A/N: This fic was written by Sushi for gothic_hamlet over the summer for Narnia Fic Exchange 2010 at . Enjoy! :)
Britain was boring.
Digory knew it wasn't her fault—after all, people would be people, no matter what world they came from, and the British people were just more focused on industrialism and imperialism and other isms than others. Every good schoolchild knew that the sun never ever set on the British Empire (and that fact made for a very serious lot of grownups).
Still, it was with a distinct sense of melancholy that Digory looked out of his bedroom window onto the grey, damp, dirty streets of London.
He had never been a very "country" fellow, that he readily admitted—years of living near the cotton district coupled with the family's weak constitution had grown him into a rather asthmatic and bookish lad. While his schoolmates chased each other through the streets and talked buoyantly about their holiday adventures in the heaths of Scotland or the pebbly beaches of the lake country, Digory read encyclopedias and preferred to stay in the boroughs of civilized England.
(Once, when he was very young and his mother was well, the family took a holiday to Wales, and Digory and his cousin went on a butterfly-hunting expedition, which ended in scraped knees and a squashed butterfly. That was the end of hunting expeditions, butterfly or otherwise, for young Digory.)
But ever since his Narnian Adventure—he called it that, even though the adventure wasn't just in Narnia; it was a much friendlier word than Charn—Digory found himself practically itching to go clambering about in the dirty outdoors. He could hardly explain it, but it was as if the snakes and snails and puppydog tails lying dormant inside every young boy had been stirred awake in him and were now begging to return to their places of origin. He was jealous of Clarence Holmes and his father's purebred hunting ponies; he found himself wishing he was Ollie Richardson and went to the seaside every weekend to go fishing and sailing.
Polly felt the same way. Oh, how often Digory had chided her for losing her sense of adventure whenever the need for one really arose; but now, all he had to do was mention the possibility of the existence of some sort of heretofore-unknown fairy knoll or hollow tree trunk in some little-frequented urban park, and she was rolling up the sleeves of her frilly pinafore and marching out into the garden with him in tow.
In fact, they had been just about to carry out one of these pseudo-reconnoiters when Mrs. Plummer—a woman who, a product of her Victorian parentage, at a very young age had made it her life's ambition to avoid at all costs the signs of age, whether it be childhood or adulthood, and was intent on impressing the same genteel and wrinkle-free behavior upon her daughter—called out in an imperious manner:
"Polly Plummer, have you washed your face?"
Polly paused halfway out the back door, one foot on the dirty stoop and the other in the kitchen. She looked plaintively at Digory, who was already in the garden, but under the burning gaze of the white-capped cook, called back, "No, Mother." To Digory, she muttered, "That's her way of telling me to get my embroidery."
Digory shoved his hands in his pockets. "Shall I wait for you, then?"
"Polly!"
Polly started to shrug, then stopped because shrugging was hardly ladylike. "Oh, don't bother…I'm afraid I shall be kept captive all afternoon."
He nodded, and she darted inside, letting the door slam behind her. "Bad luck, ain't it?" said the gardener next door, punctuating his words with a snip and the rustle of falling foliage.
Digory squinted against the mist and said, as he went into his own house, "I don't believe in luck."
The hours ticked by. Mother went out with Aunt Letty to do some shopping at about a quarter past two, and Digory took his tea alone in the parlor. It was quite lonely, sitting there in the chintz chair and eating fish paste on biscuits with no one to tease him about the way he nibbled them.
After the cook took his dishes away, Digory, confined to the indoors by a steady, depressing rain that had started up shortly after luncheon, climbed the stairs to the highest room of the house, that whitewashed attic space in which the moving crates were already starting to crowd Uncle Andrew's desk and other sundry belongings. The old man had gone quite soft since the Narnian Adventure, and was now almost harmless, if not a little sad to behold.
As it were, he had his back to the door, and was busily fussing with some of these possessions, so determinedly that he did not hear Digory come in.
"Uncle Andrew," said Digory.
Uncle Andrew peered over his shoulder. "Ah, there you are, boy. Tell me, what do you think?"
And he stepped away, revealing a rather ordinary and musty-looking moving crate with bits of packing hay peeking out from between the slats.
"I think it looks…neat," said Digory uncomfortably.
Uncle Andrew sighed. "I hoped as much. They look so much nicer when they're packed away, don't you think?"
Digory had absolutely no idea what it was Uncle Andrew was talking about, so he cleared his throat. "You missed tea again."
"Oh, did I?" murmured Andrew, fussing with the packing hay.
"Yes. And Mother says all this must be packed up by next week—Father's coming home soon and then we're to move to the country, you know."
"Mhmm…"
"Uncle Andrew…?"
The man blinked. "Ah, Digory! I nearly forgot. I'm expecting a visitor very soon, and I shall need you to help me hail a taxicab for her when the time comes."
"Who is it?" Digory sat on one of the crates.
Uncle Andrew bustled about the room, picking up all his strange little devices and depositing them into the crate he had just been admiring. "It's to be my fairy godmother, Digory m'boy, and I'm hardly sending her away empty-handed."
Nothing surprised Digory anymore. "I thought you said she had died. In prison." After all, it's details like this that tend to stick in little boys' minds.
"Oh, no, no, no—well, rather—Mrs. Lefay, my first godmother did. But she always said, 'If good Mrs. Lefay should die and little Andrew be without a godmother, my sister shall take my place.' That's right, I'm giving the second Mrs. Lefay—Morgan, I think—back all these blasted magic books and wizard's apparatuses. One and alike, those sisters." He tutted.
"Can I see them before you give them back?"
As he spoke, Digory reached out to feel in the crate, but Uncle Andrew slapped his hand away. "These are no playthings for little boys," he said imperiously.
Digory sighed. "Can I at least meet her?"
"Meet her! Of course. But only for a moment. She's dangerous, you know. Damned cunning."
Digory was in the midst of trying to reason with Uncle Andrew that fairy godmothers aren't usually the kind to be dangerous and cunning, when the bell buzzed in the landing downstairs. Uncle Andrew started like a rabbit and began tossing the rest of the accoutrements into the crate, and Digory went down the stairs to greet this mysterious woman, his hands in his pockets.
It was just Polly that the maid let in, though, and Digory said so.
"Just Polly?" Polly scoffed. "Well, how's that for a 'good-afternoon'?"
"That isn't what I meant," Digory protested. "Uncle Andrew's expecting a mysterious guest, that's all."
"Oooh," said Polly, peering up the staircase as if she could see through the ceiling. "Who is it?"
"He said it's his fairy godmother. Or, something of that sort."
"How perfectly curious," said Polly. "D'you suppose we can meet her?"
Digory was proud of her. "I asked, and Uncle Andrew agreed."
Polly grinned and started up the stairs, dragging Digory along with her. They found Uncle Andrew exactly where Digory had left him, puttering about the small study; he scarcely glanced at the children as they sat down on crates. "Is Mrs. Lefay here yet?" he asked Digory.
"No, Uncle Andrew."
Polly shivered a little, looking about the room. "I won't miss this room," she whispered. "Perhaps that's the only thing I won't miss about your family when you move to the country."
Digory shrugged. "It's not so bad, I think," he said.
"Oh, yes it is."
"No, it isn't!"
"Children," interrupted Uncle Andrew, springing to the door, "Mrs. Lefay is here! Digory, boy, come and help me with her."
"I'll just stay here, then," muttered Polly as Digory took the stairs two at a time.
The maid was just letting the mysterious guest into the house when he reached the bottom. Mrs. Lefay was a little old woman, indeed, and looked almost exactly like her less-alive sister, the picture of whom Uncle Andrew had long ago broken.
"Hullo," said Digory.
The woman turned to him as the maid took her coat, and he caught his breath. She had the keenest, most calculating blue eyes he had ever seen; they stared out at him from a white face webbed with deep wrinkles.
"You must be Digory Kirke, lambie," said she, folding her hands over her cane.
Digory nodded, swallowing. The woman's eyes reminded him uncomfortably of someone else's, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
She smiled. "I've been waiting to meet you. Elaine told me all about you."
"Elaine?" Digory stammered. He may have been a brave boy, but even brave boys know that it's very strange for people you don't know to be talking at length about you.
"My sister, little duck, Elaine." Mrs. Lefay waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, let's not dwell on the past. Help an old woman upstairs, won't you?"
If Digory had been properly raised by a mother who read him fairy tales at bedtime, he would know that touching a witch is the absolute last thing one should do, but he had been brought up by a strict nanny who thought that fairy tales were nonsense and that little boys should learn about cogs and gears before bed. So he slipped a hand under Mrs. Lefay's arm in the most gentlemanly way he could muster, and then, suddenly, she didn't seem quite so bad anymore.
Uncle Andrew met them halfway up the staircase. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Lefay," he said stiffly.
"So good to see you, Andrew," said Mrs. Lefay.
Uncle Andrew made a very big show of not touching the woman as Digory guided her the rest of the way up the stairs and into the study. At their entrance, Polly leapt up from the big leather chair behind Uncle Andrew's desk and made way for the woman.
"Right," said Uncle Andrew. "Now, Mrs. Lefay, I'm giving you—"
Mrs. Lefay lifted a single white, spiderwebbed hand, and Andrew immediately fell silent. "Andrew, dear, would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea? I find myself quite thirsty."
The gears could be seen turning slowly in Uncle Andrew's head, and at last he evidently decided that there was nothing inherently bad about a cup of tea, so he bowed in a manner that reminded Digory of a bird and said, "Right. Digory, be a chap and come round with me."
Digory wasn't sure how much help he would be, but he left with Uncle Andrew. "Have you met this Mrs. Lefay?" Digory asked when they reached the landing.
"Once or twice," Uncle Andrew replied rather uncomfortably.
It wasn't until they had reached the hot kitchen that he spoke again, and this time it was only to the cook, ordering her to boil water for tea. Digory stood around for a minute or two, his hands in his pockets, and then, when Uncle Andrew wasn't paying attention, he slipped back upstairs to Mrs. Lefay.
Polly had evidently lowered her guard, for when Digory came back into the study, her head was in Mrs. Lefay's lap, and Mrs. Lefay was gently stroking the tangles out of her long blonde hair, speaking all the while in a soothing tone.
"Oh, Digory," said Polly in a languished tone, "it's simply wonderful."
"What is?" he asked, perplexed.
"Mrs. Lefay has found a way to get us back to Aslan and Narnia!" Polly sighed.
Digory went a little cold, then a little hot at the prospect.
"Call me Morgan," said Mrs. Lefay with a smile.
"I told her all about our adventures," Polly went on, "and she says she can help us!"
"It is simple magic, really," said Mrs. Lefay, her blue eyes glittering.
"Oh, can we please?" Polly said.
The answer seemed to be pulled out of Digory's mouth without his bidding. "Yes, can we?"
Mrs. Lefay gently sat Polly up and helped her to her feet. "Of course, children. Now, stand together."
Digory and Polly did so without question, clasping hands and standing shoulder to shoulder.
"You must stand perfectly still," said the witch. "Otherwise, the spell won't work."
They were still as statues.
"Raul si intuneric parand limba ar trebui sa mearga aici trimite aceste mai intr o lume departe!" intoned the old woman.
Digory started to feel a bit woozy, and he grasped for Uncle Andrew's desk until he realized that it was the room that was moving, not him.
"Just hold still," came Mrs. Lefay's distorted voice. "Oh, and keep in mind, little guppies, that I really don't know where Narnia is."
Polly's hand clenched on Digory's, and the last glimpse they had of Our World was of Uncle Andrew's horrified face as he burst through the doorway.