The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one.
- Honore de Balzac

I could have kissed the very scullery taps. The color of
My day was like a peacock's chest. In at each sense there stole
Ripplings and dewy sprinkles of delight that with them drew
Fine threads of memory through the vibrant thickness of the soul.
C. S. Lewis, "The Day With A White Mark."

What flame before our chamber door
Shines in on love's security?
Fiercer than day, its piercing ray
Pours round us unendurably.
It's Aphrodite's saffron light
And Jove's monarchal presence bright
And Genius burning through the night
The torch of man's futurity.
~ C. S. Lewis, "The Small Man Orders His Wedding"

It was that hour of brightest starlight before the sky began to gray, when even the Trees were asleep and only the Stars still woke, their song too high and clear and constant to really be heard. Lucy hadn't slept yet. She and Carl had been talking by the fire the night before, just beginning to yawn, when Col and Colin came in to say that Rose was calving and Father still wasn't home from Galma, but he'd thought it would be twins, and would Queen Lucy mind terribly—?

She did not mind, but by the time Col brought a kettle of hot water to the barn, her patience was thin from Colin's hovering questions, and she sent the boys to bed. Carl remained to hold the lantern and hand her hot rags and press hard on the cow's belly when needed, as Lucy worked, standing on a box, arm-deep in cow. It was, as suspected, twins—identical, for they were tangled together in a single sack—and breech. As she worked, she kept up a steady stream of soft, soothing words, talking until she didn't know what she said, soothed herself by the quiet breathing and chewing of the other four cows in the barn or the whuffling snort of one of the horses in a snatch of sleep. It was hours before the first calf—a beautiful red heifer—was born. Carl hung the lantern on a nail, washed Rose's udder, and got the calf to suck by the time Lucy coaxed the second one out.

She collapsed then on a heap of hay and watched him guide the newborn to its mother, steadying it when it wabbled on spraddly legs, and nudging Rose's swollen teat to its mouth. At first it tried to suck its own tongue, but at last both had drunk and curled up next to their mother—all knobbly legs and tiny hooves, but two of the prettiest red heifer calves Lucy had seen.

"You're all bloody," said Carl, coming to help her up and steady her as he had the newborn calves. She looked down. Her skirt was knotted up and straw stuck to the manure stains, her hair was coming unbraided, and afterbirth was smeared up and down her arms.

He steered her across the yard and around the springtime mudholes, stopping at the well to pump her some water; she splashed her arms and face (wondering vaguely how streaks of muck ended up on the back of her neck) and the worst of her skirt. She followed him, yawning, into the Keep, and kicked her boots off in the lean-to.

"Go on upstairs," he whispered, so as not to wake Nils, the brownie, who slept between the woodbox and the chimney. He eased the stove open, poked a sulfur stick into the ashes of the banked fire, lit a candle, and handed it to her.

"'Mm too tired to sleep."

"I know. You can put on something dry—grab one of my old tunics—and I'll bring you some tea."

She stumbled up the stairs, stepping wide—even with care, the treads creaked loud enough to wake the dead. Behind her, she heard Carl stirring up the fire. She climbed past the second floor, with the lord and lady's bedchamber and Lady Branwen's workroom, past the third floor, with the girls' and boys' sleeping quarters, and so to the attic, where Carl had partitioned off a corner for himself so he could study in the evenings. Shutting the door, she set the candle on his desk and looked around until she found one of his old tunics, of indiscriminate color; her own bloomers, upon candlelight inspection, seemed mostly clean. Her soiled dress she turned inside out and rolled up; then she reached for the candle, but a sheet of paper scattered with her name caught her eye. She paused. Many lines were scratched and scribbled out.

Dearest Lucy

Beloved Queen

give her a clock?
would she know the custom?
letter? meeting?

Carl, son of Carl, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, to Lucy, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Warrens and Plains, Keeper of the Cordial, Finder of the Stone Knife, and Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Lion.

Beloved Lucy.

Four moons have

Four times hath the moon

We met in sleep of winter past and it was as if we met anew, and with the wakening year was I too awakened, so that I what I thought ere then was love was but palest shadow of the ardor I feel now.

Will you

Wilt thou be wedded unto me?

Lucy, Queen of my Heart,

Finder of love

My lady,

I am a simple man. My mother comes of fine Archen breeding and all my life has tried to teach me high courtly manners. Yet you know that I grew to manhood in Narnia, and I am more at ease in the fields and forests of my land, stalking game or sowing crops.

My lady, I have no Calormene poetry to offer you. I am not skilled in fine speech. I am a knight, and a farmer, and I love you.

(Then, scrawled in larger letters—)

Can't say that, either. She's four years older than I, and Lionsakes, she's a Queen and ought to marry a duke or a prince or a king. Oh, Aslan. Even the Lion loves her especially. She let me kiss her in the barn last wintersleep, but—mane and whiskers and unsheathed claws—she deserves better, even if I hunger for her.

"Lucy? Are you dressed?" came the whisper from the other side of the door. "Do you want any tea?"

"Carl?" Her voice sounded queer and far away to her own ears.

"May I come in?"

She opened the door, her mind a storm of thoughts too overlapped to be uttered; he entered with a cup of tea and set it on the desk..

"Lucy, what's wrong?" For she stood motionless, still holding the paper. "Oh. Oh." He sank onto the bed, and buried his face in his hands. "You weren't intended—I wasn't—Forgive me, Queen Lucy."

Had he changed his mind? She sat beside him and pulled his hand away. "Carl."

"I know. I know. You've dozens of suitors and Prince Corin adores you and even the old Duke of Diness—"

"The Duke of Diness," she said decidedly, "is a nasty old man. Corin is hardly more than a boy." She took his other hand in hers and looked down at them—large, warm, farmer's hands, able to cradle new-hatched chicks or draw a longbow or coax a wild horse to follow. She looked up, and he was watching her. "I don't want dozens of suitors. I never did. You know that, don't you? I never understood what anyone was on about—Susan and Peter had their hearts broken enough times to make me stay clear—but Carl, I love you."

"I—I wanted to write you poetry or do some romantic deed for you—and I'm sorry, it's darknight and you need to sleep, you've been up all night—"

She laid her fingers against his lips. "It's the sweetest thing anyone has written for me—yes, just as it is. Go on. Please? Ask me."

He blinked at her, owly in the flickering light. Then he slid off the bed and knelt. "Lucy, my Queen, fellow Knight of the Lion—"

She nodded eager encouragement.

"Marry me?"

"I thought you would never ask."

They were interrupted by a rap at the door and a, "It's past chore-time already and Mother wants to know if 'thou art ill.'" The door opened and Molly's head poked in, braids swinging. "Mother says—oh." Swiftly she took in Carl's tunic, the smell of the filthy dress in the corner—and the bedcovers, still tucked snugly around the mattress. All she said was,

"Heifer or bull?"

"Twin heifers," said Lucy, feeling flustered and not looking at Carl.

"Well, the rest of them are bawling to be milked, so get yourself out to the barn, Sir Knight. It's nigh on sunup."

Chagrined, he hurried out, and Molly raised her eyebrows at Lucy. "I expect you want to borrow one of Elinda's old frocks before you go down."

"I—yes. Thank you." Meekly, she followed the fourteen-year-old girl out of Carl's room.

Even with the borrowed dress, little escaped Lady Branwen's sharp notice. "Queen Lucy! Didst sleep a wink?" She was frying hotcakes for breakfast with one hand and stirring eggs with the other, and the sizzling smells filled the kitchen .

A barely-contained yawn answered for Lucy as she flopped onto a bench. "Nay, Lady Branwen, for Carl and I delivered Rose's calves in darknight—and lovelier twin heifers I have yet to see."

Lady Branwen pursed her lips but refrained from saying anything—even after fifteen years in Narnia she still balked at the thought of a Queen wading around in barn muck. "The basin is new-filled, if thou wishest to wash."

Lucy took that as more than mild suggestion and went to the basin, where she scrubbed her arms and hands and especially fingernails. She splashed water on her face and rubbed the dust out of her eyes, undid her hair and combed out the straw and rebraided it; then she carried the basin to the door and dashed out the water, refilling it at the pump.

Lady Branwen would not allow her to help with breakfast, and there was no reason for her to go to the barn, for even with Lord Bearsclaw away in Galma to trade yearling bulls for a new milch cow, the boys could do the chores handily, so she sat at the kitchen table, fidgeting with excitement. Never had it taken so long to do the milking.

Little Emma came down the stairs, dragging a blanket, and climbed up on Lucy's lap. "Tell me a 'tory, Queen Lucy."

Lucy pulled the trailing blanket up from the floor and tucked it about Emma. "A story?" She hummed to herself a moment and then said, "This is a story that begins with Rabbits. . . ."

Rabbits, of course, come into many of the best stories, and Emma was a perfect audience for this one of Queen Lucy's time among the Great Warrens when she was just a little girl herself—a tale of a Rabbit named Benjamin and his adventures during the Long Winter, outwitting the evil Tod Fox. "There is always something happening in the Great Warrens," she said, finishing, "for all the Rabbits have many children and there is always someone to play with."

Just then the door banged open and in came the boys, Dan talking at the top of his voice. "Come see the new calves, Ma! They're all red and fuzzy and have stars on their heads and—"

"My child, do not ma me. I am certain they are charming, and I shall come see them directly after breakfast, but Queen Lucy is hungry and the hotcakes are ready. Wash thy hands."

Grumbling, he went to the washbasin. Nate trailed behind him, and Col and Colin each set down a milk bucket, their muddy boots clunking across the floor. Last, Carl came in, also lugging a bucket, and paused in the doorway to give Lucy the loveliest smile. Lady Branwen turned from chasing the twins off her clean kitchen floor, only to see Lucy and Carl, smiling at each other as if they were the only two in the kitchen.

For a moment—just a moment, mind you—she said nothing, looking between them with an odd expression on her face as though she were deciding whether to smile or scold. Then, "What else happed in the night?"

Carl looked around, blinked, and set the milk down. "Mother," he said, coming to take Lucy's hand, "Lucy and I are to be wed."

"Lion's blessing upon you, my children," she said, falling back on the traditional response and a smile. "When do you intend—?"

They grinned at each other. "Does tomorrow suit?"

It took a little talking to convince her that no, the Queen was not with child, and no, there was no particular reason to hurry the wedding along—they'd simply gotten matters settled and wanted to be married as soon as humanly possible. (They left out the parts with the kissing and Carl's borrowed tunic and over an hour in the attic; no need to further discomfit Branwen.) But after breakfast, when Carl and the boys went out to finish the spring planting, when Molly and Emma finished washing the dishes and went upstairs to make the beds, and Lucy rose to go home, Lady Branwen stopped her with an upraised hand.

"Your Majesty, might I have a word?"

Lucy subsided back into her seat. Usually Lady Branwen was better about calling her at least only Queen Lucy, and she'd finally stopped standing on ceremony. But formality ought to be met with formality, Susan always said, and Lucy straightened an inch. "Certainly, Lady Bearsclaw. What is it?"

Branwen's eyes met hers, and they were not so warm as they had been the day before. "Carl would do anything for you, his Queen."

There was something terribly important hidden in those carefully deferential words, but when Lucy reached for the meaning, she floundered and could not grasp it. "What do you mean, Lady Bearsclaw?" she said, carefully deferring back.

"Tis not my place, Your Majesty, to deny you aught you wish for. Even my eldest son."

Lucy stared helplessly at her, still not understanding. Lady Branwen bowed her head, and the moment passed.

"Thou'rt weary from thy night's labor," said Lady Branwen, rising from the board, "and undoubtedly wishest to return home, while I have given my word to go and admire the new young. Shall I show thee out?"

"Yes, by your grace," said Lucy, feeling very flustered by Branwen's sudden coldness and longing to get away and think about it all. She took up her satchel with the soiled dress and following the lady to the barn, where Branwen thanked her cordially for her assistance with the calves and watched her saddle Ashtiel and swing herself aboard.

She looked back, as she always did, after the first smooth strides away. Carl was in the far field, across the firth and hidden by the barn, but Lady Branwen stood in the barn door, unsmiling, and did not return her wave. Ashtiel cantered all the way home, and Lucy waved distractedly at the Narnians she passed. What did Lady Branwen mean? When she arrived, she was glad, that time, to leave her mount with the groom and go straight inside. Susan was up to her wrists in soft brown soap, overseeing the spring production, when Lucy rushed in.

"Lucy!" She pushed a strand of hair out of her face with her wrist. "Good news?"

Lucy pushed away Lady Branwen's puzzling words for later, when they could speak more privately. "Yes! The best news! Sir Carl and I are getting married!"

"Oh!" Lucy was caught up in a very wet, soapy embrace and Susan made a high-pitched sort of noise into her neck. Then she cleared her throat, lifted her head up to look at Lucy once more, and said, "I am overjoyed, my sister." Another happy squeeze, and Lucy was inundated with kisses and well wishes from the others in the room.

"Lion's blessing on you, my children," piped Mrs. Twinkletacks from somewhere above Lucy's knees, as Bleu the Hound jumped, trying to bestow sloppy kisses on Lucy's face.

"The moment I wash the soap from my hands," said Susan, doing so, "I'll fetch my notes, and you can get started straightaway on the list."

"List?" she echoed, but any answer was lost in the happy chaos.

Susan's notes turned out to be multiple pages filled with her fine, old-fashioned script. "You ought to read this first," she said, handing Lucy the first page. "It is from Queen Aletha's diary, relatively early in her marriage."

"Queen Aletha before the winter? King Frank the Lost's mother?"

"Yes."

Today I conversed long with the Centaur Timeseer of Narnian custom and traditions. He told me of the four rulers in Cair Paravel of old, of King Shale and Queen Wren, King Birk and Queen Silva. No man hath espied Cair Paravel for nigh on a hundredyear, and even Timeseer knoweth not whether in truth that place standeth still, as the song sayeth,

on isle near to lion's land
between the sea and shingled strand.

The Centaurs say that island hath been hid by the Great Lion, that no more blood may be shed in its ancient halls. I would I might inquire of the spirit of the Great River, for he should surely know more, but in these latter days is he become taciturn and withdrawn. The Trees say he lieth most oft in the deepest regions of his bed, but more than that, or how one might find and speak with him, they will not say.

As I learn of these things, I cannot but think how different it might have been, for my lord disdained the customs of the Beasts and Birds when we were wed, with naught but the Gretna Green ceremony and the Archen handfasting to join us. For he contemned even the purification of Wood and Water, which already I then knew to be customary of old, saying 'twas but rough and uncouth magic . . .

Of old was Midsummer Day and the Eve before thought to be a time of great abundance, and so too the night that a sovereign was wed; for this reason were Shale and Birk wedded to Wren and Silva on Midsummer Day of old, that the fecund blessing on the land might be of increased virtue. But the Hamadryads of the Elder Trees add to this that ere they came together as man and wife, did they first complete the bondings of water and land, beast and bird, cave and marsh, remaining all that time apart. Only when they had completed the ceremony of Gretna Green did they come together, and it was believed that by this act did they add yet more to the increase of that year, and in sooth was it exceedingly fruitful both in crops and children.

When I learned of this, then I could not but wonder if it is for this that my union with my lord beareth no fruit. Couldst thou, O Aslan, do such a thing unto me? Yet who can say what are or are not the deeds of the Lion? for hath he been truly seen in Narnia this hundredyear?

Nay, I cannot believe such a thing of the holy Lion. In sooth, my lord calleth me rarely to his chamber, and oft 'tis in the wrong moonday. If he only cared to know, perhaps he should be less wroth at my failure. But he commandeth me to remain silent . . .

Lucy read on until she could no longer see through the tears brimming in her eyes for the lonely Queen, childless and unloved by her husband, wondering if even Aslan had forgotten her. "Where did this come from?"

"Queen Aletha sent her papers with her friend, the Lady Celia, to Archenland for safekeeping, and I copied it from the original, which is still in Anvard."

"When?"

"I saw it my first visit to Anvard, and told you of it in one of my letters, but those were the days you wouldn't look twice at a book," Susan teased gently. "But I copied it when—do you remember when King Aran and I called things off?"

"Yes." But why—oh. "He wasn't ready to be a Narnian King," she said softly, the same words Susan had offered as oblique explanation of why she'd refused an offer of marriage from the king who seemed in every way the best match in the Eastern Sea.

Susan nodded, and then handed her more papers, brisk again. "The rest of my notes, on the sundry rituals and traditions, are also from then. I inquired of a few discreet counselors. Timeseer was quite nostalgic about it all, saying, 'Well do I recall answering the self-same questions from your grandmother, Good Queen Aletha before the Winter.'"

Lucy looked thoughtful and bent to peruse the rest of the notes.

At the noon meal, Peter and Edmund were just as pleased as Susan, but Lucy had little to say, thinking again on Lady Branwen's words. She followed Edmund from the table afterwards and curled up on his loveseat (Edmund always had the most comfortable furniture in his office).

"Can I talk to you?"

"Certainly. What's on your mind?"

"You're not busy or anything? I don't want to interrupt."

"Anything to put off my reunion with Laws and Litigations of the Eastern Isles: Nine Centuries of Insular Jurisprudence." He lifted a very dry-looking tome from his desk and let it fall back with a dull thunk.

Lucy made a face, and he came to sit next to her. "What is it? You were quiet at lunch."

She thought carefully, trying to put her unease into words, and he laid a reassuring hand on her fidgeting ones.

"Just spit it out, little sis."

She blurted out what Lady Branwen had said to her. "I've been thinking on it ever since. Surely she doesn't resent me for taking her son away? Or does she think that I am not good enough for Carl?"

Branwen's words struck something in Edmund, and he turned quiet, too. It was a minute before he spoke, slowly. "I don't think that's quite it. It might be a little; I suppose all parents want only the best for their children, and of course nobody can ever live up to all of that. Remember how thoroughly Mrs. Twinkletacks interrogated all of Nellie's potential mates?"

This brought the faintest of smiles to Lucy's face. "Well, she did have good reason. Nobody wants a son-in-law who will eat the grandchildren." This was an unpleasant instinct of the male Hedgehogs left over from the Winter.

"I shall definitely put that in the contract: no eating the offspring." Edmund gave her a sardonic look, and she laughed in spite of herself.

"Still, you would think—well, I'm not saying I'm a splendid match—but wouldn't most mothers be glad if their son fell in love with a Queen? And she loved him back? It's practically a fairy tale."

"Lucy . . . " Edmund grew serious once more. "That's just it. You're the Queen, and Carl is your subject. It's all very well in the stories, but in truth, you have a great responsibility in your dealings with him. He is sworn to obey you and you are sworn to protect him."

"Well of course—I would do anything for him. Anything in my power."

"Your power over him is what Branwen is worried about," said Edmund, very gently. "You are older than he, and Carl is a good and simple man who has never been beyond Archenland."

Lucy gasped and dug in her pocket for Susan's notes. "She thinks he is merely besotted with me—oh dear, he says I'm the only woman he's ever loved, and she thinks I'm just treating him as a willing consort on which to get an heir, like Drake did to Aletha." Feeling sick, she found the right page and thrust it at Edmund. "It's not like that—he's loved me for years—he loved me first—oh, but what if I'm assuming this is what he wants? what if he feels he must continue loving me because I am his Queen?" She hadn't realized it in the attic when she was half-asleep on her feet, but now that she considered her words, she'd almost been the one to ask him.

Edmund looked up from Aletha's writing. His face was grave. "It isn't very likely, but yes, it is possible."

"Do you think he thinks he must marry me just because I want him to?" She didn't think she could bear that.

"I don't think he does," said Edmund slowly. "But you owe him the right to refuse you, freely and without consequence. He needs to be certain he loves you as a woman, that he loves Lucy and not just his Queen—and that if he does not, he may walk away. And if he does, you must let him."

The idea wrenched viscerally, but Lucy nodded. She did not want a subject's devotion or fealty or even the whole-hearted adoration that so many Narnians gave. She wanted a mate, a partner, an equal. Someone to hunt with and to raise Pups with, someone you can lie next to on a rug by a fire with your head on his back and his nose in your ear, the Wolves had told her years before, describing what she should look for in a man, and the words were truer than she'd then realized. But if he did not feel the same way . . . then she must let him go.

"Thank you," she whispered to Edmund, squeezing his hand for courage and getting up.

She tumbled down the spiral staircase—if she didn't go immediately, she would lose her nerve—and out to the stable. Ashtiel gave her a baleful look of Didn't we just get back? and she made herself slow down to pat his nose and tack him him calmly, steadily, so he would not become as agitated as she was. Even so, he held his breath when she cinched the saddle on, and she had to knee him twice in the gut before the girths tightened to their proper notches. Then it was a hop and a swing, and they were clopping across the courtyard and through the gates, nodding to the guards, and she nudged Ashtiel to a trot.

West until the coast curved around and they'd reached the mainland, then carefully aboard Reedywhistle's raft, and Ashtiel stood stiff-legged as the Wiggle ferried them across. They stepped ashore and were off, setting a steady canter for North and Carl. This side of the River was mostly fields—oats and barley and flax—but Ashtiel threaded his way neatly among them and out beyond into grassy meadows that smelled of spring sunshine and seasalt. The shore on their right grew steeper, until after a league there was no beach left at all, for the shore fell abruptly off a short cliff and into the water.

Just a mile longer, and the small Keep in the distance grew into a four-storey stone castle with a lean-to against the side, chickens pecking in the yard, and cows grazing beyond. Only the cat took notice of her as she rode up and quietly put Ashtiel in his stall, giving him half a scoop of grain and a wisp of hay, and the cat was too polite to say anything. Sam and David, the plow-horses, were in the barn (and so were the new calves, more confident now about walking but still liable to get their legs mixed up and tumble on their noses) but Tangle and Mossy were not, so the twins must have gone riding.

She went out the other door, and there he was, sprawled under the big willow tree on the near bank, reading. He looked up, and his face lighted.

"Lucy!" He set the book aside and jumped up, easy on his feet as he opened his arms to greet her. "I did not expect you back so soon, but I am glad—" Then he caught sight of her expression. "What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing—nothing's wrong." Lucy shivered. "I need to talk to you, and I need you to tell me something honestly."

"Oh."

"Carl, don't look like that. Please, I—"

"Of course, Lucy. Whatever you say to me, I will listen."

He was breaking her heart. She had to get it all out, now. "I love you because you are you, because you are Carl, country knight and all, and if I lost everything else I would love you still, and I love you enough to—to—let you go. If I must," she added.

All the light went out of his face. "If that is what you feel you must do . . . "

Lucy seized his hands. "No, no. Your choice. I'm making a terrible mess of this, but oh, Carl, I don't want just your devotion, your fealty, or your allegiance, and if I were not your Queen—if I were just a woman like any other—and you might choose whomever you would . . ."

"I would choose you, Lucy." Carl's voice was fervent. "I loved you first as my friend, dearest, and then as my sweetest dream, and finally as my heart's desire."

Lucy felt herself flush all over with a flood of returning happiness. There was no mistaking the earnest declaration as anything but the utter truth. "And if you were to choose any path for us this year—to wait, or court, or wed—"

"I would wed you this very day, if I could," he murmured. "I know my own mind, and my own heart, and when once I have decided something I do not waver. As long as you will have me, I am yours."

Then Lucy could not keep herself from jumping into his arms. Why had she worried? Carl was like her, and Lucy herself was always very sure of what she wanted once she'd made up her mind. And right now, all she wanted was him. "Oh, I wish," she said wistfully to the front of his shirt, "I wish we could be married today."

"Why don't we?" he said suddenly, looking down at her. "Father should arrive soon. We'll ride to Paravel and perform the Anvil ceremony at dawn—though perhaps you'll want to change your dress." His eyes twinkled at her, for in all the excitement of riding back and forth she was still in Elinda's old borrowed smock.

"But we can't," she almost wailed, pulling away. "All the Narnians will want us to be bonded according to their own traditions, and there's dozens of them!"

"Of course there are." He thought for a moment. "Surely it doesn't matter which order we go in, does it?"

"It does," said Lucy glumly, plopping down on the grass. "The Anvil ceremony must be the very last one."

"But in the meantime . . . "

She dug in her capacious pockets again for Susan's notes, and the list seemed twice as long as when she'd scanned it in Susan's office. Carl of all people understood the importance of healthy births, favorable crops, and a good season, and he'd lived in Narnia long enough to understand when she explained that the magic of the summer at its fullest, combined with the magic of a Queen being wedded to her bondmate, made wonderful things happen. "Then of course we must wait," he said, "for Midsummer Day and Gretna Green."

She gave him a slow, shy smile. "And then, neither man nor beast may separate us."

He smiled back at her, a lopsided grin that made one corner of his mouth lift and her heart beat just a little faster. "That day will fill my dreams, dearest."

He gathered her to him and kissed her, and she closed her eyes, deliriously happy, for his sinewy arms were about her and he smelled of the hay they'd put up together last fall, of the old books of poetry he'd read to her in the long winter evenings by the fire, of Branwen's scented soap and of spring sunshine. His still-sparse beard tickled her face and stirred something previously unwoken in her, something that made her want to skip and dance and fly and clench her fists and sing; it made her want to lie down in the grass and never leave his arms.

"And that," said Carl, several minutes later, "is how much I love my Queen."

Her delighted smile was cut short by an enormous, unstoppable yawn. "I—ah—sorry."

He smiled back and kissed her forehead. "Shh. It's all right. Go on and sleep."

When Lord Bearsclaw arrived home an hour later with two particularly fine new cows, he found Queen Lucy curled under the willow tree, asleep in a borrowed dress and stained bloomers, her head cradled in his eldest son's lap.

AN: I would say that it is, of course, all Starbrow's fault—except that it stopped being her fault a good long time ago. She wrote the last two scenes, Lucy's conversations with Edmund and Carl, and I apologize for the egregious liberties I took incorporating them, especially with, ahem, certain passages. I hope the end result is satisfactory, and I'm sorry for being such a bundle of contradictions.

Many, many thanks to Starbrow for instigating, to rthstewart for encouraging, to Laura Andrews for pitchfork-threatening, to WingedFlight and Struthious for squealing, and to WritingMum for liking.

To be continued.