hadn't thought they specialized in anything, but she understood that it mightn't be good manners to say so. It seemed as though she would have to purchase something after all.
Off to the side, placed harmlessly atop of a pile of old partly-rusted metal trunks that probably stored naught but junk, there was a little box of a queer, silvery colour, its wooden top painted a dull black. It was smaller than a typical jewelry box, though not by much.
Bending down slightly, the remainder of the rain-water in her damp hair making clinking noises as they dripped down onto the metal trunks, she lifted up the box.
"What's this, Mr. Ketterley?"
Andrew rubbed his hands together again and he licked the side of his lips. "What, erm, excellent…taste you have! Of course you would pick only the best, Miss."
"Yes, but what is it?"
"It's very…" -Mr. Ketterly took the box from her and examined it himself as if for the first time- "…rare…comes all the way from…uh…many ancient civilizations…passed down through…um…many…centuries…"
Susan was not impressed; she could tell he was making all this up on the spot. She did not think very highly of him for lying to make a quick pound. Yet, she hadn't thought very highly of him even from the first, so there was no real loss there.
"Which ones?" she challenged, priding herself on her knowledge, although she ought to have remembered that she was no good at schoolwork, having all but failed her last history test.
Andrew's face went white as salt and he blurted, "China! No, it's actually also Egyptian and Babylonian-and Greek! And, best of all, Atlantean-as in from the lost island of Atlantis! And…" his lower lip curled slightly, a sweat bead rolling down the side of his pale face, "…did I say Chinese?"
Rolling her eyes, she asked if it was supposed to be a jewelry box.
He pretend-scoffed, "Mere jewelry box, indeed! My dear young lady, don't mock me! It's clearly a very rare…" –here he paused and glanced down at the box, opening the lid; inside there was a golden chain which looked like fake gold- "…it's a jewelry box," he gave in rather glumly, his shoulders slumping.
Peering over the counter, Susan got a better look at the chain. It wasn't thick or thin, somewhere in-between, and it had two interlocking rings-one green and the other yellow-strung on it as a sort of pendant.
Andrew Ketterley brightened up again and said, "It's a fair price at a simple twenty pounds…"
Susan's nose wrinkled. Was he serious?
"Okay, a tenner," he caved.
She hesitated.
He hadn't sold a blasted thing all week! He was nearly desperate. "Five pounds! A sale price! Today only! That's my final offer."
I must have gone mad… Susan nodded and took five pounds out of her coat pocket, handing them to Mr. Ketterley.
The pounding sound she'd been hearing on the roof from the rain outside ceased and she quickly tucked the box under her arm and, after saying a quick good-bye to Andrew for the sake of politeness, made her way back to the front door. She could dash across the street and go home now.
"Andrew!" screamed a voice from behind the curtain after Susan had gone. "You better not have been selling off some of your old rubbish to some unwitting youngster!"
"Of course not, Letitia, my dear," he called back. "Don't fuss, that's a good gel now. I've made a perfectly honest sale." He straightened out his collar, which was quite ugly and very stiff. "That's the sort of fellow I am, dear sister."
"Andrew," the voice came again, tersely, a strong warning-tone. "I tell you plainly, my brother, that if I have to deal with another angry parent on your behalf, you shan't get off so easy this time!"
Meanwhile, Susan arrived home just in time for tea and things went on as they always did.
At six of the clock she sat down with an improving book; at seven she kissed her parents goodnight and went upstairs to bathe and dress for bed; by eight, her teeth were brushed and she was laying out her clothing for the next day, smoothing out the creases so they wouldn't wrinkle; and at about quarter-passed eight she remembered the box she had bought and examined it more closely.
She did not believe all that rot Mr. Ketterley had tried to tell her about it being from China or where ever, but she certainly saw now that she had taken it somewhat for granted that it wasn't your normal style of processed, made-by-the-bulk sort of box.
Opening the lid, she fingered the chain and studied the rings. For a moment she fancied she felt a jolt of electricity rush through her veins as she ran the tips of her fingers over the yellow ring, but the feeling passed. Feeling a little sleepy, tired from a long day and from getting caught in the rain, she put the chain away, leaving the box open on her night-stand.
About twenty minutes before midnight, Susan awoke suddenly and without explanation. This was strange, for normally she was a much heavier sleeper, only waking if she was roused by a loud noise or a parched throat. There was a strange noise in the room, she noticed, blinking in the darkness, wondering if she really was awake after all and this still vision was not only a dream; but it was a very light sound-a faint humming.
Sitting up and climbing out of bed, Susan groped about for the spare candle, candle-holder, and box of matches she always kept handy in case of an emergency. This wasn't an emergency, exactly, but something was clearly amiss.
The humming came again, seeming a little bit louder when she stood next to the open box. Glancing down, she saw the dim shapes of the interlocked rings on the chain.
But surely, she thought to herself, shaking her head as she lit the candle, it's not the rings making that sound-that's impossible. Quite impossible.
Her hands shaking, though she hadn't the foggiest idea why, Susan gripped the little chain and fastened the clasp round her neck. The humming noise, however much she denied it, really must have been coming from the rings after all because no longer could the humming sound be heard next to the box. Now the light, almost-musical, whisper was where ever she happened to walk in the room.
But, then, that was almost comforting compared to the sound she heard next; a thump from the ceiling above her. Now, she was on the second floor, so logic told her that it had to have come from the attic. She thought of rousing her parents, especially as the sound came again, not unlike the din of heavy foot-falls when they are chasing something-or someone-but her practicality told her that a burglar probably wasn't going to be able to break in through the attic. In all likelihood, it probably was one of her parents up there. Maybe there had been a leak or some other problem. Or, though she thought it sounded much too loud for that, it was only a mouse. Could be a stampede of mice, perhaps.
I'll just go and make sure everything's all right, she thought as she pulled her dressing-gown around herself and lifted the candle-holder up, wandering out of the room, into the hallway.
There was the thud of the footsteps again; followed by what sounded not unlike a wolf's howl. A whispering hum ensued. This time it came, not only from the rings around her neck, but also from somewhere else she couldn't trace. It was almost like a spoken language; a strange, bitter-sweet conversation or song-a calling.
Susan could hear her heart beating like a drum as she crept up the attic stairs. What was going on?
"Hello?" she tried, blinking as she moved a low-hanging cobweb out of her way. "Is somebody up here? Mum? Father?"
The thumping had stopped and the howling lingered now only as the late-night wind passing by the old rickety attic windows. The humming, however, remained.
Glancing down at the rings hanging just passed the breast-line of her night-dress, she saw-or thought she saw-two glowing circlets of gold and emerald. Hastily she reassured herself that it was only the candlelight reflecting off of the metal, nothing more.
"Achoo!" Susan sneezed, accidentally jolting the candle she carried and causing some hot tallow to fall.
The tallow dripped into one of her slippers and landed on her toes. "Ouch!" She placed the candle-holder down and crouched to wipe the burning tallow off of the ends of her feet before it could do any permanent damage.
Replacing her slipper and standing up straight again, she decided she would go back downstairs. Only the shadows had somehow changed and suddenly-even with the help of the stub's worth of candle she had left-she wasn't so sure of the way.
Funny, she hadn't thought she'd wandered that far inwards. This was all very peculiar.
The side of her arm banged against a low shelf, knocking one of two matching objects-evidently both made of glass-onto the floor where it shattered into a dozen or so pieces at best. Judging by its mate, it had been the exact size and shape of an old-fashioned dancing slipper.
"Oh, do get on!" murmured Susan to herself, taking no note of the broken glass slipper, wanting nothing more than to be out of the dark attic and back in her warm, safe bedroom.
If only she could be sure of the way out! If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn the room was moving round on her and playing tricks on her mind.
Finally she found herself face-to-face with what might have been either a very dirty curtain or a moth-eaten old linen sheet. Pulling it away to see what was behind it, she got a shock. In the bad lighting she imagined she saw another girl her own size standing there gaping at her; but it was only her reflection. She was standing in front of a large wardrobe made of apple-wood, the sort that has a looking-glass on the door.
The candle had gone out, leaving a little curling line of smoke where there had previously been a flickering flame. Strangely enough, there was still a little bit of light. This light was coming from the rings, there was no getting around it this time.
Wide-eyed, Susan gazed in disbelief as the circular light fell upon the looking-glass, casting silvery ripples all over it. Blinking rapidly, she found these cleared into little flashes of waving green swirls before fading into what would have looked almost like a cinema picture if it had been less real-looking and more grainy in nature.
In the looking-glass, she could now see a bedroom similar to her own, only much larger and grander. Where her closet would have been, were two cherry-wood-lined, glass-front French doors leading to what might have been a balcony, and in her own room there would not have been patterns of bright cream-and-gold along the upper boarders of the wall; nor would her writing desk and night-stand be made of deep, dark reddish-brown mahogany in-laid with silver. Also, being the practical person she was, Susan noticed that there was something distinctively unfeminine about the room. It wasn't as untidy as your average male's bedroom is likely to be, but it showed signs of not being exactly up to par. Most note-worthily, there was a nightshift hung sloppily over one chair and a sword in a silver-and-copper scabbard was laid across the seat of it.
Judging by the light in that looking-glass-room, it was early morning, perhaps between three and six AM. In Susan's attic, where she stood captivated, it was only just midnight. She became well-aware of this because she could hear the grandfather-clock two floors down striking twelve.
Peering into the looking-glass, she could see something was happening. There was a person walking about in the room. Clearly, he had been, up till now, stationed on the side of the room the angles of the wardrobe would not currently allow her to see, but he moved into the middle of it and she could see him quite well at the moment. He was a tall, blonde chap with a serious face that looked like it just might be inclined to genuine laughter if properly provoked, and he appeared to be about her own age, maybe a year or so older.
She could see, early though it was on his side of the looking-glass, that he was already dressed and ready to start the day. His clothing looked like something a prince in the middle-ages would have worn; a brown leather jerkin over a thin black tunic and dark-coloured tights.
The humming of the rings had becoming much louder (almost unbearably so), but it had happened so gradually that she hadn't noticed. As if they were magnets, they seemed to be pulling her closer and closer to the looking-glass until she was all but completely pressed-up against it.
For a second she was numb head to toe; and then she was falling, falling right into the mirror itself as though it were an open window.
Since she was not a clumsy person by nature (though, understandably, this may be a little hard to believe considering she had been having more accidents than usual on the day this story starts), the over-all sensation of tumbling head-first into the looking-glass, into another world, was very surreal.
More awkward still was the moment she found herself looking up at the blonde medieval boy who stood above her, clearly confused, his brow crinkled and his eyes straying occasionally to the sword on the chair.
"Hullo," he said cautiously.
"Hi," Susan muttered, her tone a mite too snappish, standing up and rubbing her head which she was just realizing she'd hit pretty hard while falling in.
"I don't mean to be rude, uh, Lady, but what are you doing in my bed-chamber?"
"I don't know." Susan's eyes shifted away from him, darting all around the room. Her head felt like it was swimming-and drowning. "This is a dream I'm having, I think."
"Righty then." His brow lowered itself. "Am I completely loosing it, or did you just come out of my mirror?"
Mirror? Susan glanced over her shoulder and saw a mirror the same size and shape as the one in her attic, except it wasn't attached to a wardrobe.
"What's this?" He noticed the rings hanging like pendants from the chain around her neck.
"They're mine," Susan told him tersely, suddenly very protective of the contents dangling from the cheep chain from the box she hadn't wanted to buy in the first place.
"I think I've seen something like that before, is all."
"That's interesting," she replied, not sounding as if she actually did think it interesting in the least.
"Are you a witch?" his eyes strayed to the sword again.
"Well!" she huffed, folding her arms across her chest, clearly insulted.
"Well what?" he snapped. "One can never be too sure, and you did just appear here out of no-where."
"Don't be such a wet-blanket!" Susan growled, glaring at him. "I'm no witch, I simply fell into this chamber of yours by mistake in this remarkably vivid dream, and I've hit my head, so I think I shall be leaving at once."
"Leaving?" he asked. "But where are you going?"
"I suppose," she mulled, more to herself than to the boy, "I ought to go back the way I came-through the looking-glass. That's how it works in these things, isn't it?"
"I really couldn't say." He shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, it's been lovely meeting you," she sighed hurriedly, not sounding as if she meant it; "but I'll be going home and waking up presently, so goodbye."
"Uh…" He tried to think of a way to tell her that there didn't seem to be much chance of his mirror-which looked very like an ordinary mirror at the moment-taking her anywhere, but she didn't seem to be paying attention to him.
The rings were no longer glowing in spite of the fact that they still had a regal shininess about them, and Susan saw that nothing much was happening as she rapped her knuckles on the silver of the mirror. Dash it! Of course when she woke up it likely wouldn't matter where she was, as she would be back in her bedroom at any rate, but she felt she would much rather wait to waken in the attic than with this strange boy who dressed like Shakespeare or something and thought she was a witch. Didn't they burn witches in the middle-ages?
"Oh," said Susan presently, "I think I understand now; I was jolted when I came through. All I need, I believe, is a jolt from over here to get back."
"Yes, that makes sense." There was a faint twinge of sarcasm in the boy's voice, but she decided to ignore it.
"How am I to make a proper jolt?"
"I don't know."
"I may need your help, uh…" Susan realized she hadn't gotten his name.
"Peter," he told her. "High King Peter."
She blinked uncomprehendingly. "Right…Well, I'm Susan Pevensie, and I need you to do me a quick favor."
"What?"
"On the count of three, at my signal, I want you to push me into the mirror so I can go through."
"I really don't think…"
"Good for you," said Susan shortly. "It only gives you misguided delusions of grandeur." High King indeed!
"Well, I suppose, if you insist…" Peter still didn't think it was a very good idea, but he wasn't used to strong-willed ladies ordering him about. As a high king, he was usually the one who had the upper hand in most things.
"Fine then," said Susan. "One, two, three."
At her signal, Peter reached out and shoved her at the mirror.
As she really might have expected if she'd ever bothered to nurture a decent imagination, getting out wasn't so simple as she fancied it would be, and she found herself, instead, slamming hard into the metal and bumping her nose.
"Ow!"
Retaliating without much thought, she spun around and gave Peter two quick shoves, scowling at him.
"Will you stop shoving!" He demanded, scowling right back at her.
"That didn't work," grumped Susan, rubbing her nose.
"No kidding," he snapped. "Hang it all, Susan Pevensie, I've known you for less than five minutes and I already think you will be the death of me."
"You see, this really isn't the time-" she began, sounding rather like a mother starting a lecture for an errant child.
"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "And if you don't mind, I'd really like to have a look at those rings, Susan Pevensie-or whoever you really are."
"I brought them fair and square, thank you very much, and so I'm not just handing them over to some delusional boy who thinks he's royalty, even if this is only a dream."
"I don't think I'm royalty," he huffed, getting fed up, "I am. And as such I order you to hand them over."
"Well, you aren't the bloody King of England-that's where I come from-so I needn't do anything you say."
"This isn't England-where ever that is-and I am the high king of Narnia, so I have authority here."
"This is my dream, you can't boss me around! What can you do to me?"
"I can have you beheaded," he pointed out, half-joking. "But that seems a bit extreme."
"Lovely."
"Come on, Susan," he said, his voice softer now. "I don't mean you any harm, and I see we've gotten off on the wrong foot-what with you shoving me and me calling you a witch; I take it back now-do make it Pax."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"You can't know, if you don't already," Peter said quietly, "but you can believe-or not."
"I'll tell you where I got the rings and explain myself," she said levelly, "seeing as I did come barging into your bed-chamber like this, though I didn't mean to, but I'm not handing over the rings so fast."
"Fair enough," Peter gave in, moving his sword off of the chair and sitting down. "For now."
Sitting down on the side of his bed, next to the chair, Susan told him her story about moving into a new house and buying the rings from that strange Ketterley fellow; but all the while she seemed to be stressing her belief that this had to be a dream and that soon she would wake up and that he mustn't think her rude if she did so suddenly and disappeared.
"But I guess," Susan thought aloud, her tone sounding oddly relieved, "if you're here with me, you're just a sort of thing in my dream, then, and you'll just disappear, too; whenever I wake up."
AN: So whatja think? Tell me! Tell Me! (Bounces up and down). Do you think I should keep going? Anybody like this story so far? Feed-back more than welcome!