It must have been a very deep pool because she fell a long time. She felt a rush, and the water seemed to evaporate into a gust of wind, and Melanie blinked to find herself standing in front of the house in England, exactly where she had been—oh it felt like weeks ago!

Her ears felt sealed with wax. She pounded the side of her head with the heel of her hand. A car drove by. Melanie could see it and feel the gust it made, but she could not hear it at all. She tried speaking, but her tongue seemed to have swollen to twice the size it should have been, and she could not make it work. With a sigh, she returned inside the house.

To her surprise, everything was exactly as she had left it, as if she had not been gone at all. Peter still read on the sofa, Lucy still sat at the table drawing, and Edmund absently picked at the rug in front of the hearth. Melanie sat near him. He smiled at her, and she could clearly see the surprise on his face as she returned his smile. Borrowing a pencil and paper from Lucy, Melanie tried to explain how her attitude could completely change in what must amount to only a few minutes.

I was gone, she wrote.

Edmund seemed to understand. He wrote a question of his own. Do you find it easier to communicate with signs or by writing?

Signs, Melanie wrote in reply.

Will you teach me your signs? Edmund wrote. When Melanie nodded, he wrote Melanie and pointed to it.

Melanie hesitated. Her name did not have a sign. No one ever bothered to call her "Melanie." They referred to her by her most evident characteristic. She decided to show Edmund this sign. It was the one she answered to, anyway: two fingers slapped twice on the back of the opposite hand. The sign for "curse," but of course Edmund didn't know. He repeated the sign, unaware of Melanie's discomfort to see such kind hands making such an evil sign, but that couldn't be helped.

Edmund said something to his brother, and Lucy looked up as well. Melanie could tell he was explaining to them what Melanie was teaching. He grabbed the pencil again.

Edmund, he wrote.

Melanie made a slight variation on the sign for "trust," and taught it to them.

For Lucy's name, she decided on a variation of the "sister" sign. Peter was "eldest", and Susan was "woman."

Melanie taught them how to ask questions with their hands, and soon they no longer needed the pencil and paper at all, communicating entirely through signs. Melanie taught them more and more words, until Peter gave the sign for "bed."

Melanie, dressed in one of Lucy's nightgowns, curled into a cot in the girls' room. Just before falling asleep, she remembered Susan and wondered if she was having an enjoyable evening . . .

Susan, over dinner that evening, vainly attempted joviality. She made small talk and laughed as if she hadn't a care in the world, and nearly thought she'd succeeded until Benton placed his hand on hers.

"Susan?" he said.

She jumped and turned to him a bit quicker than she would have liked. "Yes?" she tried to smile as if nothing was wrong.

Benton raised his eyebrows. "You've been on edge all evening. You avoided me this morning, and I'm really concerned for you."

Susan squirmed uncomfortably.

"Is this about your Narnia complex?"

Nod.

"Do you want to walk as we talk about it?"

Nod again.

Benton signaled the waiter, paid the check, pulled Susan's chair out for her, and led her by the hand out of the restaurant.

They walked to a nearby park. As they circumnavigated the park and returned to Benton's car, Susan found herself telling Benton all about Melanie, and New Telmar, and Ed and Lucy "going to Narnia," and her struggles with her doubts. "What is more, I feel trapped whenever something of that nature surfaces because it reminds me how truly uncertain I am of my beliefs."

Benton appeared deep in thought as he helped Susan into the car. He slid in next to her behind the steering wheel and she looked away, cheeks burning with shame.

"Susan, look at me."

She did.

"I need to tell you something. Since I first met you, I confess you have had a profound impact on me. You captured my admiration like no other girl could. You were open, honest, friendly, very smart . . . " His voice dropped so low, Susan had to lean forward to hear him. He reached out and stroked her hair, " . . . and very beautiful. I care about you."

Susan closed her eyes, merely listening to Benton's voice. His face was so close, she could feel his breath as he continued, "I love . . ."

The instant his lips brushed hers, Susan saw behind her eyelids the face of her first kiss—

Caspian!

"Oh!" she cried, pulling away. Benton caught her hand.

"It is because I care for you that I give you this advice: forget Narnia! It has nothing to do with real life, I assure you. It may have been entertaining while you were younger, but you are not a little girl anymore, Susan! It's time to move on." Benton shifted in his seat to be able to look Susan in the eye.

"Susan, you have fallen victim to your own childish imagination. You are like a toddler who cannot discern between real life and fantasy. Let me help you become a mature adult.

"Whenever you find yourself thinking of Narnia, I want you to give yourself a good shake and tell yourself, 'Susan, there is no such thing as Narnia!' Try it with me now. Look me in the eye and tell me, 'Benton, there is no such thing as Narnia.' Try it!"

Susan gazed at him and slowly repeated, "Benton, there is no such thing—" She stopped and horror transformed her features as instead of Benton she saw Caspian's face!

"I want to go home!" she cried.

Benton wordlessly started the car and steered back to Ketterley House. He opened the door for Susan, and she alighted but did not immediately enter the house. She stood looking at Benton and holding his hand.

"I-I'm sorry, Ben," she said quietly.

Benton sighed, "I am, too," he said softly.

"I will say it," Susan promised.

Benton gave her a half-smile. "I believe you. Good night, Susan."

"Good night."

Susan went straight upstairs as soon as she got inside the door. She could hear Melanie and Lucy's soft breathing coming from their beds. She looked at herself in the mirror. "All right, Susan," she whispered to herself resolutely, "now's your chance. There is . . . there is—" Oh! What was the use?

Why on earth did she feel so . . . wretched? As if she was trying to force herself to say something she did not really believe?

Oh! It was all the fault of the younger kids! Edmund and Lucy with their everlasting Narnia talk! Susan had been immersing herself in real life very well before they came along and dredged everything up—hadn't she? Melanie, too, with her beastly "New Telmar" nonsense.

Why, oh why did Peter encourage such things?

Susan sank into bed with a sigh. With the last bit of willpower, the last ounce of consciousness before dropping off to sleep, Susan Pevensie whispered into the darkness:

"There is . . . no such thing . . . as . . . Narnia."

THE END