Still drained, but feeling far better for his meal, Edmund helped clear the dishes and then, after a few deep breaths while he worked up the nerve, turned to Mr Beaver and asked, "So if that dwarf, Rorikin, does come tomorrow, and I am here, what then? I mean..." he floundered, trying to find a direction for his query, and then gave up. It seemed like he had so many feelings, fear and exhaustion, determination and desperation and confusion, but most of all, he felt lost, and unsure of the urge he had to act against the witch, despite all logic condemning such actions as foolishness. Still, the worst of the feelings, hunger, had been dealt with so it seemed only appropriate that he ought to confront one of the others.

"Well... well I shan't imagine anything will happen," Mrs Beaver said firmly. "After all you're only young and rather lost. I think it's just that he wants to see that what he's heard is true."

Edmund scowled, then felt a little guilty because the she-beaver had been very kind to him, but turned to Mr Beaver, determined to get an answer that was honest rather than simply reassuring.

"But something must happen. This Rorikin chap wouldn't be so interested if he didn't think there was something which would come of this."

Mr Beaver also appeared not to want to continue this line of conversation but, unlike his wife, seemed to understand that Edmund wouldn't tolerate just being fobbed off.

"Rorikin, while patient, is still a great believer in the idea that us Narnians could rebel and overthrow the witch, even without Cair Paravel's input. For him, the idea of a human in these woods, the very thing the witch is most against, is like a sign. He sees it as proof that there are weaknesses in the witch's defences after all."

"Because he's ridiculous," Mrs Beaver added firmly. "Nobody in their right mind would suggest that you being here was proof that a rebellion could work. Poor Tumnus had the right idea, keeping this whole affair quiet."

There was a silence. Mrs Beaver clearly thought that she had given the last word on the subject but Edmund's mind was whirring. He had spent a sizable time crossing through the woods the previous night and that he hadn't been spotted by any spies, when the witch allegedly had followers everywhere, was either miraculous or a sign that the witch's network was weakening - as the Beaver's claimed Rorikin thought. If he remembered rightly the story he had been told by Mr Tumnus then the witch had been in power for years before Aslan sent the King and Queens, although the faun knew not where from, who had wrested three quarters of the country from her grasp not so long ago. And while the royals were either incapable of or uninterested in taking back the west, that they had reclaimed so much of the country from the witch and her winter was inarguable proof that the witch was beatable. And perhaps that loss could have shaken her hold upon the west. The beavers still believed that the witch was practically impossible to defeat but the dwarf Rorikin clearly thought otherwise. What was to stop others from following the same pattern? Edmund, much to his own surprise, recalled a detail from school: that the first part of breaking something took the most strength. It was a little like a fraying rope. Now the initial cords of the witches hold on the west had been snapped by her defeats in the rest of Narnia, it could only be a matter of time before the rest began to unravel. The beavers had been good to him but Edmund knew that tomorrow, upon meeting Rorikin, it would take a lot to stop him siding with the dwarf.

"I think," he began carefully, not wanting to offend the beavers, "That I should quite like to talk to this Rorikin fellow if he comes," Edmund paused, momentarily losing his thread at the strange ringing which had begun in his ears, "His ideas sound interesting. I don't understand much about what's happening here and I should like to…"

Breakfast!

He was struck by a wave of horrid disorientation as he found himself quite suddenly back in his bed in England and suddenly acutely aware of the fact that the ringing he could hear was the bell for breakfast.

Blast it all, he had overslept. Mrs Macready would not like that.

At least, he thought with a hint of a smirk, he was already dressed. He swung himself out of the bed and made a hasty and rather fruitless attempt to smooth the creases out of his clothes. Oh well, if it was noticed that his clothes looked like they had been slept in he was sure it would be interpreted as scruffiness, rather than that he had actually slept fully clothed.

He sprinted down the stairs, fearful that his tardiness might result in him being denied the meal altogether and skidded into the small room where he'd been instructed to take his meals (for the dining room was apparently far too grand for a boy his age).

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," said the maid, Ivy he recognised, the one who'd offered to post his letter when he'd first arrived.

Edmund shook his head, bounding into the seat, "Sorry… I just… took two tries to tie my shoelaces properly."

It was a weak excuse but Ivy just laughed. "Of course you did. No boy of your age ever wanted five more minutes of sleep if it ran the risk of making him late."

Edmund grinned sheepishly, tucking into his toast.

"And before you go gobbling that down and racing off again, there's a letter on your tray."

Edmund, who had been focused entirely on his food, was momentarily thrown. Why on earth would he be getting post? Then he recognised his mother's handwriting on the address.

"Oh…" he said, and then, "Thank you. If I were to write a reply…"

"You might want to walk down to the village and post it yourself. It'll be something to do other than sit in this house. Mind you, you don't want to become too much of an enthusiastic correspondent, stamps are expensive even at the best of times."

Edmund nodded politely but he was ten and far more interested in what interesting news a letter from his mother might contain than the warning of frugality as he, brushing the crumbs carelessly from his fingers, used the butter knife to open the envelope.

'To my darling Edmund,' the letter read, in the neat but rather inelegant script he had come to associate with his mother, 'I am glad that you are okay. We are all making the best of things these days but I do think your father would be proud. You must be a good boy for the professor and I am sure that Mrs Macready and the staff are merely trying to do their jobs. You must not be a nuisance. I am sure you will have a lovely time exploring the countryside – you must think of it like a holiday. I'm sure you'll be having far too much fun to remember to write or be homesick but don't worry, you will be home again before you know it,
Your loving mother.'

Edmund reread the letter several times and was surprised to find himself a little disappointed. Oh for sure, he was glad to hear from his mother because it went some way to alleviating the constant knot of worry in his chest that her being in London with the bombs brought, but he hadn't missed her, he realised, or at least nowhere near as acutely as he thought he would have. He supposed that it was a combination of the nightly distraction that was Narnia and that, with his father already away fighting, he had rather grown used to the sensation of missing somebody, to the point where it had become normal.

He finished his toast, which was also disappointing, as he contemplated what the letter had said. Rather like the words of Mrs Beaver, it was mostly uninformative and its reassurances not particular convincing. But the words were his mother's, and that was enough.

He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, with the map of Narnia, making a mental note to transfer them over to his coat as soon as he had the opportunity. And then made another mental note to ensure that he slept with his coat on, so as to avoid any disastrous incidents such as arriving in Narnia without a map. He yawned as he stacked his dishes, and then again as he was exiting the room. It was strange, despite the fact that he was getting more sleep than he had ever done back in London he didn't feel all that well rested. Certainly, he was sleeping physically but his dreams – for lack of a better term – were so far from restful that he wasn't entirely sure that the drained feeling they left his with could be put down entirely to his emotional and mental fatigue. Still, it was hardly an issue worth fretting over; it would most likely pass in a few days. Anyway, if the view from the windows was anything to go by it was the first truly nice day that there had been since arriving at the Professor's mansion and Edmund had a great deal of serious interest in examining which trees would be best for climbing.

A/N – Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. Writing is has been not unlike getting blood from a stone and real life had only served to hamper me further. Hopefully I can make a better job of writing the next couple of chapters – who knows, I might even get back on schedule enough that I'll have time to show them to my beta reader before I post them. As always feedback is appreciated and to the readers I'm not in direct contact with I'm glad you've been enjoying this story and hope you will continue too.