Chapter 2

1948, Outside a Jazz bar in France

He had pretty blue eyes and blonde hair. That is one thing this world had that the other did not: variety. Lena had seen men with blonde hair blue eyes, red hair and sunspots, dark-skinned men, and men whiter than snow. In that other place, everyone looked like everyone else. And the language! There were so many languages here; Lena loved it. However they looked though, and no matter the language they spoke, Lena found that men were all the same at their core. They all wanted the same thing; they all thought the same thing, and as such, being blessed by beauty as she was, they were easily manipulated.

He leaned in for the kiss, breath soaked in alcohol and smoke. Lena allowed it to continue only for as long as necessary. Then she pulled back, cheeks a flush with heat and eyes demure.

"*Monsieur, je suis désolé. I think this wine too strong. We forget ourselves."

He pulled back too, shamefully apologetic and none-the-wiser. "Mademoiselle, ze fault is mine. A man should never forget 'is 'onor."

Honor. She hated the word. Lena had never met a man with honor, neither here nor there.

"Perhaps, in another life, we will be in our right minds," she said.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "I will look for you in my dreams."

Lena tried not to gag. "And I will be there."

She waited until he had walked away before slipping his watch into her clutch handbag. Men were easily distracted.

"I have a proposition for you."

But when they offered themselves up so easily, such as the new one behind her, it was risky to pursue. There's no telling how much he had witnessed of the previous one.

"I'm not interested," Lena replied, not even bothering to look over her shoulder at him. He really wasn't worth her time.

"You'll be interested in this," he replied.

Lena mentally rolled her eyes—a proper Lady never truly does. He was going to be one of those annoying, persistent, not-giving-up-until-I-get-a-kiss types. Lena turned around to face him and to make her point clear, but she froze when she saw his face. She knew that face. It had been eight years and she only saw it for a brief time, but she knew that face. It was not a face one could easily forget. What's more, he knew she recognized him; the smugness was in his eyes.

"I'm not interested in any proposition of yours, Little King," Lena spat.

"You haven't even heard it yet," he replied. He stood with an arrogant, unabashed, easy smile like he knew she'd accept his offer.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not interested." Lena turned to walk away. The sooner she was out of his presence, the better.

"I say," he called after her. "We go together to return that watch to the police like good, honest citizens, I forget that I ever saw you take it, and then you let me buy you dinner."

Lena froze. *Merda, she thought. Of course, he saw her take the watch. Shame too; it would have fetched about a hundred francs. Lena pulled it out of her clutch and marched over to him.

"Take the watch yourself, if you wish," she said, her accent thick, as she slammed it into his hands. "But I am done satisfying the whims of kings."

Narnia

Lena had dozed off again. She hadn't intended to, but the walk and the shock of being back in Narnia had taken its toll. Sara's head lay in her lap. It was no surprise that she had fallen asleep, and it was no surprise that Meri had not; Lena could hear her talking.

Meri wasn't like Lena. She hadn't met a stranger who wasn't also a friend. She didn't know the pains that came with trusting the wrong person. She was talking to the Cheetah, Jagar. The Non-Peter had claimed that Jagar riding in the cart with them was for their own protection. Lena knew otherwise; he knew otherwise. Non-Peter knew the pains of trusting the wrong person.

"You know much about Narnia," Jagar said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Oh, yes! Babbo told us all about it. The long winter, how they defeated the White Witch, their voyage east, my favorites though, were the simple ones of life at the Cair."

"Who is this Babbo? I've heard you make mention of him several times."

"Babbo? He's our dad, mine and Sara's. He's…"

"Merina, *zitto!" Lena said harshly. Then she continued in their tongue. "Do not get comfortable here, Meri; do not make friends. We will be going home very soon and it will be harder for you if you do."

"And what if I don't want to go back, Mamma? What if I don't want to go back to…?" Her eyes turned sad as she thought about what awaited them back in London. Lena didn't much like the thought of it either.

"All things have their time, Topa."

"Maybe this is our time here, Mamma. Maybe Aslan brought us here for a reason. I have to believe He did."

"It is impolite to speak of others in a language they cannot understand," Jagar said. "And you were asked to speak only in our common tongue."

Lena looked pointedly at the great cat. "If I wanted you to know what we were saying, I would have meowed."

"Mamma!" Meri exclaimed while Jagar growled and pinned his ears flat to his head. "Jagar, I'm so sorry. Mamma didn't mean it. Please, she's just… Mamma, apologize!"

Meri was right; Lena was out of line, but swallowing one's pride is a hard thing to do.

"*Signore, mi dispiace. I am sorry, Sir Jagar. I am not myself today; being here brings back memories I'd rather forget," she said

The Cheetah did not completely relax, but he did un-pin his ears. Then, something else caught his attention and he perked up.

"Daughter of Eve," he said. "Welcome to Cair Paravel."

Meri's head whipped around to look over her shoulder and her face lit up with joy. Lena could not see it until they made a turn south. Then a bright, shining castle with spirals that glistened in the sun rose up before them. Behind the castle, the sky was a clear spotless blue. It was a picturesque view, sure, but it wasn't the view Lena wanted.

1948, Same Jazz bar a week later

This one was more difficult. A simple kiss wasn't enough; that should have been a sign, and perhaps it was, but Lena ignored it. He required a brush of the hand here, a taste of skin there, but in the end, she still got what she wanted. Lena pulled back.

"Monsieur, je suis désolé. I think this wine too strong; we forgot ourselves."

"Mademoiselle," he grinned. "Zere is no need for false modestie." He grabbed her wrist.

Ugh. He was one of them, she thought. Before Lena could take action against him, though, someone else intervened.

"Monsieur, I believe you dropped this."

Really? Did he not know when to quit?

Monsieur Whatever-his-name-was looked over his shoulder at the Little King. "Wait your turn; zere will be enough to go around."

Little King didn't like that. He grabbed Monsieur's shoulder and pulled him off of Lena. Then with one quick strike, he had him lying on his back with a bloody nose.

"She said no," Little King said. "Now, I suggest you gather what's left of your little pride and leave unless you'd like me to break something else."

Monsieur Whatever-his-name-was threw out a few colorful insults at both of them before stumbling away.

"*Ma, che sei grullo!" Lena said. "Are you following me now?"

"You're…welcome," Little King said incredulously.

"I had it well in hand. Do you think he was the first to get a little handsy with me? He wasn't, and he certainly won't be the last."

"I was just trying to help. There's an easier way to do this, you know. You don't have to go it alone."

"I already told you, Little King; I'm not interested in being anything of yours." Then Lena turned and left him alone in the alley as she headed back inside the jazz bar.

Narnia

Lena and her daughters were escorted into a grand entry. Non-Peter was a few paces ahead of them, an army of creatures and Beasts between them and him. Meri walked along with wide eyes and Lena knew she was making a mental comparison of what Babbo said with the reality of it. Sara walked along slowly, still groggy from her nap and wanting Lena to carry her. Lena warned Babbo not to treat her like a princess. But he never listened.

"Peter!"

"Susan!"

Through a break in the guard, Lena watched as Non-Peter and Susan reunited. She held out hope that Susan, being of a sound mind, would recognize them.

"Aunt Suzie!" Sara cried out as she ran forward and latched onto Susan's dress.

"Oh! Hello, little one," Susan replied with surprise and not a trace of familiarity. Just like that Lena's hope was crushed.

"Sarina, *smettila; come back here. I'm sorry, Susan, she gets a little excited sometimes."

"That's all right. No harm has been done," the Non-Susan replied. "You must be Ileana."

"Yes, but most call me Lena. So, Peter informed you of our…situation?"

"Only what little I gathered," Peter said.

"Yes, and I must admit that I am baffled by how little that is," Susan added.

"You are not alone in that respect."

"Yes, I think we are all there together," Peter agreed.

"Mamma? I don't understand," Meri said, clearly confused. "Why do Uncle Peter and Aunt Susan not recognize us?"

Her question was like a blow to Lena's stomach.

"Merina, mi amore." Lena brushed some of Meri's hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. "My best guess, if I had to say… You know the tales Babbo tells, the ones you love so dearly?"

She nodded her head.

"Well, these, if I'm not mistaken, are their first years of travel. The three of us have, somehow, come back into a Narnia that existed long before I was born. Put simply, they do not know us because they have not yet met us."

"What… what about Babbo? Will he remember us?"

This was the hardest question, the truth of which Lena did not want to face.

"There has been nothing I've seen so far, that would suggest that he will."

"But that is a worry for another day," Non-Susan said, quickly stepping in. "Our Brother is not here; he and Our Sister are still in Archenland returning a young Prince to his father."

"Oh. Good. Then perhaps we can get to the bottom of this and return me and my daughters home before he arrives."

"Perhaps. But first, I think you are in need of a hot meal."

"And perhaps, some strong ale," Non-Peter suggested.

*Translations

Monsieur, je suis désolé : Sir, I'm sorry (French)

Merda: shit

Zitto: shut it

Signore, mi dispiace: Sir, I'm sorry (Italian)

Ma, che sei grullo: But, how stupid are you

Smettila: stop it