A/N: We're about halfway through Exulansis! Another 3-4 chapters remaining, which honestly depends on how much angsting Caslina decide to do... I'm loving y'all's theories on how Addie gets back!
Chapter 57 Content Warnings: N/A
Chapter 57: living with all your pain
Caspian
Caspian roars past the sting of overworked muscles as he slashes at the other man in the ring. His blade crashes into his opponent's shield. The metal groans as Caspian bears down with all his weight, and the soldier drops to a knee - likely thanks to Caspian's earlier strike to his right leg.
"I yield!"
Another match, another victory.
Caspian helps the man to his feet, gritting his teeth as his shoulder pops in protest.
"Is your leg alright?" He struck hard, and the soldier is still limping.
The man - a survivor of Beruna with a scar bisecting his weathered features from his eyebrow to his chin - waves off the question.
"I've had worse, Your Majesty. A good match."
"Indeed," Caspian says, accepting the cloth his attendant offers and wiping his face and neck. "Thank you."
The sparring fields have become Caspian's new solace. Swordplay becomes a daily habit, a necessary purging of aggression, of frustration - at Addie, at himself, at the memories he can't quite banish. The crossbow is not so tiring, nor so satiating. It's rhythmic, predictable, a poor distraction from his thoughts. The crossbow invites contemplation; swordplay beats it back, keeps him exhausted, pushes his body to its limits and rewards his diligence with deep, dreamless sleep without the tea.
Swordplay, with all its bumps and bruises, gives the pain somewhere to go - draws it from his chest like a poison and sets it free.
Bruises bloom, and then they heal. The purple splotches recede like the wave Caspian used to drown in and bring relief in their wake. Small cuts stitch together, torn flesh becoming whole again. On nights when his bed still feels empty, Caspian sits by candlelight and traces the day's bruises, the new constellation of scars on his hands and arms.
These scars were once cuts that bled; now they are pale, sealed lines marking a hurt he no longer feels.
As weeks bleed into months, the raw wound in Caspian's chest learns this rhythm of hurt and healing, and begins to knit itself back together.
Caspian's grief has just scabbed over when the Lord of Ettinsmoor dies in a tragic hunting accident. Autumn is creeping into winter, the cold northern winds heavy with the promise of snow and ice, and travelling into the foothills this close to the first frost is ill-advised at best, baiting a frozen demise at worst.
The Lord's new widow writes a tear-stained letter of earnest reassurances perfumed in a sweet, smoky incense.
I pray Your Royal Majesty not to trouble himself, the Lady of Ettinsmoor writes. I have sworn to oversee my Lord's lands in his absence. I find the business of caretaking and ladyship much comfort in my mourning.
Caspian knows too well what she means.
Caspian's council agrees to wait the winter before intervening. Lady Opheodra married the Lord of Ettinsmoor barely a year ago, but she has proved capable enough thus far.
The frost descends. Caspian's first winter as king is the bitterest in recent memory, transforming Narnia into an ice-crusted snowscape, as frigid and unforgiving as the Wild Lands of the North are rumoured to be. Almost as brutal as the White Witch's winter, say some.
Fortunately, this winter will end.
To resurrect the Narnian tradition and brighten a gloomy season, Caspian declares a holiday of Christmas in late December. Some regions, like Ettinsmoor, celebrate the winter holiday of Yuletide, but Caspian finds no harm in adding another festivity. It's another good distraction - setting up a new holiday, researching old Christmas traditions with Doctor Cornelius, consulting with his council and the castle's headmistress (a necessary position to staff, as he - no, Narnia - has no queen) for additional ideas.
His kingdom will have its happiness, at least.
The report of a Giant incursion interrupts the relief of thawing snow and dampens the Narnians' spring equinox celebration with murmurings of impending battle. Whispers of another war in Ettinsmoor sweep through the castle, carried on twin streams of apprehension and, from fewer but louder mouths, eagerness.
The Narnians remember war's costs better than anyone, but some crave a quicker return to the Golden Age - an age of exploration and expansion. Their eyes are fixed on the past, seeing little but an opportunity for glory. Many Telmarines feel the same; theirs is a history of conquering and war-making, and some soldiers long for a victory after the bitter sting of defeat.
Caspian would rather see no war for the rest of his years, but he won't abandon the settlers in Ettinsmoor. He's confirmed with Doctor Cornelius and two other scholars that no settlements have passed the Great Northern River nor otherwise encroached on the Giants' territory.
Narnia needs its Ettinsmoor settlements intact. They are the only buffer between the Wild Lands and Narnia, and if the creatures of the Wild - surviving servants of the White Witch, as rumour goes - ever attacked, Ettinsmoor would be Narnia's only warning. Caspian begins planning a campaign even as he prays, privately, the Ettins will cease.
It's a humid spring morning, thick with pollen and blooming flowers, when Lady Opheodra's request for aid arrives.
I regret to inform Your Royal Majesty that the Ettins' raids on our villages continue. My heart bleeds for the children left fatherless, and for the families left childless. These Giants are foul creatures beyond the reach of diplomacy or negotiations, though I have tried. Force, I fear, is the only path left to us.
I must confess my reason for such aggression is not only for my people. I now suspect my late Lord's accident was the Ettins' doing.
I have sent my best soldiers - a small army, to be sure, but the only defence this poor region has - and await their reports on these Giants' plans. I shall be incredulous if they have any beyond general mayhem and brutish violence, so senseless are their attacks, but an enemy with a known plan is an enemy ripe for defeat.
I have assured my people that we are not forsaken. It is my sincerest hope that I have told them true.
The Lady of Ettinsmoor
"What do you think?"
Caspian hands the letter to Doctor Cornelius. He plans to ride north with his army within the week, but he would be remiss not to seek counsel.
Doctor Cornelius perches his round spectacles on his nose and reads it. Then a second time, stroking his beard.
"The Ettins have often made trouble for Narnia," the Doctor says. "It does not surprise me they've begun challenging Narnia's borders again. Your rule is young, and many will test you."
"I didn't think the Ettins would be the first," says Caspian.
His attention to foreign affairs has been south on Calormen. The Tisroc's ambassador has been lukewarm most days and openly disdainful of the Narnians otherwise. If any kingdom were to prod Narnia's borders, Caspian expected Calormen to move by sea, now that Archenland is a secure ally.
"Nor did I." Doctor Cornelius reads the Lady's letter a third time. "I believe the Giants are not the only ones testing you, my king."
Caspian frowns. "Professor?"
Doctor Cornelius returns the letter with an old man's groan. "See the last line."
I have assured my people that we are not forsaken. It is my sincerest hope that I have told them true.
It's not a challenge, exactly, but it's also not the tone of a humble lady requesting military support. Lady Opheodra may be a cautious, grieving woman too proud and determined to prove herself capable to ask for aid outright. Or she is a scheming courtier playing a political game of guilt and duty. Or, perhaps, she thinks appealing to the Telmarine determination to avoid even the appearance of weakness is the most effective way to secure help for Narnia's most remote settlements, and she doesn't realise she will have the crown's aid simply for the sake of her people.
Caspian has never met her in person, so he can't discern which is true from her letters alone. The Lord of Ettinsmoor attended his council and left his lands in Lady Opheodra's care during his absence, but she has not yet journeyed to the capital.
"Test or not," Caspian says. "Ettinsmoor falls under the crown's protection."
Caspian may not have his uncle's reputation for brutality, but he won't shy from battle if it's necessary. Even if he has not won a war solely on his own merits yet.
This time, there are no Kings and Queens to rescue him.
Moreover, while the late Lord sided with Miraz in Caspian's war for the throne, Lady Opheodra has made no whisper against him.
Doctor Cornelius folds his hands over his stomach. "Be careful, Caspian."
"Of course."
The not-promise tastes like ash in his mouth, but it's not untrue. Caspian's duty is to stay alive.
For Narnia.
After a week of parsing sparse intelligence from the talking eagles and sparrows he sent to scout Ettinsmoor, Caspian departs the city with his face to the pink dawn and his army at his back. Robins and finches herald the rising sun, carefree and unconcerned with leather and metal and the jangle of armour. It's a charming send-off, far more calming than the mixed cheers and murmured worries of the city-folk.
In the weeklong journey to Ettinsmoor and the Lady's manor, Caspian lets the familiarity of Destrier's prancing walk and the wind in his hair stir his mind with nothing but plans. There will be battle, so there must his focus be.
When this errand is done, he still has his kingdom to return to.
The Lady of Ettinsmoor greets him from the steps of her ivy-covered manor, a coterie of Telmarine servants lined behind her. Her curtsy has all the grace he'd expect of a courtier, even one from this less settled region of Narnia.
"Your Majesty is most welcome here." Lady Opheodra trills her r's in a voice like birdsong. She doesn't seem like a woman suited to grief, though a dark veil shrouds her head. "We have great need of your aid."
Caspian bows. "Ettinsmoor will have it. But first, tell me all you know."
"Gladly." The Lady rises, her black gown and veil billowing in the stiff Ettinsmoor wind. Her manor lies between two foothills, and the north's winds never truly settle. These lands are restless, sharp with chill and the bluster of northern spring.
Caspian follows her with Glenstorm, Reepicheep, and Tavros. Doctor Cornelius and Trumpkin remained at court to attend Narnia's daily affairs.
The chandeliers and lanterns lighting the manor's polished floors and thick-woven rugs burn low. Dark curtains shroud the windows and the air is heavy with incense Caspian doesn't recognise - perhaps an Ettinsmoor mourning ritual. Caspian hides his cough in his elbow, grateful for his clanking armour to mask the sound.
Two manservants with blank stares open double doors to a sitting room. Two velvet settees bookended by cherry end tables dominate the space - luxury meant to impress. A dark green armchair sits before a smouldering fireplace, the coals casting flickering shadows through the grate.
"Please forgive these poor arrangements," says the Lady with a shallow nod toward Glenstorm. "I have not had the pleasure of hosting your kind before."
Glenstorm says nothing, but Reepicheep's eyes narrow. Caspian doesn't blame him. While Lady Opheodra may be trying to be polite, her words have othered the centaur; better for her to have said nothing.
"Perhaps a taller table," Caspian says.
"Of course." Lady Opheodra snaps and a servant scampers off. She takes the armchair.
It's improper for a courtier to sit before the king, but the unintentional slight isn't worth correcting. The Lady is grieving, and grief is…
He knows grief.
Caspian says nothing and sits on the far settee, leaving the second for Tavros and Reepicheep. Glenstorm stands behind him, a reassuring guard.
The pale, reedy servant returns with a table tall enough for Glenstorm to eat comfortably from and scuttles to kneel beside the armchair.
"Tea?" asks the Lady.
"Thank you," Caspian says. "And perhaps your general with an intelligence report."
Lady Opheodra murmurs to her servant and the girl patters off again, closing the doors as she goes.
"My Lord's general perished at Beruna," she says. "I have only two captains, whose reports you shall have presently."
"You have not selected another?" Caspian frowns. In these months of giants raiding the villages under her care, the Lady should have appointed a new general, or at least informed him she needed one.
Lady Opheodra tucks her feet under her chair, hands folded primly in her lap.
"I have not found one to my liking. Men of the sword can be… forgive me, very coarse. And I think a general needs a strategic mind, not rough manners."
"One does not negate the other," Caspian says. He knew someone with a sharp mind and very coarse manners, when it suited her.
"No," says the Lady. "But I need a general willing to listen to my orders."
On the other settee, Reepicheep stands tall, chest puffed and a paw on his tiny sword hilt. "If you have need of chivalrous knights, my lady, you needed only ask."
Lady Opheodra smiles and dips her head. "Now that the snow has thawed, I would be most grateful for any you can recommend."
"I did not realise Ettinsmoor's troops were so depleted," Caspian says. Half a dozen companies at Beruna wore Ettinsmoor's crest, and many of them survived the last battle.
The servant girl reenters with a silver tray wider than her shoulders. Saucers and cups rattle as she sets the tray on the nearest table, and her posture is stiff. To Caspian, the girl curtsies unsteadily and gives him two envelopes with broken seals.
"Our population was much reduced after your coronation." Lady Opheodra smooths her skirts, eyes downcast. "Many left through the tree. I expect other regions have suffered similar losses."
Caspian's breath lodges in his throat like a dagger. He almost forgets to thank the servant girl as she places a teacup and saucer on the end table by his elbow. By the time he summons his voice, all the cups are distributed, the girl is pouring tea, and Tavros is rumbling thanks.
"Yes," Caspian manages. "We lost many that day."
Lady Opheodra stirs two sugar cubes into her tea, spoon tinging the china.
"You see my difficulty. I did not wish to impose."
A tang of familiar frustration itches up Caspian's neck.
"You are the Lady of Ettinsmoor," he says, more scolding than gracious. Lady Opheodra's pride has likely cost lives already, and he has heard this line of argument before. "It is no imposition to request aid when your people need it."
The Lady sips her tea, rosebud lips curled over the cup's edge.
"Your Majesty is gracious," she murmurs. "I will not hesitate again."
Caspian sips his own drink and wills away his irritation. He will solve nothing by berating this lady who has little experience. He needs to sow trust, not force submission through recriminations and fear.
He is only tired of important information being kept from him.
Caspian sets his tea aside in favour of the reports as Tavros makes polite conversation on the general state of Ettinsmoor with Lady Opheodra. Terse and abbreviated, the reports only note the Ettins' latest targets and poor aim. One letter, dated almost a month ago, says only that the Ettins are encroaching from the north and must be hungry enough to make humans a dietary supplement. The other report from a captain of neater hand suggests the Ettins flattened another border village on accident during a game of cock-shies - the Giants' game of throwing boulders at a target, dangerous only for anyone or anything they aren't aiming at.
Caspian learns two things. One, something in the Northern Mountains is driving the Ettins south, the missing or flattened Ettinsmoor settlers are casualties of circumstance, and he and his army must know what before proceeding. Two, the Ettins have changed their diet from stone to humans. The latter bodes very ill for Ettinsmoor's human population. The former can be solved by simply pushing the Ettins back into their own territory, which he cannot do until he knows why they have strayed south.
Caspian interrupts the growing conversation on Ettinsmoor's summer solstice celebrations.
"My lady," he says, holding up both letters. "Where are your captains?"
Lady Opheodra's polite facade flickers. "Captain Dagno guards our northernmost villages with his troops. Captain Sovra is… no more."
Unfortunate; Captain Dagno authored the earlier report with too much pithiness and not enough detail.
"Can you summon him?"
"He is loath to leave the front," the Lady says. "But he will obey my order."
"Then send for him, though I will accept his best scout's personal report on the Ettins' movements since autumn."
With a snap to the servant girl and another quiet conversation between her and Opheodra, it is done.
Lady Opheodra should have summoned both her captains the moment she received his missive announcing his departure. Instead, Caspian must make do with half-baked intelligence and a paltry defence for this region he, admittedly, has paid little attention to.
He's paid only the necessary attention to all his duties ever since…
Caspian shakes off the past and chases away the astringent sting of should have and missing and does it matter with steaming, unsweetened tea.
At the very least, the problem of Ettinsmoor will give him little time for anything else.
As he expected, it comes to battle. The Ettins are more coordinated than the Lady's intelligence suggested, but they capitulate quicker than Miraz's troops. Victory comes before spring melts into summer.
Lady Opheodra appoints a general - a dwarf lieutenant from a border village who turns the tide of the first major battle - and she is competent.
Charming enough, if such things matter. Even through his frustration with her belated communications, Caspian can't deny that Ettinsmoor's morale is far higher than he anticipated. Whatever Lady Opheodra's methods, they work here.
He repels the Ettins into the Northern Mountains, Lady Opheodra draws up a new treaty, and she presents it to the Ettins' leader herself, despite Caspian's cautions.
"These are my people," she says, her green eyes ablaze. "My lands. When you have returned to your castle, it is I the Ettins must respect."
Caspian is too exhausted, too battered from battle to protest. He is only glad that Lady Opheodra now understands the gravity of her duty so he can return to tending the rest of Narnia.
He is sick of war.
As part of the peace treaty, Caspian makes Ettinsmoor a duchy, requires tribute of the Ettins, and elevates Lady Opheodra to a duchess.
She has done well enough. She has preserved her lands through harsh winter and war, through heartache and grief and loss.
He must respect her for that.
On the summer solstice, Caspian takes his first full breath in months at the gates of his city.
He does not think of last year's solstice. He locks himself in the king's chambers and he is glad that Doctor Cornelius has the key to his old rooms. While his kingdom dances in celebration of the Ettinsmoor victory, Caspian stares out at the waxing moon, his back to his empty bed.
There was no help at Ettinsmoor - no Aslan, no Kings and Queens. He ought to be proud, to celebrate this victory as his own.
Instead, Caspian retires early with a storybook of Golden Age legends for company, short stories of Narnia at its height, of gentle Giants and sporty tournaments and festivals for every season. He does not look to the window ledge where a seat should be, and he does not - does not - lay a scrap of coarse cloth there.
As he reads, Caspian makes a list of every forgotten holiday he wants to resurrect, and he is happy for his kingdom. He is happy for Narnia's peace and Ettinsmoor's treaty. He is glad for the promised gold to pad Narnia's coffers and fund his restoration of Cair Paravel.
Caspian is also glad for Doctor Cornelius, who has delivered on his promise to investigate Caspian's parents' history. A pyramid of scrolls dominates the king's desk, lush with the hope of family revelations.
Caspian spends the solstice and many nights after poring over Doctor Cornelius' findings - tattered dairies, half-burned letters, missives written in codes and cyphers it takes him weeks to crack.
At the bottom of the pile lie old letters written in swooping calligraphy, beautiful with all the attentive, meticulous swirls of a person writing to their beloved.
Letters of wooing, from his father to his mother. Letters of returned affection, then love, then grief, from his mother to his father.
Caspian sets those aside the moment he deciphers them. He's had his fill of grief.
But amid the stack, he finds mention of loyal friends he hasn't yet heard of - seven lords, apparently his father's most trusted advisers. Their coded messages stop three months after Caspian IX's death, and never resume.
Here is a mystery free of romance.
Here is a link to his father, to his family, that is worth untangling.
Caspian buries himself in scrolls and thinks of nothing else.
Nothing else.
Addie
It's a crowded summer morning when the Shaws take them to the train station in Glastonbury. The town looks smaller in the daylight, a collection of ill-kept dollhouses made by a cobbler who rushed the job. Glastonbury's small buildings are tiny and marred with creeping ivy, their roofs a sun-bleached beige.
Addie feels a bit sun-weathered herself. These years (five last month, Mrs Shaw said so) working the farm have splotched her face and arms with freckles, turned her wiry arms strong with muscles from milking cows, churning butter, and tending the herb garden. Henry and Ollie, who learned obedience by day and continue their mischief-making by night, bolt out of the cart the second Mr Shaw stopped the horse (Misty, a plodding chestnut with grey-tipped ears and a white star on her muzzle) and dash off to find their friends in the crowd.
Mrs Shaw sniffs and guides Addie and Josie into the thick line approaching the train station - little more than a platform, with Harmon's rickety ticket booth standing at the edge. Addie clutches her bag to her chest. She mended the handle this morning, but her fingers are still clumsy with a needle and Mrs Shaw might've just saying her mending was better.
"Be good now, don't go soft in the city," says Mrs Shaw, her hand cupped over Addie's shoulder. "And if -" After a brackish clearing of her throat, she continues. "If that city air hurts your chest, you're to take the train straight back, you hear?"
Josie looks up, her bouncing curls framing her round cheeks. "Like a summer holiday?"
Mrs Shaw squeezes both their shoulders, a comforting, familiar weight. The years have made a kinder woman of her.
"Yes, like that. Mind you, don't forget to write."
Now that the war's over, the post is running regularly again. Addie left her Sunday shoes behind to make room for Mum's letters - twenty in the last three weeks.
Addie takes Josie's warm, plump hand and smiles around a lump in her throat. "We'll practice our letters together. Mine still look awful."
Josie lives in northwest London, and Mum's in south London, but Addie doesn't have the heart to be honest about how little they'll see each other, or how long the train ride is, or how she won't ask Mum for the ticket money. They still have an hours until London, and Addie hates seeing Josie cry. Josie's silent tears, red nose, and trembling lip can make anyone cry with her.
As feared, Josie's smile wobbles. "Mine too. So we'll have to practise a lot, won't we?"
"Exactly." Addie swallows and holds her tighter, train ticket crinkling in her coat pocket.
A train whistle shrieks. In the distance, a column of white puffs through the trees.
Mrs Shaw's hand tightens and Addie leans into her grip. Mrs Shaw is pleasant when she's not being gruff.
"I'm sorry," Addie rushes to say, before the train gets here and Mrs Shaw and the farm are only a memory. "Sorry I caused so much trouble at first."
Mrs Shaw tugs on her braid, sharp enough to scold but not enough to hurt. "None of that. Keep your chin up and be good to your mum. No lazing; I'll come to London myself if I hear of it."
Addie tries and fails to stop her sniffle. She won't, but it's nice to hear.
The train chugs into the station, metal squealing as it looms over the crowd of children choking the platform.
Mrs Shaw pats her shoulder and shouts to be heard above the rising din. "Off you go. Be good for your parents."
When the crowd loosens and the platform steps loom in front of Addie's toes, it's Josie who finds her steel. Her soft fingers lock through Addie's and pull her forward and up, up, up onto the rickety platform.
"We can always come back," Josie says in her ear. "We'll make a season of it."
Summer holiday… it's hazy, but summer holiday from school included trips away from London. But maybe Josie is right; every once in a while can't hurt.
At least she has Josie. For the next few hours.
The train ride to London couldn't be more different from the journey five years ago. Addie was so small back then, but she remembers how quiet it was, how alone she felt in a sea of strange children as homesick as she. This time, excited chatter echoes in the train car and a few naughtier children dash up and down the aisle - two boys with shocks of black hair chasing a waifish blonde girl laughing as she weaves in and out of the seats, teasing them for being clumsy and slow.
Josie doesn't give the antics a second glance; she's too busy babbling about her mum's meat pies and shortbread for dessert.
"- been a while since we had shortbread. If I ask prettily, Mum'll let us share a tin. That's not too wicked, is it?"
Addie meets Josie's sparkling blue eyes with what she hopes is a cheery smile.
"Of course it's not wicked. Shortbread sounds lovely."
The blonde girl feints into their section, only to weave away. One of the dark-haired boys dives for her and tumbles to the floor. Addie offers him a hand, only because the sooner he's up, the sooner she can hear Josie. The boy takes her hand and leaps back into the chase.
When Addie looks up, Josie is frowning.
"Don't you remember it, before the war?"
Addie's face heats. "I don't think I've had it. Or it's been so long I forgot."
Josie folds her hands in her lap and sits straighter. "All the more reason, then. We'll split the whole tin and you'll never forget again."
Addie agrees quickly. That would be nice; she's been bad about forgetting things lately.
"And then we'll go to the library," Josie continues. "The big one, with walls and walls of books. I'm dying to know what story you keep talking about. The one with the half-goats."
"Fauns?"
Josie nods, curls bouncing. "Yes, those! I'm sure I've heard of them before. Can't you think of anything else to narrow it down?"
If only. Addie glances out the window at the rolling countryside, verdant green splashed with summer's golden halo.
"Centaurs, a castle, a prince," Addie says, more to the window than to Josie. Last winter, Josie found her journal of scribbles and sketches and she hasn't stopped asking about them since. "I think there was a talking lion in there somewhere."
Josie scoots closer, the toes of her shiny black shoes nudging Addie's shins. "Sounds like a fairy tale. My brother always said we need fairy tales to get through the bad times."
Almost a decade her senior, Josie's brother left to fight in the war.
Addie kicks lightly at Josie's polished shoes. "Staying with the Shaws wasn't bad. Going home isn't bad either."
"Not for us," says Josie, leaning in like she's about to share a secret. "But it must've been awful for Mum - yours and mine. Wouldn't it be nice to bring them a new fairy tale?"
Addie thinks about how Mum cried when she walked her to the school, and how quickly she vanished into the crowd as Addie marched with the other children toward the train station.
"It would," Addie whispers.
Once they arrive in London, the train slowly empties. Josie disembarks at Oxford Circus with Addie's address written on scrap paper clutched in her hands and a promise to visit soon. Addie stuffs Josie's address into her pocket and holds it until Bank station.
Maybe she's old enough to work after school. Then she could visit Josie with her own money without bothering Mum.
From Bank station, she changes trains to Mitcham and then…
Then she'll be home.
That's London, now.
When Addie knocks on the weathered wooden door - at once it's both familiar and foreign - no one answers.
Silly, she's being silly, thinking anyone would be here in the middle of the day. Mum never got home until after dark, and Dad -
Dad was gone, off fighting in the war. But the war's over now, so he must be at work too.
Addie fumbles behind the twin bushes framing the door (she never understood how Mum kept those so perfectly rounded, how she found the time) before she remembers Mum said the spare key was under the doormat. Addie's fingers brush metal.
The empty house is sweltering and dark, the curtains drawn tight against the heat. Outside is alive with the cheers of other children coming home, but Addie's house is as still and quiet as a tomb.
That won't do. Mum and Dad should come home to a cheery house and a fresh-made supper.
She can do that. Mrs Shaw says she's a very good cook, though she tends to over-season.
Addie hurries into her tiny room and changes into cooler clothes. The coat wouldn't fit in her bag so she had to wear it, and the pockets had space to carry loose papers and her train tickets, but now it needs washing from all her sweating. A coat in summer… how silly of her.
When Mum gets home, she'll ask about the laundry. Tomorrow is Saturday, so Addie may as well make it laundry day. The clothes will dry fast in this July heat.
Addie strips off her stockings and pads to the kitchen on bare feet. Mum never walked around without shoes, but Mrs Shaw insisted on no shoes in the house. Josie was sure the rule started with Mr Shaw and his constantly muddy boots.
Addie finds the pantry half-empty, stocked with the basics (flour, lard, canned fruits and vegetables) and little else. That's fine; there's enough meat for a pie, and the onions aren't mouldy yet.
Before she starts cooking, Addie opens all the windows, even the sticky one above the sink. Meat pie means turning on the oven.
It's peaceful, the rhythm of combining flour, water, and lard into a pastry and kneading it into compliance. It might be lonely in this empty kitchen, but she decides it's not.
Mum and Dad will be home soon.
The front door clicks open just as the last streaks of sunset fade. The sudsy bowl in Addie's hands clatters into the sink.
"Addie? Adelaine, is that you?"
Addie sprints to the foyer, bare feet slapping the floor, and it's been so long and did Mum really forget her name is Adelina?
"Mum!" Her mother's tall silhouette blurs, but that's alright because Mum is here, or Addie's here, and she almost forgot how it feels when Mum holds her.
It feels like the shuddering breath after a good cry. Like the first ray of sunrise. Like watching a wave crest on the shore and waiting, waiting, waiting until it finally collapses in a spray of white froth.
Addie buries her face in her mother's shoulder, inhales the tang of sweat and factory smoke, and sobs the happiest tears she's ever cried.
It's alright because Mum is crying too, steady hands stroking her hair, arms holding Addie firm when her knees give out.
It's alright now because Mum is here and soon Dad will be too and she'll never, ever have to feel alone again.
A/N: Definitely different amounts of time passing for Caspian vs. Addie... Out of curiosity, who's read all the Narnia books? No reason I'm asking 👀
Chapter 58 Preview:
Another cough, then Mum folds the napkin and hides it in her lap. "You know, I met your father when I was sixteen."
Addie blinks down at a carrot chunk and her half-eaten crust of bread. The thought of walking about with her arms around some strange boy and letting him kiss her twists wrong in her stomach, souring her dinner. Mum's never mentioned this before; why now?