"With the system in my bones," Edmund read aloud, "I must declare that those ancestors still live and that time and space would vanish if they closed their eyes."
"Hello to you too," said Susan, setting down her bags heavily. "What is that rubbish you're reading?"
"Yeats." Edmund licked his finger to to turn the page. "Prose, not poetry. A Vision."
"Well, pry yourself away from it and help me with my luggage," Susan said, and relieved Edmund of the book when he tried to fold over the corner of the page. "Were you raised in a barn?" she demanded, and then, flipping to the title page, "Is this the 1925 edition?"
"Sure it is," Edmund replied, looking put out. "Give it here."
"There were only six hundred copies of this printed and you're dog-earing the pages?"
"It's a book, sister of mine. It was meant to be read." Bending to heft Susan's case, Edmund added, "Shaky job on the stocking lines, by the way. I know you can do them better than that."
"And if I had meant to, I would have," Susan retorted, as the two moved through the bustle of the station. "You of all people should know that it's best to look fashionable but not rich when travelling alone."
"It does make it easier to pass unremarked," admitted Edmund, a twitch of a smile at his lips.
"As you found out, that time in-"
"While I will certainly recall the lesson," Edmund interrupted, "I would prefer to let the specifics of its learning slip from my memory. Need a hand?"
"I have it, thanks," said Susan, shifting her bags into the waiting cab. "How is it at home, then?"
Edmund made an equivocating motion with his free hand. "Their Once-And-Always Majesties have one-track minds, and not in the fun way. And I'd rather have teachers yelling than Mother getting disappointed. But...it's still good to see everyone again."
"Have you actually seen anyone? That does tend to require looking away from your book," Susan said, swinging herself up into the hansom.
"Mother makes me put it away for meals," Edmund said, closing the hansom door. "I have a lot of catching up to do, if I - don't go back to school this year," he finished, lowering his voice. "I thought what we did in Narnia was something, but by Jove, Su, some of the maths they use here makes my head spin."
"I was sorry to hear about your Professor Jeffreys," Susan replied, her voice equally soft. "But what Welchman wrote is definite, then?"
"As it can be. The censorship is heavy, but yes, the gist of it is there's a place for me if I want it."
"And if you're willing to lie through your teeth about your age, I assume."
"As if I'm fourteen is the truth." Edmund grinned wryly. "And you? Still determined to continue in the painful drudgery that is the British school system?"
Something in Susan's face shuttered at that. "It's hardly my fault that my skill set is less applicable to the body of a sixteen-year-old girl. A few more years..." She trailed off, and let the thought hang unfinished in the silence.
That silence stretched for the rest of the cab ride, brother and sister each looking out their own window at the passing streets. Eventually, without turning from the window, Susan reached out across the battered seat, and - also without looking - Edmund caught her hand in his. So it was that they came home, letting go only when the cab screeched to a halt and the cabbie hopped out to get the bags.
Edmund paid the cabbie and tipped him more than was strictly necessary, and then helped Susan carry her luggage into the house. Everyone was waiting inside to see Susan; Mother and Father hugged her, and then there was an awkward moment when all the children were half-expecting Susan to curtsy to Peter like they were back in Narnia and he was High King. They both froze for a moment, and Peter went in for a hug at the same time that Susan offered her hand to shake, so it ended up as a clumsy sort of half-hug with Susan patting Peter on the back. But then Lucy ran over and hugged both of them at once, and that was finally so genuine as to melt away all the tension.
The next day and a half were much the same painful dance, filled with the clash and friction of six adults stuffed into a little house, four of them play-acting as children. Susan could mostly smooth things over with Mother and Father, who didn't have fifteen years of learned immunity to her Diplomat Voice, but she couldn't do a thing to stop Peter ordering Edmund around or Lucy casting little wistful sidelong glances at her and murmuring things about Narnia. Not that that stopped her trying, of course, and with every carefully honed word-blow that blunted on her siblings' armour, Susan seethed a little more inside. By Wednesday night she was picking fights just for the sport of it, which (by no coincidence) was when she heard a familiar rapping at her window.
Susan glanced over at Lucy (fast asleep) and at the door (shut and latched) to confirm what she already knew, then opened the shutters a crack, shielding her candle with one hand. Outside, of course, was Edmund, cap pulled half over his face but doing nothing to conceal his impish grin.
"Half a sec," Susan whispered, closed the shutters again, and dressed quickly, choosing her clothes to match Edmund's: a simple walking dress and a shawl that aged her, bonnet, black gloves, none of it flashy but all well-made. She wouldn't draw attention on the street, but neither would she look out of place wherever Edmund had in his plans for tonight. Assuming he'd dressed appropriately himself; he had a spy's knack for blending in, but having lived so long among Animals who wore only fur or feathers, Edmund had had little occasion to pick up the finer points of fashion.
Attired and ready, Susan tossed the bedclothes over her bolster, blew out her candle, opened the shutters, and swung out the window, shutting it carefully behind her. She was probably too old to get in much trouble for slipping out after dark, but Edmund wasn't, and the last thing they needed was Edmund confined to the house. In thirty years, she'd never known that to end well.
Edmund offered Susan his arm, and they walked in silence till they were well out of earshot of the house. Then Edmund quirked a grin at her and said "hullo," and Susan laughed softly and squeezed his elbow.
"You can't imagine," she told him, "how badly I needed to get out of that house."
"I really can." Edmund kicked at a pebble. "If Lucy said do you remember one more time, I feared for her safety."
"She's the better fighter, but maybe if I surprised her," Susan said thoughtfully. "I do have quite a few inches on her that I didn't used to. Where on earth are we going?" she added, as Edmund turned yet another corner.
"We," Edmund said, "are taking you shopping for weapons." And with that he stopped short. Susan looked up at the storefront, where she could just make out a worn wooden sign reading White & Greene, Ladies' Clothes and Accessories.
Susan stared for a moment, then spun about. "Edmund! Not that I'm not delighted, but - I cannot possibly afford any of what I really need. And Mother keeps my ration book."
Edmund rolled his eyes at her. "It's a second-hand shop, Susan. And I have money. Stop worrying, go in, and choose an outfit or two."
"Where did you get money?" Susan narrowed her eyes at him, then revised her question. "How much money do you have, anyhow?"
"Rather a lot." Edmund wasn't doing a very good impression of sheepishness. "I have to do something to entertain myself at school, don't I?"
"I don't want to know," Susan announced to the world at large, and went into the shop.
The space behind the doors was odd and angular, and larger than she would have guessed from the outside, smelling faintly of must and strongly of mothballs. That odour took Susan back in time for a moment, and she thrust out a hand to the crumbling plaster of the wall, leaned her forehead against its ringed brown water-stains, and breathed in slow and deep until she had reassured herself that it was camphor only on the air, no sharp scent of pine beneath it.
Edmund's hand was on the small of her back, grounding, and Susan listened gratefully to his level voice as he reassured the shopkeeper that his sister was fine, just a little faint, no need to worry.
"But a glass of water," the shopkeeper persisted, his voice closer as he approached in concern. Susan could see his scuffed leather shoes and the pressed cuffs of his trousers. "No? Then Mademoiselle will at least sit herself down for a moment, here, in this very fine chair. No ladies will be fainting in my store tonight!"
"I will sit, thank you." Susan allowed herself to be steered into the armchair, smiled up reassuringly at Edmund and at the painfully thin young man who had her elbow. "It was only a spell," she added, once she was sure of her voice. "I will sit for a moment, and make my brother run and fetch me dresses. Thank you again."
"It is nothing," said the young man, with a sweeping wave of his hand that seemed to dismiss not only his actions but the world in general as unimportant. "Only ring if you are needing anything, or call for Jean, and at once I will be with you."
"Jean," Susan confirmed, with another smile but a firm tone that brooked no further conversation. "Thank you." Jean nodded briskly and swept off, turning dramatically on his toe.
Edmund, to his credit, managed to wait until Jean had disappeared behind the furthest rack of clothes before so much as cracking a smile.
"Not a word," Susan threatened.
"Do you think he knows you're sixteen?" Edmund asked innocently. "Maybe I should mention that you're sixteen."
"He was very pleasant," Susan said through her teeth. "Now go find me something to wear."
"Just 'something?'" Edmund asked, a dangerous spark in his eye.
Susan sighed. "A formal dress, something age-appropriate, Edmund, as well as some business-wear that's not. A long coat would be lovely, but I don't imagine they have one. Oh! and some shoes I can modify." She tapped her heel to signify a hidden compartment.
"Wine red, pine green, old purple?"
"You know my methods, Watson." Susan waved Edmund off, then called after him, "When you're done, ask Jean if he has anything from France!"
"Because that won't be expensive," Edmund grumbled to himself, but without any real bite. He ruffled through the racks of clothing, passing fabrics through his fingers and flaring out skirts to see their cut. After a few minutes, he heard Susan get up from her chair and start her own search through another shelf. Browsing through the odd mix of clothes was strangely pleasant, and Edmund found himself absorbed in the concrete realness of smooth silk and harsh woolens, looking through Susan's eyes rather than his own.
By the time Edmund reached the end of the rack, he had half a dozen dresses draped over his arm, mostly in the formal cuts and rich colours Susan preferred. He added an oxford school blouse from the next shelf to his collection, then paused to frown at the wardrobe standing in the far corner, half-concealed by a line of hanging skirts. It was of solid make, and surprisingly fine workmanship; the sort of thing he'd have expected to see in a Narnian castle, not in a cut-price clothing store on a little street in London.
Edmund glanced about to see if anyone was watching, then walked closer to the wardrobe and tilted his head to look at the carvings. Not Narnian, but not what he would call English, either; the figures were like something he thought he'd seen once on an old tapestry, rendered with striking poignancy. One man had his hand in the mouth of a wolf, which rung a bell somewhere - Norse, maybe? On the panel of the other door, a woman was shown dancing before a man asleep on a throne with a hammer on his lap. That Edmund couldn't place at all, though he supposed the hammer might be Norse again.
On a whim, Edmund turned the door-handle and peered into the wardrobe. It was full, not of the fur coats he'd half-expected, but of rustling full-skirted ballgowns. When he reached past them, Edmund could press his hand against the back of the wardrobe, solid and real and very present.
Edmund felt very silly for a moment, because of course the Professor had told them the story of the wardrobe that they'd fallen through all those years ago, and he was hardly eleven years old anymore to expect Narnia at the back of every closet and cupboard. But after a moment his good sense reinstated itself, and Edmund was again quite certain that there was something out of the ordinary about this wardrobe, though he couldn't have said quite what.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye again, Edmund saw Jean moving about, so rather than investigate further he swung the heavy door halfway shut and moved to where Susan was squeezed in the corner between two shelves, going through a basket marked Torn & Stained, 75% Off.
"I brought some dresses for you to look at," Edmund said loudly for Jean's benefit, then softly out of the corner of his mouth, "I want a closer look at that wardrobe there. There's something funny about it I can't quite put my finger on it."
Susan carefully did not look at the wardrobe. Instead, she leaned in, taking the clothes from him, and murmured "Wardrobes? Really, Edmund?" in his ear. Aloud, she added, "I like the burgundy, and I'm flattered that you think the black will fit me. It's a charmingly continental style, though, so if you see anything like it in my size, do bring it to me." Behind a stack of shirts, she fluttered her fingers in a go on gesture to Edmund, then turned aside to adjust her neckline a fraction before going to distract Jean from offering any overzealous assistance to her brother.
Once Susan had engaged Jean in a conversation that seemed to involve a great deal of expansive gestures on his part and hair-tossing on hers, and deftly manoeuvred him so his back was to the wardrobe, Edmund moved over to the corner where it stood, doing his best to avoid drawing attention with the creaking floorboards. Once there, he dropped to his knees and ran his fingers along the seams at the base of the wardrobe, inside and outside, then tapped with his fingernails along the length and breadth of it. There - and Edmund wished fervently for a torch as he tried to find a join in the wood with only the dim light of a distant lamp to guide him. Instead, he had to settle for a combination of sound and touch, running the pads of his fingers and then the blade of his pocketknife over the place, trying to make out a small unevenness.
In the end, Edmund found what he was looking for only because it was marked by a slight natural irregularity in the grain of the wood; someone before him had wanted to find this, and had chosen a spot they could remember. Even then, it was several minutes' quick work to get the thing loose with the best efforts of knife and fingernails, and Edmund's hands were cramping before he heard that wonderful, satisfying click of a hidden catch releasing.
It took everything Edmund had to keep from crying out in victory. Instead, he busied himself with using the blade of his knife to pry open the hidden compartment he'd unlatched, with another lovely popping noise - it must have been well sanded to slide out so easily now, because from the sound it had been airtight before.
Inside was a small collection of items - a glass inkwell crusted with the dried remains of ink, a small stack of three or four blank papers, and one paper separate from the others and folded, writing half-visible through it. A little yellow flower, pressed and dried, lay on the folded sheet; when Edmund touched it, it crumbled at once to a fine dust, as though it had never been there at all. Edmund imagined that in that moment he could catch the shadow of a fragrance from it, but he knew it was only fancy.
Casting another quick glance from the corner of his eye towards Susan and Jean, Edmund lifted the folded paper carefully with the tips of his fingers. It held together - parchment, he decided, not paper - but made an alarming cracking noise when he tried to unfold it, so Edmund left it as it was and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He rifled quickly through the other parchments (all blank), palmed the inkwell, then slid the cover to the compartment back into place. As soon as it was flush with the floor of the wardrobe, the join was completely invisible again; even with his fingers still resting where the edges had been, Edmund could no longer make out that there was anything there.
On the other side of the store, the sounds of conversation were beginning to trail off. Edmund felt more than saw Jean's eyes landing briefly on him, made a show of tying his shoe, then stood and went to rescue Susan.
When Edmund had bought Susan's clothes (at slightly less than what he suspected was market price) and extricated himself from Jean (who finally stopped declaiming about Baudelaire in order to kiss Susan's hand and insist that she return soon), Edmund found himself walking through the dark streets with Susan, telling her all about his findings.
"Look, Ed," Susan said at last, when he had done. "It's keen enough, I'll give you that - old papers and hidden compartments and mysteries, just up your alley. But you can't just go and invent yourself another adventure in a wardrobe."
"I'm not inventing anything," said Edmund, a trifle shortly.
"The real adventures aren't in rickety cabinets in dusty old buildings, Ed," Susan said. "Playing at kings and queens, knight and ladies - that's for children. You can have an adventure, all right, but it'll be in a little cottage off the maps with those professors of yours, not off in a fairy-story."
"I knew a professor who believed in kings and queens, and loved to read fairy-stories," muttered Edmund, half under his breath, but meant for Susan to hear. Susan, of course, retaliated by pretending not to hear him, and walking just a little too fast all the way back to the house.
When Susan slipped back into her room, Lucy was sitting upright in bed, hair sleep-rumpled. "Where've you been?" she murmured, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
"Going for a walk to find myself," Susan lied blithely.
"All right," Lucy said, earnest, as if she thought that was a perfectly acceptable explanation for being out far into the small hours of the night.
Susan shucked her clothes quickly, folding them together with her new acquisitions and slipping them into the chest of drawers. With any luck, no one would take particular note of the additions to her wardrobe. "Go to sleep, Lucy," she said.
Lucy made one last futile attempt at pushing her hair out of her eyes, and flopped down on her bed, snuggling up to the pillow. Within moments she was drawing the slow, deep breaths of sleep.
