She began pinning the paper to her wall, taking out the balls of string, as she had not done in the years since she had finished covering home affairs; before Cynthia had gone on to bigger and better things, before she had been forced out of frontline journalism by her pregnancy and Eustace Clarence's birth.

Susan's strange story about Narnia gave but a few clues; during the war, the Pevensies had started it, Edmund had changed. Growing up, no doubt, had something to do with it; and obviously, Susan had come to a logical conclusion that being separated from one's parents had likely been a factor- but journalists shouldn't take such things purely for granted, and something felt like a tiny buzz, whispering echoes of something else something else that meant she couldn't simply ignore Susan's declaration, "Edmund changed".

The painting, and Susan's strange reaction to it somehow implied that there was something to that story that was more than a tale- and then, also linked to the painting, Eustace Clarence-

"I fell into the painting in the spare room with Lucy and Edmund."

Lucy and Edmund, during the wartime; Eustace Clarence's change. The disposal of the lolly jar under his bed, the lack of pinned butterflies on his desk; the gradual disappearance of his entire beetle collection; the shredding of his old journal.

Eustace Clarence taking things up with that Jill girl, Eustace Clarence going to church. To the same church as Jill Pole, the same church as his Pevensie cousins (her nephews, her niece).

But it was so strange, so strange. Because what sort of fantasy world could affect such a change? But how could that place exist? It was absurd, it was so absurd! Even Millicent, with her strange Christian beliefs, which in themselves seemed so absurd; even she had been hesitant. Balaam's donkey, she had mentioned.

(Balaam's donkey; she made a quick note of that. The spelling and the phrase was so familiar, like an old tale she had once been friends or acquaintances with, who had long fallen to the wayside. It was likely somewhere in the Old Testament, but precisely where she would have to research later.)

Eustace Clarence and his changed views. That awful discussion over the breakfast table, following the bombing of Nagasaki, where he had tried to defend war- or, at least, had critiqued total Pacifism. Eustace Clarence and his strange obsession with George MacDonald. Eustace Clarence, copying out copious chunks of the Bible. Eustace Clarence, saying "Thank you" after each dinner, Eustace Clarence, almost calling her "Mother" on two separate occasions.

And all of that happened following Edmund and Lucy's stay, following his ridiculous stories about that ridiculous painting; all of it, linked to Edmund and Lucy; Susan's strange behaviour and her stories, and "It was a game we all played... and then Lucy- I think it was Lucy- pretended she found a country in a wardrobe" - it all came back to the Pevensies.

And it all came back to one particular story, with two particular names.

"Aslan, the great lion- he awoke the world from an eternal winter."

"But Alberta, wait! - I haven't told you about Aslan!'

Aslan, she wrote, and pinned the paper to the centre of the wall, threaded the string across from Edmund and Lucy and Eustace Clarence and the painting, and Susan- all of it, all of it centred upon those words. Aslan had been the focus of the story, according to Susan.

But then, Millicent had never even heard of the names, knew nothing of them. All of this pointed to its simply being a game, simply being something children played- and that made sense, it should just be that.

But Eustace Clarence didn't play silly games; he wasn't like that. Even if he had changed and she hadn't liked the way that he changed he had not totally lost his mind. Certainly he became more common following his cousins' stay, but he had not descended to complete commonality. And even if Susan tried to brush off Edmund's transformation- had not Eustace Clarence changed, too?

It was real was it real pulsed, faded, pulsed, faded through the room, a spell in the musty, cave-like room (and still the grease swirled and trickled against her window pane outside); it was real was it real and why was she even entertaining such thoughts?

She traced the thread with a finger, felt its coarse weave, its thin, brittle frame; taut here, loser there- she knotted it once again around the pin.

Aslan.

She followed one of the threads outwards; the painting. That wretched painting. Eustace Clarence's 'journey'. His transformation.

"Alberta?"

Almost toppling forward, Alberta half clutched the string and half spun around, almost upsetting the intricate network on the wall.

"Harold!" Right hand still on the string, her left hand clambered, unsteadily, for her writing desk. "When did you come in?"

Harold blinked at her from the doorway as though he was the one who was shocked.

"My last lecture was at four, Alberta. I stayed back at the office to write a few more questions, marked another essay- it's our usual time for dinner."

Brow crinkled, she glanced out the window. It was darkening, just a little- could it really be time for dinner? The clock said it was so, but the colours of the sky implied- and goodness, but did the clock really say it was dinner time? Had she spent so long in her room, at the wall?

"Alberta?"

Judging from the gradual crescendo of footfalls, she supposed that Harold was walking towards her.

"Alberta, what have you been doing?"

Half turning, she saw Harold lower his briefcase, stretch out a hand, trace the thread. In his eyes she could almost read the words reflected; Aslan Eustace Clarence's journey Edmund and Lucy's stay the painting Eustace Clarence's transformation Edmund's change Susan's story the painting Susan's reaction Aslan and round and round in a network of circular intersections and cross-sections and peripheries.

"Alberta."

Harold's voice was warm, concerned, condescending.

"Alberta, I'm glad that you're able to apply yourself, but- what is this?"

"I am not a little girl!" she spat, wrenching her right hand away from the wall, away from its proximity to Harold. "Do not patronise me, Harold Andrew Scrubb!"

"I-" he looked vaguely taken aback, and Alberta felt the heat swell. "Look, Alberta- I've had a long day at work, I'm sorry- but- what is this?"

Don't you know? was on the tip of her tongue, when she realised that, maybe, Harold didn't know. Had she spoken about this with him before? She could scarcely recall. Thinking about it, yes; sometimes it seemed it had been all she had thought of, when she could think- when the looming, black emptiness that had once been Eustace Clarence was not pressing upon her such that breathing, let alone thinking, was near impossible- but had she spoken about it with Harold?

"Alberta?"

Something in her broke at that; something in his voice, perhaps, the way that he sounded so very broken. (She did not know when this had happened; that when he broke, she broke- it had not always been so, but it had been more and more the case ever since - well, ever since.)

There is so much to say, she said, or perhaps she wanted to say it; I don't know where to begin.

Aslan, came the immediate reply, and it was almost as if it was something speaking in her own mind; you could always start with that.

"Do you remember," she began, and stopped.

Outside the fog swirled once more, smoke and dust and oil. Double double toil and trouble.

"Eustace Clarence used to pin butterflies," she said abruptly (inside why why why why, sirens screeching and question marks flying).

"Er-" said Harold, and she ignored him.

"And he had that jar of lollies under his bed, the jar he thought we knew nothing of. And he used to be so ambitious, Harold- do you remember that?"

"Y-"

"I still remember that breakfast, after the news of Nagasaki came," she said, and took an oddly choking breath. "Do you remember that, Harold? How he behaved so strangely when Guernica was in the sitting room?"

"I- Alberta-"

"Do you ever wonder at that, Harold?" she pressed, looking at him properly for the first time that night, seeing the confusion and the piercing blankness in his grey eyes. "Do you ever wonder why he changed?"

Harold shifted from one side to the other.

"Well, er- Alberta, you know boys at that age; people change, and-"

"No, they don't!"

Her breathing was fast, shallow.

"Harold, people don't change that much; not that much, not just in a normal 'growing up' process. Eustace Clarence became almost a different person, didn't you see, don't you remember?"

She didn't know when she had started crying, but she felt the tears on her face, heard the hitches in her voice, that godawful nasal quality that meant that she would need to use a handkerchief now.

"Harold, didn't you see what I saw, didn't you see our son?"

Blurred, she saw, rather than felt, Harold reach out, grasp her arms. She pulled away.

"Alberta, I'm sure it was just- just a phase. He was only a boy, Alberta-"

"No!"

Perhaps stamping her foot was too childish, but at this point, she didn't care.

"Harold, he wasn't just a boy, don't you see? He changed, he changed! And there was something, there is something, something I can't see- but it changed our son, and it's real- and Aslan and Narnia might just be stories, that painting might be a silly prop, but something is real - don't you see?"

"Alberta," Harold's voice whispered near her ear, frustratingly soothing. "Alberta, I'm sure you are tired; you have had a hard, long day, and Harry called me-"

"Maybe there is a god," she said bitterly, wrenching herself away.

Maybe there is a god.

She had said it only to get a response from Harold-

What, Alberta? Are you mad?

Or, perhaps, Church, are you out of your mind? Alberta, you hate churches!

Or- I thought we had decided that was all nonsense?

But even now could it be real is it real it is real thrummed and spun and swelled in her head.

"Really?" said Harold, mildly. Maddeningly mildly. "Well, if it suits you, Alberta, then I'll support you in that- but are you sure?"

She could not quite explain the betrayal that sliced through her body like butter.

"If I go to church," she said, bitingly, and began again. "I think I will go to church."

"Well, if it helps you," said Harold, almost earnestly, "that's- well, it's something, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Alberta, dully. "It's something."

He looked at her queerly and tried to drop a kiss on her cheek. She ducked her face, and felt his lips collide with her temple.

"Well," he said, awkwardly, "I suppose it's time for dinner."

Wordlessly, Alberta left her room, walked downstairs, and dished out the leftover cous cous and roast vegetables from the night before, the web of names blaring like a beacon in her mind.

Aslan Eustace Clarence Aslan Susan Aslan.

Something. It is real. Something.