Hope everyone is having a lovely holiday season! Also, thank you for the lovely reviews-it is always wonderful to hear what you think!
NarniaGirl: Oh good! I'm so glad you are enjoying this! And don't worry, there will be plenty of Peter and Edmund angst/suspense/fluff coming soon, do keep reading ;-). Also, thank you for mentioning my cover art! I'm glad I did a good job with it!
Special thanks to my beta reader, PaintingMusic14 for her help with this chapter. I hope everyone enjoys and please do leave a review :-)
8th. Greenroof, 1012—Third-day
For a moment there was utter silence; Peter found himself strangely unable to move and was distantly aware that he was holding his breath in an attempt to curb his temper. A minute or more must have passed before he forced himself to sit up, moving stiffly with the effort of not immediately charging from the room in search of the unfortunate Tarkaan. He drew in a deep breath at last, feeling somewhat dizzy from his previous lack of air, and shook his head.
"What did you say?" He heard himself ask quietly, in the vain hope that he had simply misheard Susan's last statement. Surely she cannot have said what I thought. Suitors had often skulked near her rooms, but to his knowledge none had been so presumptuous as Susan reported the Tarkaan to be.
His sister shifted away from him slightly in an automatic response to the icy quality of his tone—despite the fact that she must have known his ire was not directed at her.
"Tarkaan Areesh," she said slowly, sounding admirably calm, "climbed through my window. He suggested his courtship might be more agreeable to me in private, at which point I cut him across the face with my nails and threw him out—through the door and not the window."
She seemed to think this particular distinction was necessary, and under different circumstances Peter might have laughed at her logical recounting of events. As it was, he felt his brain was rather too slow to comprehend what she was saying, and he stared at her for another long moment—still working out the full weight behind her quiet words.
"GUARDS!" he bellowed when he had at last reached the inevitable conclusion—he saw Susan wince at the volume of his shout, but that hardly mattered in his current frame of mind. I would kill the bastard myself, if it weren't presently too inconvenient to do so. "TREBONIUS!"
The door flew open and Trebonius charged in, axe in hand, obviously prepared to face some persistent assassin—and it would not have been the first time he was required to do so. When he saw no immediate danger he paused, blinked, and lowered the axe slowly, looking slightly embarrassed.
"Your majesty?" The satyr's hooves skittered across the floor when Peter turned the full force of his glare on him, and Peter bit back a cutting remark about the captain's nervous temperament. Trebonius had always been remarkably skittish, but his immoveable loyalty was enough to make up for his other failings.
"Peter—" Susan began, obviously less intimidated by his show of temper than the hapless captain was, but even she was silenced when Peter held up a shaking hand to forestall her protests.
No more. There is a line that ought never to be crossed, and our Calormene friends have leapt over it with impunity. He was surprised by how calm and ordered his thoughts seemed; there was nothing either calm or ordered about the rush of blood pulsing through his veins in a furious tide, or in the haze that obscured his vision.
"Trebonius, kindly escort both the Tarkaan and Tarkheena from Cair Paravel and back to their ship immediately. They are to leave Narnia tonight, and will return only under risk of our extreme displeasure." No more! he thought again, very decisively. Suitors were infuriating, the Calormene were nearly always plotting something distressing, and when both were combined Peter found it was quite beyond his tolerance.
"Peter! You can't!" It seemed Susan had found her voice, and she caught his arm pleadingly.
Can't? Dare she say there is something the High King of Narnia cannot do in protection of his country and family? That was simply too much to be borne.
He tore free from Susan's grasp and brought his fist crashing down on the table before the hearth, scattering sheaves of parchment and sending an empty water pitcher clattering to the floor. Trebonius shuffled back a few more steps, eyeing him warily, and Susan sighed heavily, crossing her arms and appearing obviously displeased by such violent displays of temper.
Peter was beyond caring. He glowered between them, vaguely hearing the pitcher still spinning on the floor, and was certain no one could now mistake the authority behind his words.
"I can, and I WILL! Trebonius, do as I tell you."
Susan still seemed unimpressed by his fury, and shook her head stubbornly. "Trebonius, stay where you are, my good captain. Peter, for heaven's sake sit down. When has losing your temper ever profited anyone?"
He glared at her and remained stubbornly standing, not ready to let her calm reason temper his fury. He turned his glare in Trebonius' direction a moment later, and was unsurprised to see the satyr shuffling his hooves miserably and looking desperately between his two monarchs—he was clearly unwilling to blatantly disobey a direct order from either of them.
"Peter, please, surely you see that such action is tantamount to declaring war on Calormen?" Susan seemed to take his lack of further shouting as a sign that he was ready to listen to her, and she stepped forward and put her hand on his arm again. Peter knew it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but he was still too furious for it to be effective.
Why can't she understand? Why does she always have to question my orders and undermine my leadership? He knew it wasn't really Susan he was angry at, but she was present and the offending Calormene were not.
"I don't care," he hissed furiously, as he wrenched his arm free from her grasp again. "If they can behave with so little respect and decorum perhaps war is our best recourse. I will not be preyed upon in my own kingdom, nor allow you to be subjected to such vile treatment." He was very nearly shouting again by the end of his statement, and Trebonius backed away another nervous step—seeming about to withdraw from the room in the hopes that Peter's anger would not be turned on him next.
"Your majesty, perhaps Queen Susan is right—" Trebonius began, showing a surprising amount of courage in daring to speak at all. The words, however, only served to infuriate Peter more.
"WILL NO ONE HEED MY ORDERS?" he bellowed, heedless of the fact that if he shouted much more Orieus would likely come bursting in as well. That occurrence would doubtless prove even more trying for Peter, as Orieus had never been one to flinch before his outrage and would, in all probability, side with Susan.
"Very well," he continued, lowering his voice to a more reasonable volume and taking a quick, though slightly unsteady, step towards the door. "I will see to it myself."
"Peter, we cannot afford an open war with Calormen. Please, see reason!" Susan caught his arm again, more desperately this time and stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the door.
"Su—"
"Edmund is in Calormen."
Susan alone always knew which words would cut through his rage most effectively, and at that particular moment he rather despised her ability to do so. He was not yet ready to be calm; not when Tarkaan Areesh had offered such a grievous insult to both their honours, but Susan was right. With difficulty he forced himself to unclench his fists and let his shoulders relax, though inwardly he was still seething.
Susan put her other hand on his shoulder and gently guided him back to his chair, before hastening to press the advantage, however slight, she had gained. "War with Calormen would cause them to be cautious, to double their watches for fear of our spies. If you do this Peter, then you may as sign our own brother's death warrant yourself."
There was no denying her words and Peter slumped back in the chair with a sigh, his fury draining away to be replaced with a sense of bone crushing defeat. "Very well," he conceded, covering his aching eyes with his hands and sighing. "Trebonius, return to your post; our Calormene visitors can remain—for now."
He heard rather than saw the faithful satyr bow, before the sound of his hooves faded and the door was pulled shut behind him. I shall have to apologise to him later, he thought wearily, utterly disgusted that he had given into his rage so easily. What in Aslan's name is wrong with me?
Susan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and laid her cheek atop his head, her presence solid and comforting in its lack of rebuke. "Thank you," she said quietly, sounding as exhausted as he felt. "I know accepting my counsel is not always easy, but I believe it is necessary in this instance. The current situation with Calormen is precarious enough."
She paused with a sigh, and Peter knew she was remembering the same thing he was. It is worse than precarious—if that bastard Tarkaan's plans were any indication of their current mood towards us.
"I know. I thank you for your counsel—many times these past years we have been saved from unnecessary war by your wisdom, dear sister." He smiled, trying to reassure her, but it didn't seem to work. She stepped away and dropped into the nearest chair with another sigh, clasping her hands together in her lap and staring at her intertwined fingers distractedly.
"Did we do the right thing, Peter?" she asked at last—he didn't have to wonder what she meant. "I don't see what else we could have done, what with—well, everything—but, perhaps we should have told him?"
"What would you have had me do?" His voice was sharper than he had intended it to be, but the flash of annoyance he felt was for himself, rather than Susan. What ought I to have done? "Ought I to have told Edmund he risked being revealed as a traitor to the whole land, after the pains you and I both took to ensure no one beyond a handful of those who were with us at Beruna would ever know of it?" Ought I to have told my brother, who has so recently begun to escape the shadows of past actions, that he would once again be forced to face the single transgression of half a lifetime ago?
Susan clasped her hands more tightly against the folds of her dressing gown and Peter wondered if it was to hide the fact that they were shaking.
"No," she said at last. "I would not have had you tell him—not for the world. But, do you think we managed to deal with the situation effectively? There is still danger, surely."
Peter didn't think it would have been particularly helpful to tell her he had been worried about that very thing. A disgraced Tarkaan would hold less sway over the minds of the people, but it would be foolish to think a serpent's fangs could so easily be drawn. And now Edmund is within his reach, practically alone and utterly unaware of the danger. I truly have been a fool!
"I shouldn't have sent him. I was caught up in seeming brilliance of my plans—thinking how everything ought to work out beautifully. Lucy will deal with the Council, Edmund will gather the information we need, Peridan will be proved trustworthy or called out as a traitor—and all without me having to stir a step from my chair by the fire." He glared at the aforementioned fire, which had died down to a few glowing embers, and wished he could somehow recall the confidence he felt when sending Lucy and Edmund forth on their travels.
Susan unclenched her hands at last and stood, brushing the wrinkles from her dressing gown and smiling. Peter recognised the expression as one she always wore when it was necessary to put aside her own fears for the sake of her country. He wished he had her ability to push his concerns aside so quickly.
"Peter, we both know you would have gone yourself." She was obviously trying to be reasonable, as usual, and he currently found it rather galling. "I sent Sallowpad to Tashbaan," she continued a moment later, sounding rather reluctant to reveal her interference. "Perhaps he will be of some use in protecting Edmund. And Lucy has her guards, and Captain Rhegus will surely let no harm come to her."
Peter nodded, unable to summon the anger he felt he ought to have been present at Susan sending the Raven after Edmund without his knowledge. Sallowpad would certainly not have been his first choice, but then again, neither would Peridan. They had both done what they could—Edmund's safety now rested in Aslan's paws.
Susan gave him another brave smile and kissed him on the cheek, before stumbling wearily back into the corridor. Peter watched her go before turning to glare at the streaks of colour appearing in the Eastern sky. Well, at least this day cannot get much worse, he thought, hoping his optimism was well founded. He later reflected that he really ought to have known better.
As so often happens with days that begin poorly, matters did not improve. The Tarkheena—whose name Peter still could not recall being told—seemed to have taken her previous rejection far more lightly than she ought, and by mid-day Peter's worn patience had quite nearly reached its limit for the second time that day.
"Bloody suitors!" he remarked savagely, resisting the urge to knock the water pitcher off the table again.
Brickle turned curiously at his outburst, and Peter waved him away impatiently only to call him back a moment later as an idea struck him. "Brickle, go to King Edmund's rooms and bring me back his papers, if you would be so kind."
"H-his papers?" Brickle stammered, face paling rapidly.
"Yes, his papers. Is there a problem?" Why is everyone looking at me like I've gone mad today? Upon further reflection he supposed it might have something to do with his disheveled appearance and the annoyance he had displayed when removing Tarkaan Areesh's sister from his chambers for the fifth time in as many hours. The girl was nothing if not persistent, and Peter found it much easier to dismiss his guards and deal with throwing her out personally, rather than endure listening to the nearly constant stream of challenges and flimsy excuses—provided by the guards and the girl respectively.
"Well, no your majesty, not as such, only—well, have you seen the amount of papers his majesty keeps in his rooms?" Brickle tugged on his beard, looking thoroughly miserable. "And I really do not think he would take kindly to me moving any of them."
As a matter of fact, Peter had not seen the amount of papers his brother kept and would ordinarily have no desire to, but the current situation merited desperate action. "Very well," he said, sighing and hobbling to his feet. "Then perhaps you would be so kind as to refrain from informing Queen Susan I have left my rooms."
He vaguely recalled an old phrase from The Other Place involving mountains and prophets that seemed apt in such an instance, although he felt rather more like the mountain as he was forced to stumble clumsily in an attempt to keep most of his weight on one foot.
"Your majesty, wait, please!" Brickle called after him, seeming to be in a state of great agitation, but Peter ignored him.
Edmund's rooms were only across the corridor, but by the time he reached the door to his brother's study Peter was certain it must have been half as far as the distance from Cair Paravel to Ettinsmoor. It certainly did not help matters that, despite Susan's coffee-aided intervention of the previous night, his head ached abominably.
Suitors, giants, and vintners, he thought sullenly—recounting the groups who were currently at risk of his wrath. And if there was nothing in Edmund's papers that might help bar the first group from Cair Paravel, or at least reduce their number, then he risked being added to the ever-expanding list.
Brickle blocked his way as he reached the door that led to his brother' rooms, and Peter was rather surprised by the look of stubborn determination on the dwarf's face.
"Brickle?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and hoping his expression made it clear that he was not to be trifled with currently.
Brickle tugged at his beard, which seemed to be something of a nervous habit for him, and did not move aside. "Beg pardon, your majesty, but King Edmund left orders that no one was to be allowed in his rooms. He hasn't let the servants in for months—not even to clean."
That was news to Peter. Edmund had always been far more reclusive than he was himself, but barring everyone from his private rooms for months on end was entirely new behaviour, even for him.
"No one?" he echoed, not caring that he sounded a little foolish. "But food, and—" he fumbled vaguely for a suitable excuse for servants to be in Edmund's rooms. "and laundry, and such?"
Brickle tugged harder at his beard, eyes flicking uneasily between his still grubby boots and Peter's face. "King Edmund does not take meals in his private chambers," he mumbled at last. "And the washing has been set out in a basket every week for the past five months."
Five months? That was a very particular amount of time, and one Peter did not at all like. Five months had been a month before he departed for the North. Five months corresponded exactly with the date Edmund was brought home from Tashbaan by his thoroughly confused guards, unconscious and with no memory of the past three weeks. Unless he lied.
Four and a half months previously, nearly to the day, Peter had found himself face to face with a sneering Tarkaan in a Calormene tavern. Obridesh had thought him able to do little more than listen as he outlined his plan to destroy Narnia—and it began with his abduction of Edmund. Peter had done far more than listen. He had plotted and schemed, and it had been with Susan's help that they had spread such rumours about Obridesh that even the Tisroc would not be able to overlook them.
Peter had been afraid then, as he had not been in years, but war with Calormen was not a risk Narnia could afford to take. To kill the Tarkaan, even in single combat, would surely have provoked war.
Duty before family, he had reminded himself the day he learned that the Tarkaan had been disgraced and banished from the Tisroc's palace. He had repeated the mantra silently every day since then, but it never seemed to lessen the foreboding he felt.
Orieus had warned him once that if he must fight a wild animal he should take care to kill it outright, never to wound it. A wounded beast was an enraged beast, only made stronger and more savage by its pain. They had wounded the Tarkaan, they had hidden the truth, and never spoken of it again until that very morning. And yet, somehow, Peter could scarcely now doubt his brother had known all along.
He pushed Brickle aside, not caring that he did so far more roughly than he ought, and flung the doors open.
Papers and books—every available surface was covered in them. They littered the floor, leaned in untidy piles against the walls, buried the desk and its accompanying chair, and he could see through the connecting door that Edmund's bedchamber had fared no better. It seemed that half the library had made its way into his younger brother's rooms. Upon further inspection, however, it seemed it was only the half on Calormen.
He stepped cautiously over the twenty or so volumes of Calormene Genealogy, gritting his teeth when he put an incautious amount of weight on his ankle, and surveyed the disaster before him.
He knew, he knew all this time, or at least guessed, and he never said. But, just how much Edmund knew, was not something Peter currently wanted to speculate on. It was best to assume that his brother had somehow discovered the full extent of the Tarkaan's plot—and had done nothing to defend himself against it. Well, if locking himself in his rooms with hundreds of books could reasonably be considered doing nothing.
But he didn't lock himself in, he only locked everyone else out. It was that which puzzled Peter most of all. In the month he had been back at Cair Paravel there had never been any indication of Edmund's usual peculiar behaviour when he fell to brooding. He had been pale, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Susan once remarked of her younger brother that "if you put him in the sun he would turn red as a boiled lobster—for all of five minutes before being as pale as ever". It was a remarkably true observation, and even now it made him smile, though his amusement was short lived as he returned his attention to the horrifying amount of papers that were covered in Edmund's messily scrawled writing.
"Brickle?" The dwarf did not answer, and Peter felt a wave of guilt at how he had been treating the poor fellow. "It's alright, Brickle, I won't tell King Edmund anything save that you tried to stop me. But, I would greatly value your aid."
That seemed to do the trick and Brickle shuffled in, perpetually tugging on his beard and looking very nervous. "Are you sure—well, are you sure he's gone, your majesty?"
Peter realised then that the dwarf's nervousness had very little to do with him at all, and he could understand the poor fellow's uncertainty. Any number of humans and assorted Creatures might have been hiding in the untidy stacks and neither of them would have been the wiser to it.
"Quite sure," he reassured him quickly, hurriedly displacing a small mountain of books and dropping gratefully into the marginally cleared chair. "Now, tell me the truth, my good dwarf, how much of this were you aware of?"
He had not earlier missed how Brickle said servants, implicitly excluding himself from the number of Narnians not allowed in Edmund's rooms. Brickle, if possible, looked decidedly more miserable.
"Your majesty, please," he stared down at the sooty tracks his boots had left on a trailing piece of parchment and tugged harder on his beard—actually managing to tug a good bit of it out. "I swore I wouldn't tell you anything about it!"
Why does anyone bother to tell me anything? Just swear not to tell and keep me in the dark—that sounds like a marvelous idea! He controlled his expression with difficulty and tried to keep his voice level, but was fairly certain he did not do a very good job of it.
"I am the High King," he said quietly, forcing the volume of his voice to remain reasonable, even though he did feel like shouting. "That title is not a mere formal courtesy bestowed on me by Aslan, it is a measure of my authority. My good dwarf, it is well within that authority to override my brother's orders, if necessary, and force you on your allegiance, to tell me what you know."
"Please, your majesty," Brickle pleaded, stubbornly loyal. "Do not make me break my oath."
Being High King does not necessarily mean you will always get your way, he reminded himself sternly when he felt inclined to stamp his foot childishly. I may have the power to force him into speaking, but that does not mean I should use it. Unless…something in the dwarf's manner suggested he wanted to speak, despite his refusal to do so.
"Do not make me break my oath"—not, "Do not make me reveal the full extent of your infuriating brother's temporary insanity in keeping secrets from you". Well, he supposed Brickle wouldn't have said the last bit anyway, but his plea was rather telling nonetheless.
"You swore to tell me nothing about it, is that correct?"
Brickle nodded and at last abandoned tugging on his beard—he appeared somewhat hopeful that his occasionally dense sovereign was at last catching on, and Peter could have slapped himself for being so slow.
"That includes, but is not limited to, writing and speaking?" Edmund would have been thorough—what else is there?
"I am also not allowed to sing, draw, carve, dance, or use any form of code to communicate the information to you, or to anyone else, your majesty," the dwarf offered helpfully.
Little brothers, Peter scowled as he mentally added to the growing list in his head. But are they better or worse than vintners? Certainly, better than giants and suitors. What in Aslan's name is wrong with me today? Perhaps I am going mad. He shook his head and returned his thoughts to the current problem. Edmund had been altogether too thorough in his restrictions of Brickle's communication methods.
"What if you were to show me which papers you think most informative?" It seemed an empty hope, and he was surprised when Brickle grinned.
"Now that I can do, your majesty," he agreed heartily, appearing far happier than Peter could ever remember the nervous, frightened chap looking before. He threaded his way through the precarious piles of books, some of which were taller than he was, and returned a moment later with a stack of handwritten manuscripts.
The stack constituted a mere fraction of the papers in the disordered jumble of Edmund's rooms, but Peter still groaned upon being faced by page after page of closely written text. He writes far too much, he concluded with absolute certainty as he hastily scanned the first page. The writing was a trifle shaky and it was dated five months previously. It had obviously been written when Edmund was recovering from what had occurred in Tashbaan.
Fact: I remember nothing of these past weeks between falling asleep in my chambers in the Tisroc's court and waking in my own bed at Cair Paravel. By the estimations of my guards I was missing for fully three weeks.
Conclusion: I've either gone mad (unlikely), or someone has taken great pains to ensure I have no memory of whatever transpired during my absence (abduction?).
Fact: Peter has gone storming off to Tashbaan in his usual foul temper at finding one of his family mistreated.
Conclusion: My brother is a loveable fool.
Loveable fool? Peter thought, glaring at the parchment furiously. Am I a fool to guard the treasures more precious to me than all of Narnia combined so jealously? On further reflection he was forced to conclude his methods of guarding were, at times, rather extreme. He supposed throwing one of the Doornish nobles off the docks, into the sea, might qualify as one of those times. Susan had been outraged, but not nearly as outraged as he had been himself upon discovering the fellow lurking outside her private rooms.
He reluctantly returned to the stack of parchment, finding the next entry to be written in a much steadier hand.
Fact: Peter returned from Tashbaan in a worse humour than he left. Susan has also been out of sorts and overly smothering—even for her.
Conclusion: Peter and Susan know precisely what occurred in Tashbaan and have conspired to keep it from me. They likely believe they have handled the situation sufficiently without my aid. Utter nonsense.
Fact: My spies report that Tarkaan Obridesh, royal advisor to the Tisroc, may his beard fall out, has recently been disgraced and banished from the royal palace.
Conclusion: This cannot be a coincidence, given that Peter and Susan are so recently returned from Tashbaan and the rumours circulating about Obridesh began mere hours after their departure.
Secondary Conclusion: Obridesh is the one who held me prisoner in Tashbaan.
Tertiary Conclusion: A man clever enough to steal me away from under the noses of my guards, and spies, and hold me captive against my will for any amount of time merits very careful consideration. The planning and execution of such a plot would take an enormous amount of wit—such a canny man will not let mere disgrace prevent him from achieving his ends.
Fact: Peter leaves for Ettinsmoor in two days' time and refuses to allow me to accompany him.
Conclusion: My moronically protective brother still fears for my safety.
Secondary Conclusion: I must discover all I can about both Obridesh and my time in Tashbaan in Peter's absence.
Moronically protective? Yet I sent him back to Calormen, knowing the danger—even suspecting that the threat posed by Obridesh was not fully neutralised? Duty before family, he reminded himself, with less conviction than he had felt previously. But, if he was being entirely honest with himself he had felt distinctly less worried at sending Edmund to Calormen than he now felt he ought to have been. Why is that?
It was obvious the answer to that particular question would not be found in Edmund's papers. He sighed and began to hobble to his feet when Brickle stopped him with a reluctant clearing of his throat.
"What is it, Brickle?"
The dwarf held out another page of parchment, his hand shaking slightly. "Your majesty, you may wish to read this one as well."
Peter took the page and saw the date with a sinking heart.
First of Greenroof, 1012
Fact: My agents report that Athelstan has at last formally requested Peter's aid in quelling talk of secession by the Council.
Conclusion: Peter cannot go to Narrowhaven, Susan must remain at Cair to entertain suitors—that leaves Lucy and me.
Secondary Conclusion: It must be Lucy. I must convince Peter, if he does not come to the conclusion on his own, to send Lucy to Narrowhaven and me to Calormen. I must do so without generating suspicion or he will insist upon accompanying me. He must not be allowed to do so if the full extent of Obridesh's plot is even nearly as vast as I have been led to believe.
Peter-
I am very likely to murder you when I return—if you do not first react in similar fashion. It was reasonably clever of you to try outwitting Obridesh on your own, save for Susan, but you must have known it would not be enough to long deter him.
You should not have kept his plans from me—have I not long since proven my ability to separate personal experiences from duty? More than that, you should not have hidden the truth of my treachery from our people for so many years. Keeping secrets serves only to provide weapons to men like Obridesh—had I been wiser twelve years ago I would have told the people the truth myself.
We have been given the power and authority to rule Narnia by Aslan—that does not give us the excuse to misuse our power for selfish reasons Pete. I do value your somewhat clumsy attempts to protect me, but, as I have reminded you countless times over the years, I am not a child. You do not need to protect me as zealously as you once did.
Aslan guard you, brother.
Brickle backed away quickly as Peter crumpled the sheet of parchment in his fist, but Peter barely spared him a glance. Edmund had known he would discover the truth, his letter proved that, and Peter decided that brothers were perhaps the most trying individuals on his list. Giants could be killed, suitors could be avoided or thrown out, vintners did little damage save for providing him with the means to acquire a headache, but brothers—brothers were an insufferable nuisance.
"Brickle," he said at last, surprised by how calm he sounded. "Send for Metelus, perhaps he can help me make sense of the rest of this." He gestured vaguely towards the room at large, crushing the parchment in his hand until his knuckles ached.
Insufferable nuisance or no, he thought shakily, I pray Aslan brings you home safely.
Poor Peter! Anyway, leave me a review if you liked this chapter and the next will be posted in a week-if all goes well :-)
Cheers,
A
