Note from the authoress: Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter; I appreciate all of your encouraging comments.
Also I'd like to know if the formatting is better in this chapter, as someone recently pointed out that it was a bit choppy.
This chapter departs somewhat from the events in Magician's Nephew; because I took a possible scenario Digory suggested and turned it into this segment of my story.
As always feedback is welcome.
Enjoy.
A refreshing summer breeze stirs the curtains at my open window, and the sound of children playing reaches my ears as I glance anxiously towards the door. Wistfully I turn my face so that I might feel the gentle caress of the wind as it toys with my long hair. How I wish I was well enough to venture outdoors, to sit in the garden with Digory and his friend from next door.
He has often spoken to me of Polly over the past few days, telling me of their grand adventures and how they have played at being smugglers. I laughed for the first time in weeks when Digory told me that story, for it reminded me of my own childhood when Andrew and I would play similar games of pretend. I smile now as I recall those idyllic times, when we were not just brother and sister, but two friends who loved to invent tales of wonder and magic beneath the large oak tree in our garden. We would play at being a valiant knight destined to rescue the captive princess, or a powerful sorceress determined to thwart the plans of a dark enchanter.
Even then, I was concerned about Andrew's love of the arcane. There was always a far away look in his eyes whenever he spoke of magic, an expression of such raw hunger and desire that I often felt in those moments that the brother I loved so dearly would be lost to me if he walked that uncertain path. I was right to fear, for as the years passed my brother withdrew from the family, devoting himself entirely to his studies and eventually becoming dangerously ill.
Those were dark days for me, for out of all our family I was the only one who responded to the doctor's urgent telegram. How well I recall that night where I received that message, of how George helped me to prepare for the journey by ordering the fastest horses to take me to the brother I still loved. I recall how George assisted me into the carriage, promising to care for our newborn son and giving his best wishes for Andrew's swift recovery.
I will never forget those six days full of anxiety and utter exhaustion, where I fought to keep my brother from taking his final journey. Of how in the deep hours of the night I spoke of those long ago days, and told him a hundred stories in the hope that he might be drawn back to this world by the sound of my voice. Often I would argue fiercely with the physicians who told me there was little hope, determined not to let Andrew go without doing all I could to help him recover.
Now as I gaze longingly out the window at the passers by, I wish that Andrew had returned my kindness and come for more than a brief visit. Two minutes is hardly adequate, especially when all he did was gaze at me in shocked disbelief. At least I have Digory, and Matilda to keep me company. They have been my shield against loneliness and despair, for I know that without them I would have long ago succumbed to death's inevitable embrace.
Once again I glance towards the door, wondering what is keeping my boy. He is never this late. Even after a day spent playing outdoors he always comes to me before sunset with stories of his day. Firmly I tell myself not to worry, that there could be a dozen explanations for his absence.
This day has been overcast like the rest of this week, so perhaps he is next door with Polly playing a game of hide and seek, or he may have taken himself off to the library downstairs to read in front of a roaring fire.
My anxious thoughts are cut short by the sound of a stifled cry overhead. Immediately I sit up in surprise, every muscle taut with fear. For I know that voice as well as if it were my own. It is Digory. For a moment I toy with the idea of getting up to investigate, but know that such thoughts are futile.
Reluctantly I set aside frustration and focus instead on where the noise originated. The top floor of the house is where the servants sleep, and where my brother has his study. And that room is directly above this one.
I listen scarcely daring to breathe, in the hope that I might learn what has happened. Silence reigns for a few moments, but is broken at last by footsteps overhead.
By now I have learned to recognize the rhythmic pacing of my brother, and the measured tread of servants who bring him his meals. These footsteps are completely different. They are confident and brisk, the steps of a person used to exercising authority. Curiosity stirs within me, as I try to puzzle out who could possibly be visiting my brother, and how I could have missed whoever it was passing my door.
Raised voices overhead reach my ears, and I recognize my brother's voice sharp with anxiety and an underlying note of fear.
Silence once again falls, and then my door is pushed open. I raise myself on my pillows, thinking that it is Digory come to see me. But what stands framed in the doorway is so unusual, so unlike any creature I have ever seen that I am momentarily rendered speechless. Fear such as I have never known courses through me, as I study the woman who will play a vital role in the destiny of my family.
She is tall and regal, with the baring of a queen and the confident arrogance of a goddess. She is dressed in costly robes, and at her throat flashes the dark fire of emeralds. Her head is crowned by a circlet of silver set with tiny crystals, indeed all that is missing is a scepter to make her look the part of an ancient queen of winter.
She surveys me with cool indifference, and I know what name I will give this extraordinary creature. Valkyrie, the name given to those maidens of Norse lore who chose the best from among the slain to take to Valhalla. She is like them, and yet she is not, for surely no Valkyrie would ever look upon me with such contempt and malice, with eyes that promised not a place at Odin's table but a slow and agonizing death.
I shudder as those cold eyes meet mine, for they are utterly devoid of warmth, or any emotion resembling joy, kindness or mercy. Yes she is a dark Valkyrie who lives for conquest and the satisfaction of blood spilt in rage and revenge.
She dismisses me with a casual shrug of indifference, and next moment I am alone wondering if the whole incident was naught but a twisted nightmare.
With a sigh of relief I sink back onto my pillows, my head spinning from these strange and inexplicable events. My mind is filled with horrible thoughts, of phrases from ancient stories and a great fear for my Digory. For whoever whatever that creature was, I know that it is Andrew who has brought her here. Somehow, he has found a way impossible though it may seem, to make the magic of stories a terrifying reality and open a way between our world and the place where this person dwells.
The sound of horses below attracts my attention, and I thank God that my bed is placed near the open window so that I might observe what is happening below. A cab stops at the front door, and I watch incredulously as Andrew assists the tall stranger into it and gives the driver his instructions. Moments later they are out of sight.
Wearily I draw the thick rugs about me in a vain attempt to keep warm, as every anxious thought and speculation becomes bound up in one desperate question
Andrew what have you done?