When I woke the next morning, my head was fuzzy from all the wine I had drunk. As I splashed some cold water on my face, memories came back in snatches. I had the vague impression that I kissed Simar, but had that really happened, or was it a dream? I remembered Taran's interruption well enough. Reality sunk in. Ah, yes. That was why I had kissed Simar instead of confessing to Edmund.

I sank onto the bed with my tunic in my hands, trying to work out what to do. I had already played Simar false. In a sense. He seemed to know well enough where he stood. But still, it was wrong. He was married. But from what he implied, I was hardly the first instance of infidelity. I wondered what his wife knew. I wondered what he was thinking, waking up to her every morning in the middle of a lie.

Taran's admonishments came back to me, and I buried my face in my tunic, muffling a growl of frustration. The trap was closing. I was making enemies afresh. I had no idea what Taran knew beyond the fact that I still preferred men, but he was on a crusade about the morality of it. Meanwhile, Barran still had some leverage and I didn't know how he was going to use it.

The obvious answer was to cut them off at the pass, confess to the Kings and Queens. I tried to envision this. I was about to go down to dance practice. I could tell them then. I tried to play out the scene in my mind, what I might say, how they might react. I could predict nothing with certainty. I couldn't even plan my own words. And also, there was a part of me that did not want to say these things to Edmund in the glaring light of day, as though confessing some sin. Part of me clung to a romantic notion that there should be some poetry to the moment. I finished dressing and went down to dance practice with Edmund, less sure with each step what my path should be.

Half an hour later, I stood in the practice yard in my dancing costume, waiting for Edmund. Peter, Susan, and Lucy stood under the shade of a canopy, intrigued to see Edmund's progress with the dance. He was late in arriving, and any coolness of the morning was quickly burning off in the heat of the sun. Even in my light dancing clothes, standing still and doing nothing, I was dripping in sweat.

The King and Queens had been furnished with cool ices, and to their credit they kept summoning me to stand in the shade and have some while we waited. And waited.

'I don't know where he could be,' Susan said as she pressed the cold goblet into my hands.

'Sleeping off all that wine he drank last night, no doubt,' Peter said. 'He managed to make something of a spectacle of himself.'

'I've never known public drunkenness to be King Edmund's style,' I commented.

'It is when he's bothered about something,' Lucy said. 'Of course, he won't tell any of us what it is. Sometimes he tells Susan if he's been stewing long enough.' Her eyes grew round. 'Maybe you can get it out of him, Peridan.'

'I can but try,' I replied.

'Here's your chance,' Peter muttered, before calling out, 'It's about time, Ed! Where have you been?'

'Leave off,' Edmund grumbled. He certainly looked worse for the wear: pale, with dark rings under his eyes. 'It's boiling hot and my head hurts.'

'It wouldn't be so hot if you had come at the right time,' said Peter.

'I said leave off!' Edmund snapped. I jumped, but his siblings just rolled their eyes. Edmund stuck his hand out. 'Come on. Let's get this over with.'

My heart sank, but I forced myself to smile and lead him into the ring as though nothing were wrong.

Edmund was usually a graceful and nimble dancer, but that day he was leaden footed, and stumbled his way through the steps. After one particularly comic stumble, Peter and Lucy fell to laughing, and Edmund frowned over his shoulder at them.

'Oh Ed,' Lucy said, 'Don't take it so seriously.'

I decided to tease Edmund back to himself. 'His Majesty is in a serious mood this morning on account of making far too merry with wine last night.' I grinned at him, and even offered a cheeky wink.

I expected him to laugh. Indeed, I heard Peter chuckle. But Edmund drew himself up. 'Now you overstep, sir,' he said in his coldest, most regal voice.

I stepped back. I had misjudged everything, even when I had been so cautious. I swept into a courtly bow, hoping to save something of the situation. 'I beg your pardon, Sire. I would never want to overstep when you have been so gracious to me.' And Edmund did not wink or smile or tell me to stop being ridiculous. He stood there, gazing down at me. I tried to think what I had done to cause this change in him. All at once, the realisation hit me so hard it winded me: what if he had seen me with Simar?

I stayed in the practice yard to train, punishing myself in the sun. I thought that would be enough to chase away the anxiety which was making my chest constrict as I waited for the endgame. But like Edmund in the dance, every move was a misstep. After half an hour I threw my swords down in disgust and pulled off my practice armour.

I stalked away from the castle and Taran and Gormal. And Edmund. I kept reliving his cold words: 'Now you overstep, sir.' Each time I remembered it, something new struck me: his use of 'sir' when he had been calling me by my name for ages. The way his face had completely closed off so that his eyes were blank. The cold rebuke I had finally stopped fearing coming back to haunt me. I didn't want to believe that me kissing Simar was the cause, but it was the only conclusion I could come to. I dwelled so deeply that I couldn't even think of the next move.

I was walking without thinking about a destination, skirting the town by taking the hilly path above it. Thus I came upon the Lion's Chapel almost by accident. I was surprised to see it all but complete, although a hive of artists and labourers scurried around to finish the last bits. I heard them exclaiming, 'Hurry up, lads—the dedication is in less than a week!' Someone moaned they'd never finish and the response came from the foreman: 'Not an option. The Emperor is going to dedicate it then.' It took me a moment to realise they were speaking neither Narnian nor Calormene, but the Island patois, a mix of both with a touch of something all its own, something which went back further than either place. Aurie and I both grew up speaking this language with the servants who half raised us.

I stood with all the nobles in our fine court clothes before a field of brown dirt. The other children were bored and restless as Barran made a long speech announcing the construction of the Lion's Chapel 'To the glory of Aslan, in thanksgiving for our freedom'. There were lots of prayers and pledges of funds and toasts in response to these pledges.

Orran stood with his hand on my shoulder and murmured, 'Your father would have loved to see this day.'

I looked at the shining faces of the artisans who had gathered to see the ground breaking for the chapel they would build. Their faces were shining, their limbs tensed; they were holding themselves back from the labour of art to humour the nobles and give them a bit of ceremony. But I saw that for them, the ceremony was in the work itself.

I stepped forward to pledge some money, but Uncle drew me back. 'Do not be such a fool,' he said. 'Your father would have run this house into poverty a hundred times over if I had let him, and you will grow up to be a wiser man than he.'

As we filed away, Orran said, 'You wanted to say something before.'

'I wanted to pledge some money to the project,' I murmured, shrugging. 'If I can't help build it myself. It will be beautiful.'

He looked at me keenly. 'You would still be an artist? If you could.'

'If I could,' I said wistfully.

'Why?' He asked, searching my face. 'Art has no—'

'I know, I know,' I interrupted him. 'It has no use, no point. A self respecting lord is not an artist, that's for tradesmen. I have heard it all before, Orran. All of it. But it—it burns in me when I can't paint or draw. And when I do, everything falls away and there is only colour and creation. I don't know—I think they might be wrong. Art may not be profitable, but it is good. Beauty is important. Because—because if there isn't art and beauty to fight for, what's the point of being noble?'

He said nothing further, but the next week he brought over a bank book which showed a record of recurring donations. Then he told me, 'Your father would have agreed.' After that, I would come back often to watch how the artisans were getting on. They mostly ignored me, and the beauty and precision of their work soothed me. I would watch them and imagine myself an artist. In my head, I would change the world and its leaden beliefs.

Someone bumped me and I stumbled forward out of memory. A workman turned and gave a gasp of frustration as he turned to help me. 'Whatcha standin' there for?' He demanded. 'Come on—we've got work to do!'

I looked down at myself. In my sweaty practice clothes I realised I looked nothing like the resplendent Lord of Lionshaim, and I grinned. I picked up a couple of the boxes he had been carrying and he jerked his head in the general direction of the chapel.

We entered, and the entire place was buzzing with workers adding beauty in every possible corner. Gone was the quiet, contemplative creation. Two men were lying on their back on top of high scaffolding to paint gilded stars onto the vaulted ceilings. The clang of metal sounded as others hammered out brass reliefs for the doors. Some people were shouting instructions to each other as they mounted a statue on a plinth and woodworkers were hunched in concentration by the pews, carving flora into the legs. I followed in a dream, trying to take it all in.

'Who's this?' Said the foreman as I placed the boxes at his feet.

'Help,' said the other, clearly second in command.

The foreman finished counting the boxes and then looked up at me. 'What's your trade, then? Sculpting? Painting? Metal work? Stained glass?'

'Painting,' I said at once.

He gestured to one of these boxes. 'Take these. New floor tiles. They dropped one of the pews yesterday and smashed a load of tiles. Fill in the pattern where they're broken. The pattern, mind. This isn't your chance to make your own personal mark.'

I nodded and took the tiles. I found the ceramic paint and went to investigate the broken pattern, then sat against the wall and started to replicate the broken tiles. I lost myself to the intricate pattern. I soon found the rhythm and my shoulders relaxed as I worked it several times over. I listened to the other artists collaborating, arguing, singing. I thought about Aslan, remembered his living gold, and tried to put a small drop of that beauty into what I was doing.

As I was finishing the last tile, the foreman came to inspect my work. He held up one of the tiles. 'Painting certainly is your trade,' he said, and I glowed. He picked up the stack and indicated I should put the final tile on top. 'I'll take these to the kiln. You go and see what you can do about touching up the frescoes.'

I wandered over to where he had indicated, an alcove of the chapel done in a series of frescoes depicting the Liberation under glowing stained glass. Each of the stained glass windows above had been set in a different colour, and diffused the light across the chapel like so many jewels. But in so doing, they had spoiled the colour on the frescoes, washing it out. The one which languished the most under this light was that of Edmund breaking the Witch's wand. Also, I reflected, they had not quite captured him. I collected the necessary paint and began work on this, mixing colours and adding details: the point of Edmund's chin, the furrow of determination in his brow. I grew so absorbed I realised too late that I was missing a luncheon at the palace, but then I thought that I didn't care. Nobody there would particularly miss me. I could hide here, forget everything in my painting—even Edmund's reproving glare. Even as I was painting him.

The hours wore on. Other artists came by and offered suggestions for mixing colour, which I took. We engaged in discussions about shape and shadows and shading. They saw what I was trying to do, and they helped me. Then they would leave, and I sank back into a fugue of creation.

I was just finishing up, standing very close to the wall as I daubed a delicate shadow, when I half heard a murmur ripple through the chapel. I didn't turn—it didn't really register, and so I jumped when a voice barked, 'Peridan!'

I spun round to face Edmund. All around us the artists started whispering at the sound of my name.

'What are you doing here?' Edmund demanded.

'What are you doing here?' I returned.

'I'm researching notes for the dedication speech I have to make. Your turn.'

'I'm...' I gestured with the paintbrush to the fresco.

At that moment the foreman bustled over, bowing apologies instead of issuing curt orders. 'My Lord of Lionshaim, forgive my not recognising you. I should never have treated you like a common labourer.' He divested me of my palette and paintbrush.

I grasped for them back, but he continued to draw them away.

'Most noble patron,' he continued, speaking Narnian now, 'Your donations have seen this project through to fruition, and for that, we thank you.' All over the chapel, the artists with whom I had been having robust debates about pigment started bowing.

'You have used the money for good purpose,' I said, my voice flat. 'This place is a marvel. You have honoured me by letting me contribute.' Here a hopeful note crept into my voice, and I opened my hands to receive the palette and brush back, but the foreman only said I was too kind and carried them away. He turned to another artist and issued curt orders to him in the Island patois.

I bowed my head, my arms hanging uselessly at my sides.

Before I could contemplate this too much though, Edmund spoke. 'I've gone and made it worse now.' He scoffed in frustration. 'I didn't mean to. I was looking for you. Listen, I'm sorry about before. I was...Hung over. Grumpy. You didn't overstep. It was stupid of me to say that.' All of this came out in a jumble, and I thought that I had never seen Edmund so wrong-footed. He concluded by sticking his hand out and saying 'Pax?'

For a moment I stared at his outstretched hand, confused by the apology. Could he have seen anything if he was apologising? Experience had taught me that my sins were both unforgettable and unforgivable.

Nevertheless, I shook Edmund's proffered hand. Prudence dictated that was the wise course of action no matter what.

'Will you help me?' He said with an uncertain squint. 'I want to say something about the craftsmanship of this place.'

I showed him around, careful not to tease now as I pointed out all the details I had noticed. As I told Edmund about them, the artists beamed at my recognition, as though they were surprised and honoured that I should notice them when we had been debating with each other a quarter of an hour before. For his part, Edmund took studious notes.

We walked back to the palace through the fields of tall grass. Edmund picked up a stick and swished it through the grass before him. I searched so hard for something to say my mind went blank.

'I was sorry to have interrupted you,' he said, breaking the silence. 'I rather liked seeing you like that. For once you didn't care if anyone was watching.'

I stopped. Edmund took another couple of paces, then he realised I had stopped and he turned to face me.

'But they are watching,' I said, looking down at the town and the harbour. 'They always are.' I turned back to him. 'You say I am elusive. You say you want to know me. But what if knowing me—really knowing me—meant learning that deep down I have done something terrible. What if it meant learning that you hate what I am.' I stared at him, breathing hard as if I had just run a race.

Edmund was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a voice I had not ever heard him use before: gentle, full of sincerity and conviction. 'I have had my own wealth of experience. And what I have learned is this. There is always forgiveness. No. More than that. There is always redemption. Peridan—it is the wanting to be good that makes a person good. We will all make mistakes, but the grace we are given is that we get the chance to make things right.'

I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. I ached to be good, and here Edmund presented me with the hope of a second chance. But to take it, I would have to repent of who I was, regret all the love that had filled me up and carried me through battle to knighthood and friendship. What I wanted was to believe I could be good not in spite of who I was, but because of it.