Only Mum and Dad had accompanied Lucy to the train that took her back to boarding school, but Susan rose at six 'o clock a.m. to see Edmund off, anticipating the loneliness that she would feel once he was gone. The four of them rode to the station in silence, parents staring straight ahead, children out their respective windows. They all felt the solemnity that hovered in the air, heavy and foreboding, but refused as a whole to address it.

Susan glanced at two empty middle seats, one in front and one in back, and imagined Peter and Lucy there, surreptitiously poking each other, lightening the mood without conscious effort. Then Ed slung his carryall on top of Peter's ghost, and the illusion was broken.

Dad pulled up to the curb, let Susan and Edmund out. "We'll be by in a few moments," he grunted, looking around for a parking spot. Mum dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief (she always cried, consistently, every year) and waved as if this was already goodbye.

The station was packed with teenage boys and the noises they made; shouting, hollering, chuckling, whistling as Susan marched past in her red kitten heels (which she now regretted wearing). Ed hovered at her side protectively, sullen-faced and sweaty in the late-summer heat, and she chuckled inwardly, while she still could. The whistle was already blowing.

Mum and Dad joined them just in time for the customary hugs and handshakes. Then Ed was stepping off the platform and onto the train, yelling wisecracks over the whistle and trying to make Mum smile. Susan looked up into his freckled face and felt her heart constrict.

"Ed! Edmund!"

The train was moving and the noise was nearly deafening. Ed scowled and cupped his ear. "What?"

"Take care of Lucy!"

"What?"

"I said," she jogged a little to keep pace, "Take care of Lucy!"

Oh, his expression seemed to say, is that all?

It wasn't, but Susan couldn't keep up anymore. Out of breath, she staggered to a halt and contented herself to wave. He returned the gesture, a bit mockingly, and disappeared inside the cab, taking Susan's hope with him. Hope for what? She couldn't have said.

With his departure came cooler weather and blank silence, not the type that contains something ready to burst, but the silence that drags downward, purposeless, still. Stagnant. Susan spent most of her time at the library, enjoying the work, but after a month preferred to stay at home and listen mindlessly to the radio. It was under these sad circumstances, depressed and lonely, that she agreed to another date with Robert Sandhowler.

Thick-boned, red-haired and ruddy cheeked, Robert was not the sort of lad that normally interested Susan. However, he had a wonderful smile that split his face wide open, and a generous heart (especially towards children), and had captured her attention at the graduation bash. She had come down the porch stairs on Peter's arm, spotted the hefty fellow spinning little boys near the tables, and felt a surge of interest in spite of herself. Although he wasn't the complete reason she had stayed in Finchley, he was part of it.

He'd tried to kiss her on their third date, open mouthed. Susan had kicked his shins.

Two months later, he came round, shamefaced, and asked if he could buy her supper that evening. No, she said, but Saturday tea would be lovely. She almost regretted saying yes (of a sort), but couldn't bring herself to be unhappy about her decision. She was desperate for the company of a young man.

"Susan," Mum inquired softly, knocking on the bedroom door at half past noon. "Are you almost dressed? He's coming down the walkway."

"Nearly, Mum. I won't be a moment." Susan clipped on her only pearl earrings and examined her reflection closely: pale green dress, white tennis shoes (she didn't want give a forward impression with heels), hair flowing softly over one shoulder. She looked demure enough (not at all saucy), almost ghostlike, but a bit of rouge helped with the paleness.

There, now she was saintly. If thoughts of the Immaculate Lady couldn't put Robert off, then there really was no hope.

She led him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table, set the kettle to boiling. Robert fidgeted, uncomfortable with Mum bustling about, sorting laundry in the drawing room.

"You should be grateful that Dad isn't home," Susan murmured softly, chopping up lettuce for a salad and smiling to herself. "He would glare at you all afternoon."

"Doesn't like me much, eh," Robert rumbled. His voice was much too loud for the modest-sized kitchen.

"Well, you weren't exactly a gentleman when last he heard of you."

"That's the truth," he agreed, scratching his arm. Susan laughed, turning to glare at him playfully and earning a wink.

"I like that," she commented after a moment of content silence.

"What? That I'm not a gentleman?"

"No, silly." She drew down the cutting board and began to chop a tomato. "That you're so blunt."

"I aim to please," he replied, and sounded so much like Peter that she started, cut her fingertip.

"Ouch!"

"Are you alright?" He pushed away from the table and reached for her hand, intent on examining the oozing incision. Susan blushed and turned around, heading towards the sink.

"I'm fine, it's just a scrape."

"Let me see," he pressed, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards him. His palm was hot and dry as it cradled hers, and the intensity in his manner made her nervous. Still, she couldn't bring herself to pull away, mesmerized by the strength in his fingertips, by the way her stomach clenched in anticipation.

RING. RING. Mum stirred in the drawing room.

"Susan, love? Could you get that?"

Never before had Susan been so grateful (and so disappointed) to hear the telephone. Flustered, she pulled away and stumbled out of the kitchen, up the stairs. Robert stayed where he was, brow furrowed.

"Pevensie residence?"

"Hello, Susan." It was Peter.

"Peter," she drawled, then had to laugh, because even seventy miles away, Peter was still defending her honor. From the silence on the other end, he didn't quite get the jest.

"How are you? You sound smashing." She tried to soothe his ego.

"Well enough. Listen, Su, could you do a favor for me?"

She thought about her answer, very seriously, then scolded herself for having to ponder at all. "Yes. What do you need?"

He sighed in relief. "Could you look in my bedside table, in the top drawer, and see if there's an envelope with the initial's J.C.Q. on it?"

"Certainly. One moment."

"Thanks, Su. I appreciate it."

"Susan," Robert called from the stairwell, sounding a bit impatient and nervous. Likely he thought she was going to kick him out again (it was a definite possibility).

"Just a moment," she replied serenely, yanking open the drawer and sifting through the many teeth-marked pencils, Lucy drawings and yellowed stationery within. The letter Peter wanted was beneath a stack of wrinkled papers (all with four happy stick figures doodled upon them). Susan snatched it up and rushed for the door, only to nearly collide with Robert. They both jumped, him in pure embarrassment, her in surprise that quickly turned to anger.

"What are you doing? Go back downstairs at once!"

He scurried away, and she almost saw a tail hanging dejectedly between his legs. Chuckling, she picked up the telephone. "I found it."

"Who was that," Peter demanded, voice torn between concern and amusement.

"No one. What did you need the letter for?"

"Su. Who was that?" He was not going to give in that easily.

Susan sighed, turned the letter over and peered at the back. "Robert Sandhowler, if you must know. Now…"

"Sandhowler? I thought you were rid of that..."

"Don't, and no."

"Is anyone home with you?" Peter breathed heavily into the receiver, growing agitated. Susan crossed her arms and scowled. Now she was irritated.

"Mum's here, not that it matters, and don't start in on that. What about the letter."

"Why was he coming upstairs?"

"Peter!" She stomped, head falling back in exasperation. "It. Doesn't. Matter. Please shut up about it."

"Fine," he grumbled (Susan could see his sullen pout), "Please open the letter."

"Done."

"Alright, could you read the date in the upper right-hand corner out loud?"

"The twenty-first of May, 1944." A scratching sound came over the line, most likely Peter writing the information down. "Is there a reason I'm neglecting 'my' date for you?"

"Because he's a prat."

"Peter!"

"Sorry," he lied, a smile in his voice. "That's all I needed to know, thank you."

"What's the date for?"

"Something to do with school," he replied vaguely. She knew he was punishing her for withholding, but was so pleased to be having a decent, relatively tension free conversation with him that she quite forgave the slight.

"When are you coming home?"

"Christmas Eve, if all goes well. I'll see you then?"

"Of course. Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye." They hung up.

Susan stood with her back against the wall for some odd seconds, eyes closed and a pretty smile playing over her lips, before remembering Robert and trekking back down the stairs, into the kitchen.

He was bent over the counter, tossing the salad in an awkward but experienced fashion, red curls bouncing in time with the movements of his wrist. "How's your finger?"

"Better," Susan replied after a cursory glance, tucking the letter into her skirt pocket and nudging Robert out of the way. "Let me do it."

"It's done." He picked up the bowl and carried it to the table. "Could you check our tea?"

Susan was somewhat impressed with his domestic skill, and acquiesced without fuss.