Lady Hannah: Hi! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. The torture was fun to write, in a sick sort of way. I really wanted the pain that Edmund is experiencing to be obvious to the readers. Hooray for more Pevensie angst and longing! I love the coat bit in the movie, so I added Ginarrbrik's foolishness here, too. I'm glad you liked the combo scene with the Animals. I loved that moment in the book, and just having Savio turn to stone didn't seem like enough. Edmund is throwing up bile. He has acute Gastritis caused by stress.

Pineapple101: Hi! Thank you for reading and reviewing. I'm so flattered that this is one of your favorite stories I do love me an angsty Edmund, but I cannot WAIT to give him a teensy bit of happiness…a long time from now.

Dogluver: Hi! Thanks for reading and reviewing. I really do appreciate it! I can't wait for the reunion either, but unfortunately it won't be for a while longer. Hang in there!

Ilovevollyball: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! So glad you like my story, and I'm so sorry it took me so long to update. Enjoy!

Biggestfan: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I'm sorry I couldn't update earlier. I didn't get sick or writer's block, I was just super swamped with schoolwork. I never stopped thinking about this story, though. The reunion still won't be for a few chapters, but here's one to tide you over

A/N: Well that was unexpected. I am so, so sorry for having left you all with no communication since July. The story was never abandoned, but suddenly, school happened. SO MUCH SCHOOL. And I literally never stopped doing homework except to make money at my jobs, eat, and sleep. I never so much as edited the chapter I had written, that was just waiting to be typed. So I got home from college yesterday, submitted my last horribly written final exam this morning, went to the dentist, and am presenting you with a chapter I wrote in Luxembourg this summer. What. I can't tell you when the next update will be…it's not written yet and I'm heading to Israel in two days. Hopefully in the two weeks before I go back to my second semester of SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE AAAAH I'll be able to update. But if there's another long silence, I haven't died, I haven't abandoned or stopped thinking about this story, I'm just trying not to drown in schoolwork. There will never be enough apologies, and thank you for sticking with me so far.

Also, for anyone trying the follow the motions of the Wolves: Maugrim and a random Wolf intercept the Witch's sleigh and tell her they've found the trail and Vardan's tracking it. They lose the trail as Maugrim and the random Wolf catch up to Vardan and find Savio instead. After Savio and Co. are turned to stone, she sends Birta and Tungljoma to scout Aslan's camp, and the rest of the Wolves, including Maugrim and Vardan, to track the Pevensies to the waterfall.

Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^

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The Lion and the Fox

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lion's Burden

Vestur Skogur, 100th Year of the Reign of Her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia

"Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"

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They race for the river with perhaps more fear and desperation than if they were being pursued, for their enemy is evident all around them; in the mud splashing the hems of their coats, the birds that burst from rapidly budding trees all atwitter at the Pevensies' racket. Peter hears the horrible creaking and sloshing before he sees the ice floating downriver and he surges forward to take point as they burst from the tree line in a last shower of snow. He skids to a stop, wheeling his arms. Lucy cries out in dismay and he turns, biting back his own despair in an attempt to comfort her.

She stares down at her feet, not at the river at all. Gingerly, Lucy steps sideways, revealing a pair of crumpled snowdrops she has crushed underfoot. Kneeling down, she cups her hands around the little flowers, whispering, "Come on, you can do it!" She holds her breath.

Slowly, the flowers unfold and straighten, the end of the Witch's magic rejuvenating them as nothing else could. Lucy beams with amazed pleasure, and even Susan smiles.

However, the wonder of Spring cannot be applied to the river.

Peter tracks chunks of ice rushing past, looks upstream to the falls, still largely frozen, and makes a quick decision. "We need to cross. Now!" he orders, tugging at Susan's arm. She follows him at once, though her eyes are narrowed in calculation.

Lucy pales as she looks up from her blooms. Her eyes light on their guides. "Don't Beavers make dams?"

"I'm not that fast, dear," Mr. Beaver protests.

"Come on!" Peter urges again, and Lucy jumps, running to his side. A large piece of ice breaks from the cluster by the falls and shoots downstream, shattering against the rocky bank. Susan stops short, eyes wide.

"Wait, will you just think about this for a minute?" she demands as the group slides towards the riverbank.

Peter whirls. "We don't have a minute!" he snaps.

Susan's eyes flicker, offended. "I'm just trying to be realistic."

Peter loses patience. "No, you're trying to be smart, as usual," he snipes, turning away. Lucy follows, though Susan still hesitates. Already regretting his harsh words, Peter half-turns, an apology on his lips, but the distant yet discernable howl of a Wolf silences him. Susan eyes the woods, then the river, and with the air of one picking the lesser of two evils, rejoins the troupe.

The Beavers lead them down a narrow path that the warm sun has not yet touched. Lucy clings to Peter, and he's too busy maintaining his balance to think very hard about how if either of them slips, they'll both plunge over the side.

Reaching the river at last, Peter listens, horrified, to the deep creaking of the ice. He can't see the cracks, but knows they are there, buried in the layers closest to the water and all the more dangerous for it. Even so, the tiniest of hopes flutters to life inside of him: the ice is nearly gone. If they can just make it across before the Wolves, they may shake them off. Licking his lips, Peter steps onto the ice.

He retreats quickly as the floe sinks beneath his tentative weight, Susan and Lucy's shrieks echoing against the rocky cliffs. The Wolves' howls are louder. He knows there's no use hiding now, feels numbly for his sword, does not believe he can truly wield it. Did not think it would be so soon.

"Wait." Mr. Beaver raises his paws, placating. "Maybe I should go first."

Peter meets his calm and careful eyes.

"Maybe you should," he agrees, surprised at how little it stings his pride to accept Mr. Beaver's help.

Peter watches with bated breath as Mr. Beaver edges out onto the ice tail-first, slapping the ground experimentally before putting his weight down. A few bluish cracks crinkle beneath his paws.

"You've been sneaking second helpings, haven't you?" Mrs. Beaver accuses with a hysterical laugh.

"Well, y'never know which meal'll be y'last!" Mr. Beaver retorts, "Especially w'your cookin'!"

Lucy slips her hand into Peter's and he grips it tightly. Susan won't touch him and he grits his teeth. Now is so not the time.

Pushing all thoughts aside, Peter cautiously follows after Mr. Beaver, pulling Lucy close to his side. She screams and leaps over a gash in the ice as water splashes up and over her shoes. Peter watches her helplessly, terrified. Behind him, Susan gasps and scuttles around to surer footing, Mrs. Beaver gently coaching.

"If Mum knew what we were doing—" Susan half-sobs, and Peter feels like this is rather too much. If Susan had wanted to go back, she should have done when they found out about Mr. Tumnus. There's no use complaining about it any longer.

"Mum's not here," he interrupts shortly, and she silences under his glare. I am. So you listen to me. He stifles a swear and begins moving again, only to nearly plunge, overbalanced, into the river.

Lucy has stopped short and is staring up at the iced-over falls. "Oh, no!" she cries. Dread stiffening his muscles, Peter cranes his neck to follow her gaze.

The Wolves run along the top of the falls. In moments, they will have them surrounded. He fights the urge to sink to his knees and just give up. He's exhausted, he's scared, he's lost Edmund and is losing Susan, and these Wolves will take everything else. Thinking of Edmund, he feels a flash of white-hot fury, but it's gone before it can overtake him. Anger has no purpose. He hopes, when Edmund finds out what's happened to his siblings, he's sorry. At least a little bit.

Peter! Peter please—!

Even if Edmund's not sorry, Peter is.

"Run!" he shouts, because really, what else is there to say?

"Hurry!" Susan urges.

They trip and slide halfway across before the Wolves leap down from the bank to cut them off. Maugrim snarls at Lucy with delighted glee, claws extending and hackles rising to her responding squeal of fear. She is in the most danger, Peter realizes dimly, because she is small and soft and so very Human. He moves to push her behind him, only to find Susan pushing Lucy the other way. He half-turns wildly: they are hemmed in.

Mr. Beaver makes a sort of cackling fighting noise, leaping forward, but a Wolf pins him in one sure movement.

"No!" Mrs. Beaver cries. Peter feels as though he's been dunked under the icy water and held there. He is suffocating, he cannot react. He has no plan.

"Peter!" Lucy pleads, blue-eyed and desperate, trusting him to fix this.

Trembling, Peter draws the sword from Father Christmas. The tip wobbles as he struggles with its weight. Heat rushes to his cheeks as Maugrim, stalking forward, laughs.

"Put that down, boy," he chides mockingly, "someone could get hurt."

The group is shunted backwards, and Susan whimpers. Peter attempts to say something witty, like the cornered heroes in books, but all he manages is choked, "Aaargh."

Mr. Beaver, while acttually being choked, is far more articulate.

"Don' worry 'bout me, run 'im through!"

"Leave now while you can and your brother leaves with you," Maugrim counters.

Peter shakes his head. It's a trap, a trap.

"Stop, Peter, maybe we should listen to him!" Susan yells over the rumbling of the ice.

Maugrim chuckles, rocks thrown together, grinding against each other. "Smart girl."

Peter's skin crawls.

"Don' listen to 'im! Kill 'im. Kill 'im now!" Mr. Beaver bellows, wriggling in his captor's grip. Peter glances from him to Maugrim. He bites down on his lip to stop its quiver and tastes blood. Susan has yet to draw her bow—he doubts if she ever will. He daren't make a move. What if Mr. Beaver is killed? Losing Mr. Tumnus was too much; how could Lucy weather a death before her very eyes?

They are children of war in England, but war seems more real here.

"Oh, come now, this isn't your war." Maugrim shakes his massive head. "All my queen wants is for you to take your family and go."

Peter closes his eyes for just a moment and takes a deep breath. Both hands on the sword, ignoring the burning in his arms, he looks again into the eyes of the Wolf.

The hilt seems to float against his palms, the blade humming up his arms. The idea of taking Edmund and going home is absurd, impossible. Edmund is too distant to matter. What matters is this glorious, untouched blade and the insult in Maugrim's yellow eyes. He needs to prove himself, needs to stop all these niggling doubts, needs to step forward and take this fight like a man, like Father would have done. There are friends and family to protect, Narnia needs a salvation only he can bring.

"Just because some man in a red coat gives you a sword, it doesn't make you a hero!" Susan screams, "Just drop it!"

He can barely look at her in all her cowardice, at the unconcealed panic in her eyes.

"No, Peter, Narnia needs ya! Gut 'im while y'still 'av a chance!" Mr. Beaver bellows.

Peter inches forward, eyes Maugrim over the sword. Maugrim grins, all teeth and malice. "What'll it be, Son of Adam?" he coaxes, "I won't wait forever." The Wolf's lean muscles tense, set to spring. "And neither will the river."

Peter dismisses the river. It's melting, so what? They can swim.

A gunshot echoes through the valley. Susan ducks, snow powdering her hair. Lucy is staring up at the icewall on their left, terrified. "Peter!"

He jolts as water sprays him from above, finally understands. There are no guns in Narnia. The icewall. The ancient dam is breaking.

Time's up.

Maugrim's eyes slant, he turns to look at the falls, and Peter takes his chance. He raises the sword to strike.

No, you idiot, down. Down!

He changes the blade's trajectory midswing, crying, "Hold on to me!"

Susan and Lucy clutch his sides as the ice explodes above them and tonnes of water, restrained for one hundred years, pours over the falls and shatters the frozen river. A great cascade of freezing water swells behind them and rolls over and around them, lifting their little ice floe and slamming Peter's head against the pommel of his sword. As they sink beneath the surface, Peter's lungs already burning in anticipation, he flashes on what Maugrim said about leaving Narnia with Edmund.

His brother's not dead. Yet.

The river carries them underwater for far too long. Eyes shut tight against debris, Peter tries to pray. He cannot remember the words, so he simply focuses on Susan and Lucy's hold on his coat and thinks, Please, please, please.

They surface suddenly and Peter gasps for air, inhaling more water than oxygen. Lucy screams, fingers scrabbling for purchase as the floe tips in the current. She slides past him too quickly to register, and without thinking he releases the pommel and lunges after her. A great wave breaks behind them and thrusts them forward, back onto the ice. Peter hauls Lucy close, striving to breathe. His head throbs, spots dancing before his eyes. He winds his fingers into the collar of her coat, heavy with the weight of the water, and hangs on.

A familiar pair of dark heads surface alongside the floe and Peter grins tiredly as the Beavers push them to shore. He looks for the Wolves but they are gone, swept downstream, unweighted and ungainly swimmers. Thinking of Maugrim's knowing amber eyes, he hopes they drown.

Susan crawls up the bank and Peter follows, dragging Lucy like a dead weight. She's so little and tired, he doesn't blame her. The Beavers shake dry their fur and Susan turns to look at him, weary and angered, but she pales, staggers forward, so frightened that he wonder if a Wolf made it after all. She's staring wildly at Lucy, and he looks, too, a cold fear clutching at him. What if Lucy's been bitten, if she's fainted, or—

If she's not there?

Peter holds her empty coat in unfeeling hands.

No.

"What have you done?" Susan gasps, anguish tearing into every feature and aging her by decades. She scans the river in desperation. "Lucy! Lucy!"

Peter cannot speak. The fear has clawed into his chest, twisted itself icily around his heart. This can't be happening. Not this. Not Lucy.

The river swirls past, engorged and impassable. There is no sign of his warm, laughing little sister. Please, please, please.

"Has anyone seen my coat?"

Peter whirls towards her voice, her angelic little voice, watches as Lucy walks easily towards them, drawing her cardigan uselessly around her sopping form. Heat builds behind his eyes and he holds out the dripping fur like a peace offering, not daring to glance at Susan, who has subsided into shocked silence.

"Don' y'worry, dear," Mr. Beaver replies gently, "your brother's got y'well looked after."

He slips the coat over her shoulders. Though he can see her and feel her, the cold in his heart bites down and remains.

"I don't think you'll be needing those coats much longer," Mrs. Beaver says wonderingly, and Peter turns, eyes bright, to face the Spring. He sheathes his chilled sword under a rapidly blossoming cherry tree. About half an hour later, his hair has dried and he leaves his coat over a tree branch to molder away. The sun climbs ever upwards, the ice of winter feels like a dream, nearly impossible to recall as he treads through tufted grass, past babbling brooks. Lucy whirls to the tune of songbird, and Susan even copies a few steps of her dance.

Though he wants to join them when Lucy tugs at his hands, when Susan smiles shyly, he finds himself growing increasingly grimmer as they travel on, the bump on his head throbbing. Edmund is in danger and they are walking to an unknown wild Lion and his Animal army to ask for help. He knows Susan wants to get Edmund and go back to the safety of the Professor's country house, where the only danger is the wrath of the Macready, but he's not sure that's, well, right. The Narnians have been so kind, saved them so many times at risk to their own survival. The Witch has oppressed the Narnians for a century—what if Führer Hitler were to win and his Nazi Party to do the same? A century of oppression and cruelty? Weren't they fighting a war in Europe to prevent exactly that? In England, Peter was too young to fight. Here, he was exactly who everyone wanted. Perhaps…an arrangement could be made to save Edmund and Narnia, yet keep his family safe.

With these thoughts swirling about his mind, Peter crests a brilliantly verdant hill and stops short, awed. Spread below him like a field of gigantic, colorful flowers, canvas tents are posted, each topped with a fluttering flag denoting their owner. A large clear space is positioned at the center of the camp, the grass beaten into hard-packed dirt. Creatures of all types mill about, some walking, others flying. On the far side of the camp, a group is running some kind of drill directed by a squawking Animal, its voice grating indistinctly.

As Peter gapes, a Bird launches itself from a nearby tree. It circles their small band once before breaking sharply and diving into the camp.

"Well, that's really top-notch security," Susan says bitingly.

Mr. Beaver glances at her sidelong. "We've been watched since we crossed th'river. If they'd wanted t'stop us, girl, they would've."

A series of triumphal blasts arc through the air. Peter tries to repress his thrill at spotting a Centaur sentry atop an outcropping. As he blows into a curved horn, the base springs to life. Animals dart here and there, but stay close to the main path through the camp. The drills are abandoned with gusto, leaving the drill instructor squawking angrily to an emptying field. Peter rolls his eyes. If that is to be the core of his so-called army, the Witch will have an easy fight.

The Beavers start down the slope and the others follow, their longer strides keeping them abreast of their guides. Entering the camp, Peter can't help but smile at Susan. The army's maneuvers mightn't be impressive, but the size and ferocious appearance of the forces is satisfying. Susan doesn't share his enthusiasm. Her eyes are distant and worried; she continually calls for Lucy to stay close.

They walk five across through the camp. As they pass, soldiers look up from their work. Some smile, others stare, and many fall in behind them, laughing and chattering in all their wild languages.

"Why are they staring at us?" Susan asks through a falsely confident smile. The anxious set of her shoulders and tilt of her head could be easily misinterpreted as regal. Surety in an unsure place.

"Maybe they think you look funny," Lucy teases. She beams fondly at every Faun she sees. Peter doesn't bother to stifle his chuckle and Susan concedes with a wry grace.

Next to Lucy, Mr. Beaver slips his arm over Mrs. Beaver's shoulders. "Oi," he whispers, as she frets and smooths her pelt, "stop y'fussin'. Y'look lovely."

Peter grins to himself. When this is all over, he must give the Beavers some sort of present. Perhaps he can ask Father Christmas for advice, or go back through the Wardrobe to pick up a typewriter or some such machine. Wouldn't that be fine!

Reaching the packed-dirt center, the group slows before a pavilion stitched in fiery yellows and reds. Their followers fall back, hushed and expectant. Peter's muscles tighten again and the hair on his arms stands up. He turns to the sound of measured hoofsteps on stone. His eyes travel slowly up the coal-black Horse's body, sleek and muscled, to the tanned Man's body, equally toned. The Centaur carries himself like a man used to command, and when Peter looks into his dark eyes he has to stop himself from ducking his head like a young schoolboy sent to the headmaster. The Centaur's expression is stern and unfriendly. He scans all three Pevensies and then returns to Peter for a more thorough inspection.

When the Centaur doesn't move or speak further, Peter decides etiquette and ceremony be damned. Headmaster Durham liked when he asked for things. He'd try that method here, too. Drawing the sword, he holds it aloft and says steadily, "We've come to see Aslan." Behind him the crowd murmurs, but he doesn't not break the Centaur's cold, shrewd gaze.

At last the Centaur's eyes glide away from Peter's and his Human torso turns aside, a clear signal of dismissal. It's all Peter can do not to march up to that crossbreed mix and give him what-for—

"Go on," breathes Mr. Beaver.

What?

Peter eyes the Centaur as he reluctantly lifts a hand towards the big tent.

Oh. Oh, no.

"You first, you know him," he hisses.

Mr. Beaver's eyes crinkle knowingly. "Sons o' Adam before Animals," he answers, and Peter flounders.

"Susan," he improvises, "what about you? Ladies first."

"No, you're the eldest," she demurs with a sweet smile. Lucy giggles.

In a sudden movement, all the Animals sink to their knees—or as close as they are able. The great, dark Centaur bows at the waist. Swallowing hard, Peter faces the pavilion.

The flaps part, and Peter can't feel the ground under his feet. There is the Lion, golden and light, bigger than any Animal they've seen, with such power rippling under his glossy fur, in his enormous paws. As he paces towards them, flowers spring up in his wake and the grass greens. Peter tries to look into his ochre eyes and sees such knowledge there, such kindness and sadness and terribleness too, that he can't bear it and has to watch the Lion's forepaws instead. Yet in spite of his fear, Peter feels far braver than he had moments before, and wiser too (though he wasn't, very much), and when he sinks to his knees, burying the swordpoint in the living earth, Susan and Lucy follow without question.

The silence is glad.

"Welcome, Peter, Son of Adam," says Aslan, and Peter shivers the whole length of his body as the voice rolls over him in warm waves. "Welcome, Susan, Daughter of Eve." Susan breathes in sharply but remains silent. "Welcome, Lucy, Daughter of Eve." Lucy gasps a soft, 'oh!' before she subsides, beaming. "And welcome, He-Beaver and She-Beaver, descended from the very first of your kind," Aslan finishes. Peter smiles, thinking of all the Animals Mrs. Beaver will retell that greeting to when she returns to Beaversdam.

"But where," Aslan asks softly, "is the fourth?"

The cold fear around Peter's heart clamps down. For a moment he can't breathe. Then he stands, because this sort of news is not given kneeling. "That's why we're here, sir," he begins, but that's starting wrong. He tries again. "We need your help." He winces, because that's wrong, too.

Susan intercedes. "We had a little trouble along the way," she says quietly, diplomatically. Peter sighs, grateful. She is so much better at subtlety than he. Still, when she jabs him deliberately with her elbow, he makes another attempt.

"Our brother's been captured by the White Witch."

The crowd murmurs. Peter's shoulders cramp from being held so stiffly, but he cannot relax.

"How could this have happened?" Aslan has the air of one infrequently surprised and prone to reacting negatively when it occurs. Peter shrinks away, fumbling for words.

Mr. Beaver takes over, explaining more regretfully than is necessary, given the situation. "'E…betrayed them, Your Majesty." His paws tangle together as the crowd's noise rises in disbelief and anger.

"Then he has betrayed us all!" the dark Centaur snaps, shaking his fist. Peter opens his mouth, propriety gone, but Aslan growls a low warning.

"Peace, Oreius," he orders, "I'm sure there's an explanation."

When the Lion looks at him again, the fear around Peter's heart loosens, though still it remains. Something warm and bittersweet, like soured honey, takes its place. He slumps, the guilt crushing. "It's my fault, really," he says quietly, "I was angry with him and I think that helped him to go wrong. I—I was too hard on him." He squeezes his eyes shut tight.

That's your language, isn't it?

Lucy looks at him like he's a stranger, but Susan lightly touches his arm, slides up to cup his shoulder. He turns to her, miserable and uncomprehending. "We all were," she says bravely, meeting Aslan's gaze. The honey sweetens in Peter's chest and he shakes his head. Untrue, but kind of her to say.

"Sir, he's our brother. Can anything be done to save Edmund?" Lucy's voice is tiny, pained. Peter remembers her heartrending cry across the frozen lake as Edmund had stood at the castle gate. He wonders if he'd let her run to him, try to pull him back, would Edmund have come away? Would they all be back in the Professor's house playing dictionary games and waiting out the rain?

"All shall be done, dear one. This may be harder than you think." Aslan turns aside, his head lowered in deep thought, or perhaps sadness. For several long moments no one speaks, but then He stirs, claps his paws together. A contingent of girlish, tree-like figures rustle forward, smiling hesitantly. "Take the Son of Adam and Daughters of Eve to clean up and rest," he says gently, "We shall speak further come morning. He-Beaver and She-Beaver, will you come with me?"

When Aslan looks at Peter, he finds himself bowing deeply, unsure how he knows the gesture. Susan and Lucy curtsey—Lucy wobbles only slightly—and follow the tree girls towards a tent. Lucy stumbles, drowsy, and Peter bends to pick her up. She tugs on his hair until he inclines his head to her lips and allows her to whisper in his ear.

A few lengthened paces catch him up with their guides. Peter clears his throat, sending the girls into gales of breathy laughter. His face burns.

"Erm, excuse me," he says awkwardly, "but my sister was wondering what, and who, you are? If you don't mind?"

A breeze rifles through his hair and catches Lucy's clothes as the girls laugh again. One girl with bright green eyes and hair straight as needles replies, "I am Pinoideae, and these are my sisters, Acer and Quercus. We are Hamadryads, each a spirit of a single tree, Your Majesties."

Lucy makes a sleepy, delighted sound. Peter's eyes open wide. "Will you be in the fight?" he asks worriedly, "Only you seem very fragile."

Susan kicks his heel but the Hamadryads are laughing so heartily that their Human-like forms dissolve into floating masses of leaves, each representative of their Tree.

"Of course we'll fight!" cries a voice that seems to emit from Acer, if the quivering of her maple leaves are any indication, "But not in these forms. We'll return to our Trees."

"But how—?" Peter starts, but the Hamadryads have stopped in front of a red tent and reformed themselves, smiling gaily. Quercus pulls aside the curtain, the oak leaf pattern on her dress shifting with her movements. Peter glimpses a steaming tub and pile of furs with blankets and pillows and staggers mindlessly inside.

Susan has the presence of mind to thank the Hamadryads before she follows and take charge of Lucy. Peter hardly recalls bathing and changing into clean clothes—a tunic, leggings, a jerkin of some sort, he would have worn a dress if only he was assured it was clean—before he tumbles onto the furs and falls into a heavy, weary sleep.

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