November, 1972

Helen Lucy Pevensie had failed another maths exam. She'd felt really good about this one, but the note from her professor glared at her from the top of the page. She and her brother were supposed to go on holiday with their father this weekend.

For the first time since she could remember, Peter was taking Helen and Charles to her Aunt Lucy's country estate. She couldn't even picture her Aunt Lucy, only knowing her from the photograph of the four siblings taken at her Aunt Susan's wedding and she was very excited to get to know her namesake better.

If Grace found out about her failed exam, there was no way she'd let her daughter go.

Helen already had a strained relationship with Grace. Since she was a child, Grace had forbidden her daughter to read novels, philosophy, or histories not focused on science. Even the fantastical stories her father had whispered to her and Charles when Grace was in the next room or away when she was young had been put to an abrupt stop at some point. Helen could only blame Grace for this. Even in school, Grace made sure to tell Helen's professors that she would only be reading what was absolutely necessary and that her daughter didn't need to participate in classes like art or music, as those were frivolous things for her to know.

Helen walked to the intermediate school where Charles attended classes and together they made their way to their townhouse on Gloucester Road. It was a nice enough day and Charles was terribly excited about their imminent holiday, but even her younger brother's effervescent attitude did nothing to cheer her up. She was sullen all the way to the Tube station, and then on the train.

"Is everything all right?" Charles asked, as they travelled under the streets of London. "You seem to have forgotten that we get to go on holiday all weekend!"

That we may soon become a you, she almost said, but held her tongue. She so hated to ruin his good moods, as, then, he tended to get sullen as well which meant tantrums. "I just stayed up too late studying maths last night," she lied. "I'll nap on the train."

The two arrived back home and walked in through the garden and the kitchen door. "Father?" she called out. "Mother?"

"Lucy!" she heard from the living room. When Grace was absent, her father insisted on calling her and her brother by their middle names, the ones he'd chosen, after his two siblings. "Ed! You two are back!" Peter rushed in, face flushed and hair very messy on top of his head, his glasses shoved up on his forehead. Grace must not have been home to chide at him. "Are you ready?"

Helen felt her heart leap. If Grace wasn't home, she didn't have to tell her about the test until they returned on Sunday evening. Meaning, she didn't have to risk having to stay home away from holiday. The children quickly dropped their book bags in the front closet and rushed upstairs to change out of their uniforms. Bags in hand, hats on heads, and smiles on faces, the three Pevensies walked out the door and to the train station.

Perhaps it was because they were going to see his younger sister whom he hadn't seen in many years or maybe because Grace wasn't accompanying them on this particular adventure to spoil everything, but Helen didn't think she'd ever seen her father this…giddy.

Once, one of her mother's friends had told her that during his and Grace's courtship, her father had been downright jovial. He'd worked in Parliament back then, which was how he'd met Dr. Mariner, and, later, Grace. Yet, when they were married, Peter left government to take a job as a professor of theology, much to his new wife's dismay, who, of course, placed religion on the same level as novels and non-wool socks in terms of usefulness; that is to say, not at all. There had been quite a row between them, the friend of Grace's had told Helen, and most of the neighbors thought they were going to separate, but they finally settled on the fact that even though Peter taught theology, there would be no place for such "useless fluff" in their home. Since then, the friend said, Peter had been rather subdued.

The three Pevensies loaded their train an took a compartment. Helen's father had an odd look of memory on his face as they sat down, Helen across from the boys. "Father?" she asked softly.

"We took a train the first time, too," he murmured, so soft Helen had to lean in to hear him.

"The first time?" Charles asked.

"This house is full of lots of memories for your aunts, uncle, and me. Lucy—well, actually, all of us, but she and Ed live there—inherited the house we're going to from an old professor we stayed with during the war. When he passed, we each received a letter from his lawyer, letting us know the professor had left us everything in the house."

"It certainly sounds…special," Helen commented. Some random old man had left her father and his siblings his entire estate? Just because they'd been forced on him by the invading troops?

"It is special, Lu," he said, smiling. He had an odd look of challenge on his face now as he looked at his daughter. "Do you remember the stories I used to tell you both? The ones about my siblings' and my adventures in—?"

"Numnia?" Charles replied, almost breathless.

Peter chuckled and put an arm around his son. "Narnia. Yes, do you remember those stories at all?"

The two children shook their heads. Helen pulled up images of talking beavers and dancing trees and flying lions, but, of course, that was just simply impossible. Peter's smile grew, as if reading his daughter's mind. "To the west, there is a lamppost that marks the far edge of Narnia. Just beyond the lamppost is the strange land of War Drobe and the small town of Spare Oom."

Helen cocked her head. Why was her father speaking gibberish? Peter laughed. "I guess I have a little more to tell you."

And, so, Peter told his children of his and his siblings' adventures in Narnia: sword fights with wolves, witches, lions rising from the dead, meeting Father Christmas, fighting wars… He was rewarded with wide eyes, equal parts awe and disbelief.

"Father," Helen began, "but that's all rather impossible."

"Precisely," Peter clarified with a smile.

"But, animals haven't got voice boxes to speak. And there is no way an entire world exists inside a wardrobe!" she insisted.

"You sound just like your Aunt Susan. Look, Lu…just because something doesn't make logical sense doesn't mean it's not real."

This stopped Helen. Charles piped up and asked about Father being the high king of Narnia while Helen settled deeper into her seat. She supposed it was truly a lovely sentiment, but, perhaps, there was just too much of Grace in her daughter. Seeing was believing. These were just stories that he and his siblings had come up with when forced out of their homes during a traumatizing time in their lives.

Charles ended up falling asleep as it fell dark. Helen just watched her father as he stared out the window at the ever-darkening English countryside. He was so lost in thought, she was convinced she could yell his name and he wouldn't even flinch. She tried to imagine him as a boy, having just lost his father, promising his mother he'd take care of three children when he was still a child himself, growing up in a world torn apart by war and fear. Maybe that's why his stories were so important to him: they were an escape from the Atlantean weight he bore on his shoulders. Narnia was a place where he had the power to do real good, change the world, be the magnificent high king.

Around eight that evening the train stopped on a tiny wooden platform that could hardly be called a station. Helen, Peter, and a drowsy Charles disembarked, Helen looked around for car take them to Lucy's home. They waited in the pale light of the single lamppost for a few minutes before hearing a cacophony of creaking and clomping, and a cloud of dust arose at the end of the road.

A moment later, a horse and buddy stopped before the platform. On the bench sat a beautiful middle-aged woman with long, auburn hair—just like Helen's—woven into a huge plait and hung over one shoulder. She wore an emerald green sweater and dark slacks that seemed to shimmer in the lamp light. She looked like a queen, not her brother's baby sister.

"Aunt Lucy?" Charles asked, his voice soft with awe.

The woman beamed. "I figured this was the proper way to escort you to the Professor's Mansion."

Peter was just grinning. "Good to see you, Lu. Mrs. Macreedy would be so proud."

Even after not having seen his youngest sister in years, Peter regarded her with that same soft look of memory he had when they got on the train, almost like he were looking at a picture he used to be very fond of, only to lose and find again years later. There was none of the general discussion of how well either of them looked, though Helen was sure Lucy had never seen her father with a beard. It was new to even her. It was almost as if they'd seen each other like this…before.

The Pevensies loaded their bags into the cart and hopped on. Helen was unimpressed with the jerky, dirty means of travelling the buggy had. Charles however was completely entranced.

"What are the horses' names?" he asked first.

"The bay one is Phillip," Lucy said which made Peter smile, broadly. "And I call the other DLF."

"DLF?" Helen asked.

"Dear Little Friend," she and Peter replied in unison, sending them both into a fit of laughter.

Helen humphed into her seat. She didn't see what was so funny, or why her father insisted on making a spectacle of himself. How could a horse's name possibly be that funny? As excited as she had been to get out of London and, more importantly, away from Grace, so far this holiday was not going as she had hoped at all. Who knew her father could be so childish?

When they arrived at the manor, however, even she was breathless. It loomed before them, windows sparkling in the moonlight, turrets twisting the clouds. It's façade, strangely enough, though, was far from the foreboding menace that most of these old manors had. Instead, it had a sort of air of invitation—everything about the building radiated warmth and comfort.

Lucy helped the children with their bags and into the house before taking Phillip and DLF to the stables. Peter walked the children inside where, as soon as the door shut, a great booming voice cried out, "Ho, brother!"

Helen actually jumped and watched as her father was attacked by a bright red mass. It turned out to be her Uncle Edmund in a very red sweater. He was younger than Peter and had a youthful energy, just like Charles'. The only hint of his age was a slight salt in his pepper-dark hair and the smile lines all around his eyes. He turned to her and Charles.

"My goodness," her uncle breathed as he met Helen's eyes. "It's Lucy."

Peter smiled that knowing smile. "I know."

Helen looked down as Charles struck up his usual, childish conversation. This was strange—these people, so different than Grace's father or her cousins, and this place, nothing like their sensible, Central London townhouse. If she was honest, trying to wrap her mind around all the new and the fact that the best days of her father's life were spent here, with these people, made her head hurt.

"Lu," her father interjected, breaking her train of thought.

"Hm?"

"Supper?"

"Oh, actually, I'm pretty exhausted from the ride. Could I maybe just…?" She didn't want to seem rude, but she just needed to be alone for a while.

Her aunt smiled, having come in sometime while she was thinking. "I'll show you to your room."

Up seven staircases, around three corners, through an upstairs parlor, and into a small bedroom Lucy lead her niece. The room was small, but warm. The walls were painted with cherry trees that almost seemed to be dancing with their blossoms and each other. A washstand stood under the window, and a bed took up the other wall, looking right outside with a table beside it, novels stacked underneath. A great old armoire stood vigil.

If Helen had looked behind, she would have found an image that looked like two girls flying on the back of a lion.