Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own original characters and a typewriter.
A/N: Chapter two! Sorry it took me a bit to update, I had midterms and I needed to take a few days to take care of myself and sleep and whatnot. Luckily I'm currently having my spring break, so I had a good amount of time to get this chapter up and running. I hope you like it! I'm doing my best to have chapter three up soon.
I'm Fine
In a way, we become a subdued version of ourselves. Everything we have been must come second to the way those on earth know us. However, there are still some noticeable changes. Edmund is no longer the spiteful child he once was. He is solemn and obedient with a lingering air of mischief. All of Lucy's vibrant joy has been muted. She only shows it but every once in awhile. Susan is on edge, no doubt recovering from Prince Rabadash's gross advances. And Peter seems as though he is exactly the same. We don't mention it to each other, but we want to go back. We want to return to the gaiety that enhanced us, made us better than what we could've imagined. It's not that we long for palace living in which we have people waiting on our hand and foot, it's that Narnia has molded us. We were engrafted to a different tree of life. And in mere moments, that was taken away.
We're all trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it, though. And for the most part, we are succeeding. But not without notice from our mothers, no, they can always tell when something as wrong. They just haven't been able to get it out of us. It's been a little over a week since we've been back, and mum's been trying to get the "old Charlotte" out of me since day two.
"Darling, why don't we go for breakfast today? Seems making it has gotten a bit boring and goodness knows I've been craving some good biscuits." "Darling, there's a show at the theatre, what d'you say we treat ourselves to an evening out?" "Darling, would you like to take a walk with me? The flowers are starting to bloom again." "Darling—darling—darling—"
But I have not wavered.
"Darling, I found this copy of Pride and Prejudice lying around, I thought you might like to read it again."
"What?" I look up at her from the sofa.
"Um," she tries to hide her smile. Success. "Your Jane Austen novel. I guess you forgot to take it with you. I thought you'd want to look at it."
I was reading this on the first day, I think. The day everything changed and I didn't know it. For a moment, I remember what it felt like before Narnia. Just as quickly as it comes, it goes away.
"Thanks," I say as she hands it to me. I leaf through the pages a bit, but she doesn't move.
"Charlotte," she begins, "I thought we might go into town today. Your interviews are in less than a week and I thought it'd be nice for you to have something new to wear."
"But we don't really have the money for that, mum," I say sitting up.
She chuckles softly. "I have a small stash of my own."
A small pause before speaking again. "Are you going to buy anything for yourself?"
"Maybe..." she flashes a grin, and for a moment she looks her old (young) self. "If anything calls my name."
"Okay," I sigh, giving in. "Let's go."
We take the tube into the city, emerging into its heart where people are bustling about, doing their daily work and enjoying some small (yet fine) luxuries. I suddenly realize how long it's been since I've been in the real world with real people who look like me. I feel a bit embarrassed, dated. I wonder if they can sense that. Coming to my senses, I remember that they probably don't care.
We walk southbound on the right side of the street, stopping for a bit of lunch. Cold-cut sandwiches and crisps, and a few bottles of fizz to wash it down. Afterward, we walk farther south until we hit our destination. Shirley's, the kind of place that could still afford to have live models even with the war and the raids. It even has an electric sign. We stop, looking inside the picture window before going in.
"Mum, really!" I say, taking her arm and immediately loosening my grip. "These all cost small fortunes, why, we can make them with fabric that's just as good; it's not worth losing our dinner for."
"No," she says, squeezing my hand. "No, I want you to have the very best. Let's get them here."
Once we've gotten settled, the manager asks if we'd like anything to drink. Then, what we're looking for. We ask for water even though we're already full, and when I don't answer the second question, mum takes the wheel.
"A suit. The kind one would wear to an interview? And maybe a few day dresses – and an evening dress!"
The manager nods, smiling. "They'll be out shortly." And she's gone.
The first dress they bring out is a day dress; seafoam green with little cherries all over the place. It's fitted at the waist with a pussycat bow at the neckline. The model who wears is has shining black hair, so black it almost looks blue. She's even wearing a velvet hat and brown heels to complete the look. It's beautiful. We put it aside to try on later.
The second dress is for the evening; a nude organza with lace to complement. There are black dangling beads at the bust and at the bottom, and a small train in back.
"Mum, it's too much. I don't even know where I would wear it out."
"It's nice to have one though, isn't it? We'll try that one as well."
The last item is a three-piece suit; a royal blue jacket and skirt with black embroidery, and an ivory blouse. It's very patriotic, to echo the manager's words. It's nothing short of what a proper lady would wear. We buy all three, taking the suit and day dress immediately and leaving the gown to be altered at a later date. I'm almost brought to tears, being spoiled like this. I cannot be any more grateful to my mum, if not a little bit sad. I get the sinking feeling inside that I do not deserve this. I wonder if I'd be receiving the same treatment if she knew that I was once to be a mother—no, no. Not those thoughts. Today is a good day. A good distraction. Don't muck it up for yourself, Charlotte. Not now. Keep it in, save it for later.
We're on the tube now, and our stop is second to last. Mum's absolutely beaming at our purchases, striking up conversation with other women about St. Finbar's and interviews and maths... Sooner than later she turns to me, a gleam in her eye.
"Oh, Charlotte," she sighs. "If only your father could see you in these." She hiccups at the last few words, almost fighting to get them out. I rub her forearm gently.
"Has there—" I already know the answer, though I ask anyway "—has there been any news on father?" Her smile fades.
"Well, darling. If there was, you'd think I'd have notified you up in the country." She sounds almost exasperated now, and so quickly. "No. There's nothing."
The talking stops there.
After dinner, Lucy walks over and invites us to coffee and biscuits at hers. Mum stays on account of being tired. I walk across the front lawn with Lucy, holding her hand as we pass through the threshold. Mrs. Pevensie is in the kitchen with Peter, Susan, and Edmund, talking to them very seriously.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," I say, tiptoeing in.
"No! Not at all. In fact, you're just in time." She grabs me by the arm and sits me down at the table, taking the opposite chair. "So. You're going to get asked all sorts of questions in your interviews. What schools you attended, why you were out of school for so long, your transcripts, your career interest, why you think you'll be a good fit for Finbar's, things like that."
"Oh, gosh, okay," I say, smiling nervously.
"You just have to relax and be yourself, while maintaining the air of an up-and-coming socialite. Goodness knows they wouldn't want any country bumpkin living in their quarters."
She quizzes me, assuming the role of a posh older woman with a traditional English accent. I answer each question as best I can, receiving pointers in between, but sometime in the middle I get to thinking. Am I really cut out for this? Once a queen, now a schoolgirl? Once a shining example of beauty, now a tainted excuse for a daughter; damn. I am nothing of what these people want. I have been the bringer of bad times before and now, I am an utter failure. They want me to be a figure of poise and grace. But you, Charlotte, are nothing more than a coward who's too afraid to own up to her own feelings. The fruit of your womb has shriveled up and died. You are good for nothing, and if you had any power at all you would have found a way to save that baby.
"Charlotte," Edmund asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Is everything alright?"
"What?" I look up at him, confused. "Yes! Yes, everything's fine. It's all fine. I just..."
"You completely left us," Susan says, standing behind Mrs. Pevensie.
"She's probably just tired, is all," Peter says, taking my hand.
"Yes, that's it. Tired, and a bit anxious for the interviews." I agree.
"Well," Mrs. Pevensie interjects, "you did well with your questions. Just... try not to daydream during your interview, dear."
"Of course," I nod, taking a biscuit.
As soon as I take a bite, I find myself being pulled away.
"No funny business, now," Mrs. Pevensie says in a half-stern tone, as Peter darn near drags me up the stairs.
"Can I help you?" I ask as he ushers me into his room and shuts the door.
"You're not okay." He folds his arms. "Talk to me."
It's as though he can feel me shutting down.
"I'm just nervous is all," I say, folding my arms and sitting on the bed.
"You are not," he says, sitting next to me. "You know you're going to ace those interviews and charm that panel right onto the front lines."
"Oh Peter, don't be crude."
"You know I'm right. It's the baby. It's Narnia. You said so yourself."
At that moment, I flashback.
"What's this?" Peter asked, getting off his horse. "It seems familiar."
We followed his gaze to what appeared to be a... a lamppost. I felt a sort of heat in the pit of my stomach. I knew what it was.
As if it's from a dream. Or a dream of a dream.
My thoughts start cycling. You knew, you fool, you knew what the lamppost was. You never forgot life on earth. You knew the wardrobe was nearby and you knew we were going to go back, but you did nothing. You killed your child without so much as a second thought.
"But I didn't know..." I murmur. I didn't know I would lose it. I didn't know it would have these consequences.
Well, it's too late now.
"What was that?" Peter asks, grazing my exposed knee with his fingertips.
I start shaking before I can stop myself. The convulsions are too hard not to stop, but no tears will come out. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, but I cannot give in to him like this. I cannot give in to these feelings.
"Mmm," I squeeze his leg as a signal for him to let me go. I sit up, pushing myself off of him, drying the tears that are not even there.
"Darling..." he whispers, his eyes glass.
"Mm-mm," I shake my head. "No." I kiss him. And I kiss him hard, so hard that he's startled.
I put my hands on the back of his neck and pull him further into the kiss, as though there is nothing more in this world keeping me alive. He puts his hands on my waist reluctantly and begins responding. Soon enough, we're lying on the bed side by side, engrossed in one another. I start fiddling with the buttons on his shirt as he lifts my left leg around his waist. At one point, he tries to break away, but I don't let him. However, he is too strong.
"Charlotte, this—" He's breathing is erratic "—this doesn't make any sense. Just a few nights ago you pushed me away and now, now this?"
I clear my throat. "Isn't this what you want?"
"No, no." It comes out harsher than he intends it to. He doesn't apologize. "I want you to be okay. Not hide behind a shadow."
A blink. A hand playing with the loose threads in the sheets. A voice. Not mine. "You have to let it out."
"No," I respond almost too quickly. "No. Not today."
"When?"
"We'll see."
He sits up slowly, running a hair through his hair as though to fix it up. I am still lying down.
"Hey. One more kiss?"
He arrives at my level once more, meeting my lips softly. And even though we're not talking, it's as though I feel him saying "let me in."
I do not.
The day is here before we know it; The interviews. We rise early and eat a big, warm breakfast before leaving for the tubes. The sky is a blue haze; light enough that we can see but still dark enough to have the streetlights on. During the ride into the city, there is no talk, just focus. It's as though we can feel one another's nerves in the air, and we are afraid of snapping them. God, we're so on edge. Even Mrs. Pevensie is speechless. Once we arrive in the city and ascend the staircase to fresh air, it is light outside. The sun is just peeking in between the buildings and the streets are already busy. We hail a cab and drive the rest of the way to St. Finbar's. The campus is quite nice, there are trees everywhere. Even a pool! We get there in plenty of time, but there is a line of people standing outside the main building's door.
"Seems we're not the only people here for interviews," mum says softly.
We step in place, huddling together to avoid the chill that's circulating round. Even though it's a rare sunny day, it's still cold. Within fifteen minutes we forsake the nippy air for indoor warmth, and take in our surroundings. It's a dull lobby, mostly made of carved wood and stained glass. There are "historical artifacts," as Mrs. MacCready calls them, everywhere, and the floors are a tiled marble. It has a stark similarity to the Professor's home in the country. For a moment, I miss it.
My thoughts are interrupted by two people shouting.
"Tables are separated by year level! Lower ranks are on the left, higher ranks are on the right. Assemble yourselves accordingly."
"Well, this is it." Mrs. Pevensie says, a hopeful smile on her face.
Peter and I wave goodbye, moving towards the right. We are in the same grade, but Susan, Edmund, and Lucy are a few years apart. Mum and Mrs. Pevensie sit on a bench in the corner and begin their wait.
"Wow," Peter says, eyeing me up and down. "I didn't notice your outfit before. You look beautiful."
"Thanks, you look sharp yourself," I blush, straightening his tie. "Are you ready?"
He smirks. "I guess we'll find out."
Before we know it, we are first in line. A man and a woman sit next to each other at the table in front of us, each holding a clipboard and pen. They already look like they're ready to go home.
"Name?"
"Charlotte Dawson." "Peter Pevensie."
"Year?"
"Tenth."
"Here are your information slips. Men's interviews are conducted down the hall and to the left, ladies interviews are the last door in the centre. Good luck."
"Thanks." "Thank you."
I walk Peter to his door before leaving to go to mine. He leans over and whispers the following in my ear: "Do you think if I tell them I'm the High King of Narnia, I'll automatically get in?"
I chuckle. "I think it's a bit more complicated than that."
"Good luck, my love."
"Good luck, Peter."
Here goes nothing.
All I can remember is that they were faster than I thought. The interviews, I mean. I was in and out of there quicker than one could say "shoot!" I suppose I did well. I'm assuming I did well. No matter, it's over now.
By the time I meet up with the others, the crowd has died down significantly. The secretaries who showed us to our perspective rooms tell us we'll have our notifications by next week's end. We nod, get ourselves together and leave the building.
"I suppose mine went alright," Susan says in the cab. "They were quite cold."
"They were perfectly civil to me," Edmund shrugs.
"Well for all we know you could've cast a spell on them."
Everyone laughs except for the mothers.
"I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat before we head back home. What do you say? My treat." Mrs. Pevensie flashes a grin. We agree unanimously. "Driver? Churchill's Bakery. Thank you."
While there, we order cold sandwiches and each have a slice of cake. Most of the conversation has no substance, and I'm in and out of phase anyway, so I don't listen at all. It's about ten minutes later that I start paying attention, when the waitress brings our food to the table. As I look up, my breath catches in my throat and I clutch the closest thing to me in order to keep steady. In this case, it is a fork.
Everyone stops talking, stops sipping their drinks, and looks at me, then looks at the waitress. Mum and Mrs. Pevensie seem confused, but remain silent. However, the others know.
Lady Calloway, I think. She looks exactly like Lady Calloway.
The waitress, immediately made uncomfortable, sets our plates down with extra care, smiles nervously, and leaves. Even after she's disappeared into the kitchen, I am unable to move. Peter removes the fork in my hand and rubs my palm until I am warm again.
"It's okay," I can feel him saying. "It's okay."
I've got to keep it together.
The ride home is even quieter than the ride there. I think I've cast a pall on our outing, because everyone is afraid to make a sound. It's as though I'm a ticking time bomb that will go off if touched. We arrive home safely as the sun is slowly sinking behind the fence. After saying our goodbyes, we retreat into our perspective homes.
Three minutes later, the phone rings. I answer it.
"It's me." Peter's voice. "I was wondering if you wanted me to come over and sit with you for awhile. You know. Be there."
"I'm fine, Peter." I say stoutly.
"I just thought you might want some company after... the sighting."
"No, it's fine. I'm going up to bathe now. I'll see you later."
"Okay. I love you, Char."
I hang up.
Twelve minutes later, I am sitting in the ivory tub, holding my knees to my chest. I am cold, though the water is warm. The small, rectangular window that borders the ceiling casts a hollow shade of blue on the pale walls. It provides for an atmosphere of deep thought, which I welcome. It's not that I'm afraid we won't get into St. Finbar's. It's the idea of leaving again. I have said goodbye to everything I have known twice now, and I don't know what we'll do when we have to again. What will it be like? Will we be liked? Will be enjoy ourselves? Will we miss home as never before? Will we feel as though we're finally where we belong? I sigh, unable to answer these questions. We haven't left yet. It will probably all be okay.
Within ten more minutes, I'm out of the tub. I can already tell I won't sleep tonight.
Five days later, the letter comes.
"Dear Miss Dawson (and parent),
We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to attend St. Finbar's this coming season. You have been picked from a prime pool of applicants, so please do not take our decision lightly. We feel as though you will enhance the school and we will hold you to that expectation... Enclosed is your itinerary and instructions for orientation... We are poised to meet and welcome you as a new student to St. Finbar's Academy. Congratulations.
Sincerely,
The Board of Trustees."
And all at once, everything I found to be stable shook and crumbled to the ground.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review and stay tuned for chapter three!
