Cor, having the good sense to feel guilty, went looking for Aravis soon after. What could he say? Quarrelling was nothing new to them. Why did it feel . . . unnecessary and childish today? When he could not find her, he gave up and decided to work his mental faculties over tonight's more pressing problem.

What am I to do about this Lady Amberjill? Some might suggest I give the young lady a chance, meet her myself and then form an opinion . . . But, even my brother is frightened of her . . . I wish I could somehow escape the ball . . .

Cor had liked balls up to this point. There had been no pressure, no impending sense of political and/or dynastic doom if he things did not go according to plan.

.

I could pretend to be ill . . . but then Father would fret . . . the last time I was ill he worried so much he almost gave himself an ulcer. No, I must think of something else . . . .

Cor buried his face in his hands and plopped into his study chair with a groan. Sometimes, and they were very short sometimes, Cor would wish that he was back in that miserable fisherman's hut in Calormen. He knew what had been expected of him and it was very little:

Mend the nets; clean the hut; cook. Simple. These were tasks he knew he could do. The only one to suffer, really, if the jobs had not been done to satisfaction, was he.

But, if had not run away with Bree then he would not have known his wonderful father or brother. He would also have never met a certain Calormene princess . . .

Aravis . . .

Leaping from his study chair he threw open the door and left to renew his search for Aravis.

Cor had an idea.