Regardless of all the good intentions afoot, time did not improve any shaky or ill feelings between the people of Sparks and the people of Ember; rather, it made them worse.

The people of Ember were grateful to have shelter and food, but they didn't appreciate being constantly reminded of the debt they now owed in return. Many of the children of Sparks snubbed the children of Ember in a long-forgotten manner that once-many years ago, before the disaster-was how the children of rich families, the elites, treated their servants. Most weren't unkind directly, but they still acted superior.

They had homes of their own, they said, and they didn't have to live on charity. Gael and Jill Pole, of course, were not at all like that; but that did not, by any means, stop others from being so.

It was not that they were trying to be cruel. It was only that they'd heard the people of Ember were different; and, honestly, they looked it, too. As has been stated before, they were so little and pale. And, while his resentment of giving up his room was still simmering, Eustace became something of a ring-leader in mockery of the people of Ember. To their faces, he could tease the littlest of Ember's children. Behind backs, he could laugh at the older ones.

At first, the people of Ember chose to ignore this, thinking it would pass. Then, though, a bombshell-so to speak-hit them, making them very angry. If ever a child of Ember and a child of Sparks quarreled, the town leaders, it seemed, were not disposed to take the Ember-child's part, not even if they'd been in the right. Marianne defended them upon occasion, but in a much more under-hand fashion than she would have for a Sparks' child. Benjamin had no problem condemning the Ember one straight out. Wilhelm sort of turned a blind eye so that he didn't have to decide; he hated making those sorts of choices.

And what started as children's scuffles, turned into adult arguments and fights. Which were settled even more poorly and unfairly. Adults stuck up, naturally, for their own children, then resented each other.

The people of Sparks had a real dislike of laziness and they seemed to think they saw that trait in those from Ember. It couldn't be completely, they'd decided, that 'the people' didn't know how to do things-no one was that dense, were they?

When disagreements, mild or no, happen to meet up around the same period of time with minor difficulties, it is somewhat inevitable that a level of stinginess will follow.

A large number of the people of Sparks began to skimp a little bit on the amounts of food in the Emberites' mealtime parcels. Now, to be fair, this wasn't because they were sadistic or corrupt, or else otherwise acting out of a shifty-eyed meanness; it was because they simply had some of the same fears-though notably less voiced-as Benjamin did. 'The people' were eating their food, living on their resources. To some extent it was almost as if a swarm of locus had invaded, for, in the eyes of the people of Sparks, the result might be the same-or at least close to the same. They wanted to help, and certainly the town leaders were allowing them more food from the storehouse in light of the extra mouths to feed, but it wasn't tons. And what could they do? Should they, they thought, be willing to let strangers eat as honoured guests and not have anything extra themselves saved up in case of an emergency? It didn't seem fair.

The people of Ember saw things a little differently, which only added to the problem. They saw a full store-house, people who glared at them and might honestly dislike them as well as resent them, and they felt their growling stomachs; and they noticed how light-headed they felt most of the time. The memory of what their mayor had done to them (he could have literally starved them if the way out hadn't been found in time) was still fresh in their minds. They saw, though perhaps not reasonably, the same thing happening again, and they were angry. Why should they starve? What wrong had they done? Had not the people of Sparks promised to help them in their time of need?

Finally, someone (some say it was Peter, but others disagree, saying he was too busy around that time to have been the one to have spoken up, regardless of how in-charge he might have felt over the people of Ember, and that it was Edward Pocket or Doon or Doon's father) spoke up and asked about possibly getting more food. The tone was, while a little terse, not unkind, and it explained calmly that they were hungry.

Unfortunately, this seemed only to anger the people of Sparks even more. Here they were giving food to refugees, doing the best they could-especially considering it was wintertime and nothing new could be planted or reaped-and the nasty, dirty-faced, good-for-nothing weaklings of Ember dared, they dared, to whine about it!

"Be fair," Marianne said quietly when the words reached her ears and the village was in a resentful buzz over it. "In their place, we'd be just as hungry, and we'd voice the same concern. Think about their little ones, if nothing else. They have children, you know."

"We have our own kids!" Benjamin exclaimed, folding his arms across his chest. "Do any of them think of that?"

"You don't have children, Benjamin," Marianne pointed out, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Other people do," he argued, arching a brow right back at her challengingly. "My people, our people, the people of Sparks."

"They could be a little more generous, though," said Marianne, a little unsurely. "Or maybe we could."

"How?"

"Well, we could give more food from the storehouse, since what we're giving doesn't seem to be enough."

"It's plenty," Benjamin barked unbendingly. "More than enough! I'm not-"

"Well," said Marianne, thinking this the most likely way for things to be resolved in the best interests of everybody, "let's put it to a vote. What do you think, Wilhelm?"

"Oh, Marianne…" he gave her a sad expression, begging for pardon, "don't be cross, please, but I…I agree with…with Benjamin…"

"Oh, Wilhelm!" she cried in dismay, her jaw hanging slightly agape. "But-"

"If we weren't giving anything," he explained, "I'd feel the same as you, dear, but, really, we are giving as much as we can. We weren't, you must understand, prosperous when they came to us-only on the brink of being so. This has set us back, like Benjamin has been saying…and…while…" -and here he paused and looked at Benjamin very hard- "…I don't agree with everything he's been saying, or all of his feelings towards these cave people, well, I can't deny the truth of the matter, either. There's nothing more we can do, tell them that."

"They won't like it," Marianne warned, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead. "They won't like it one bit."

"I don't care what they like," said Benjamin coldly.

Marianne kept picturing them all as they had looked when they'd first arrived; that little girl, Lucy, she'd been so sick…to think of not being able to give more food to those people…no, she must put it out of her mind for now or she would go mad. The people of Ember were at least getting something-maybe Wilhelm was right, maybe she was being too soft. Well, whatever; the vote had been cast and she'd lost out, it was two against one.

What made the situations going around Sparks that winter even more dour (though that might not seem possible) was that the relationships between the people of Sparks and the people of Ember weren't the only ones standing on poor footing. There were several minor civil wars, so to speak, going on as well.

Doon and Lina had not made up, they barely spoke to each other at all these days. Lizzie and Lina had had another fight about just what had happened back in Ember, and so they weren't on the best of terms. Jill was angry with Eustace for being such a pig to Lina and Poppy and Mrs. Murdo, so she shunned him and he stood, blinking in disbelief, not understanding why she had so instantly and harshly cut him so deep.

And then there were the Pevensies. Lucy was touch-and-go still, but she had rather improved and could walk about the doctor's house a little bit with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. This was provided that someone stood behind her in case her head swam and her legs gave way and she fell. Edmund was always there to catch her; and he spoke only when she wasn't fainting, but there was a tiring look in his eyes that showed him growing more and more weary over all of this. No one was sure at all how much longer he was going to last without having a complete mental breakdown. As for Peter and Susan, that was another long-standing issue.

Susan continued to forget things about their life in Narnia, much to Peter's deepening dismay.

One day when Susan was helping Doctor Hester by cleaning out the chicken coop (she wasn't afraid of the chickens, thankfully), Peter came around by that end of the property to see her.

Usually Gael came with Susan both to explain things to her if she didn't know what to do and to keep her company and prattle on about the Ballet Company that existed before the Disaster, which was still currently her passion. But today, Gael was inside with some scrap wool and strings she'd found stuck to part of the wire-fencing near their nearest neighbor's property, making little friendship bracelets for Edmund and Lucy. So Susan was by herself, and Peter, seeing as they'd both been so busy lately, figured it would be a good chance for them to have a little time alone together.

He was leaning against the side of the chicken-shed when she came out. "Hey, Su."

She smiled when she noticed him. "Peter!"

His own grin widened automatically.

"You're a little early for lunch," she said.

"I didn't come for lunch," he told her. "I came to see you."

"I see." She registered this. "How are things at the Pioneer?" Peter was one of the people staying there instead of at the town hall.

Dismal, thought Peter, ugly, unpleasant; not everyone is being as generous with the parcels as Doctor Hester, and Doon and his father go around with this hungry, pinched look on their faces half the time which gives me the creeps.

Out-loud, all he said was, "All right, I suppose."

"Lucy hasn't fainted once all morning," Susan reported semi-cheerfully. "Doctor Hester says her recovery might finally be starting to move along. I really hope so, Peter, Edmund's going to lose his mind."

"I think he already has." Peter shuddered; recalling the pale, frightened, half-wild little boy inside the doctor's house right then, and remembering, at the same time, how his brother had looked as a king in Narnia, dressed in his best scarlet velvet tunic for the grand event they were throwing on their ship, the Splendor Hyaline, was not only ghastly but also upsettingly sobering.

"Poor Ed," Susan sighed.

They stood in silence for a few moments until, finally, Peter spoke again. "I've…I've missed you, Susan."

"Missed me?" Her forehead crinkled. "We've seen each other at least once a day."

"We've been so busy," Peter reminded her. "What with everything that's been happening…"

"Oh." In truth, Susan missed him, too, but she was a little afraid to be alone with him. He might, she realized, want to talk about Narnia; and if they did, she didn't think she could pretend to remember. She knew her limitations and didn't like to admit, looking into his worried blue eyes, that she could recall less and less every day. That she really had forgotten so much more than he realized.

More silence followed. Then his hand wrapped around hers. It was so warm in the winter-air. She sighed and let their fingers intertwine-it felt good.

"We'll be all right, you know," he whispered; "you and me, and Ed and Lu; I would never let anything bad happen to us. We'll find a way to manage, just like I promised you back in Ember."

"What if we can't?" Susan was not as unaware of the tension between the people of Sparks and the people of Ember as Peter would have liked to think she was.

"We will," was all he would reply.

She sighed again and leaned closer to him.

Peter turned half-way and rested his forehead against hers.

Susan released his hand and continued standing so close that, a few more inches and she would have been able to feel his heartbeat. It was so warm and safe with him…some distant memory, distant want, was pricking at her. She remembered in Ember when she had kissed him. She remembered times when he'd held her and not wanted to let go; and how she, too, in her heart of hearts had felt the same. Had she loved him back in that place she could only scarcely remember, dim like a dream, too? She didn't know; but she knew, she thought maybe, how she was feeling now. There was a mix of security and fearful awkwardness slowly pulling itself through her cold veins. There was snow melting inside of one of her shoes, but she didn't pull away from him in order to remove it.

His eyes closed and his already slow, visible breath became even slower as he finally pulled away-then forward again-with his head tilted and kissed her on the lips.

Suddenly a bit of propriety stabbed at her and she gently squirmed out of his grasp. "Not in public, Peter."

"What public?" Peter looked genuinely confused. There wasn't exactly a courtyard full of people watching them.

Susan glanced both ways, realized how silly that must have sounded, then a little grudgingly admitted, "Alright, I see your point."

"If I remember correctly," he said, half-smiling impishly, "we weren't exactly out of public that first time you kissed me."

She blushed and waved that off. "Oh, do be serious, you were about to descend into the pipe-works. I was worried about you. And besides, no one really saw."

"Any chance you could be worried about me now?" Peter couldn't help asking. "I don't think we're being watched."

"Maybe just…" Susan murmured, coming close to him again, "…a very little bit worried."

They kissed again.

Then, as they broke apart, Peter said, "Susan, I need to know something…something I think I already know, that I've known with certainty for a long while now, only…only you've been somewhat vague about it."

"What is it?"

"You…you do love me, don't you?"

"Why do you ask?" The words came out of her mouth before she'd thought them through.

Perhaps, if a young man asks if you love him, she thought afterwards, that's not the best thing to say. Especially in light of the fact that males seem less open to starting such conversations as a general rule; it is often wise not to discourage the exceptions.

"Why do you think?"

"I-"

"What I mean," he began to explain himself, more gently now that he saw her face gone white, "is just…if you love me, what are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" Susan echoed, stunned.

"Are we going to get married?"

"Married?" Susan repeated.

"Susan," Peter borderline-snapped out of frustration, "is the parrot imitation completely necessary?"

She scowled.

"Sorry, Su."

"We're young," she said slowly. "Marriage…it'll be a while before we can…I mean, we are fourteen and thirteen."

"Well, technically," he corrected, "I'm twenty-nine and you're twenty-eight; that's plenty old enough."

She gaped at him in a baffled manner, not getting his drift.

"From when we were in Narnia…"

"Oh…Narnia…right." Tears pricked her eyes. "Peter, I'm so sorry…I never meant…"

"Never meant what?" he asked, growing concerned since it seemed like she was about to start crying-and hard, too.

"I can't remember it," she confessed. "Hardly at all…sometimes I wonder if it was just a game we-"

"A game?" The rest, he'd maybe been expecting to some degree, but for her to call it a game…of all things…

"It might have been," she muttered, more to herself than to Peter.

"No, it wasn't."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too." In spite of his disappointment, and maybe even a little bit of anger, he reached for her hands. "But that doesn't change us being together. It makes it harder, I suppose, but we'll-we'll think of something…"

"But, don't you see?" Susan wept. "It does change things. I only see myself as a kid, you know, and I think I'm starting to realize that you don't see me in that way. You see whoever you think I was back in Narnia…and I can't be that person anymore."

"You're always you."

"You see me-and yourself-as an adult, Peter," Susan explained. "I can't see us like that, not yet…in that way, you would be too old for me."

"You're not, I hope, breaking up with me?" He made sure.

"No, no…" burst out of her. "I don't want…no, of course not…not at all…I just…I don't know…"

"I can wait, Su," he said, reaching up and tucking a lock of her dark hair behind one of her ears, his fingers lingering a while on her cheek. "I can wait until you're older."

"What if I'm not," Susan whispered sheepishly, voicing her fears, "not as you think I will be? What if you have this ideal in your head of who I'm going to be when I'm grown-up and then I disappoint you? I don't want to disappoint you. You were right, I do love you. And I don't want to hurt you."

"Please, Su, whatever happens," Peter pleaded with her. "No matter what, promise me a chance. Promise that no matter what you forget you won't hold back because you think you'd be hurting me-that would hurt me worse than anything. I'll wait. When you're ready, promise me you'll let me know."

"I promise."

And with that, he took one of her hands, brought it to his lips, and kissed the back of it. In that way he bid good-bye, a sad but true goodbye, to the queen he realized he was losing more and more quickly. But he also, for good measure, lightly cupped her chin with two of his fingers when he was done, leaned forward, and kissed her on the forehead once very lightly. In this way, he was still clinging to the girl who he still loved anyway, letting her know he was never going to give up on her.

AN: Please leave a review (even though I wouldn't do anything to you if you didn't...probably...)