When she wakes up in the morning, the dam is cold, the fire dead. It's common, now, for her to wake alone, and the most horrid thing about it is that she's beginning to grow used to it. Yet, in a way, she's almost glad, glad he leaves before she can rise, because this way she doesn't have to watch him leave her behind- again.
So she rises, as she always does, and stokes the fire, guts the fish, brings in wood from the slowly dwindling pile at the door, mends a small tear in their wedding quilt. She busies herself with household tasks because if she does that- if she falls into the familiar, worn rhythm of living- she doesn't have to think about Castor spying and Castor fighting and Castor dying in the snow that would cover him quick as thought.
When he comes home- sometimes in the late afternoon but more often in the dead of night- exhausted and exhilarated and always bearing some tale of danger and rebellion to chill her blood and raise her ire with, she fusses over him. Brushing dirt and snow from his fur, scolding him over the state of his pack or the general disrepair of the dam, forcing him to sit and eat no matter how much he protests; and he groans all the while about not needing another mother when he's got a perfectly good one living not three miles south.
And, over the years, the sharp feeling of terror for Castor wears down into a sensation of constant tension that she always carries. She manages the household, makes the meals, cares for her husband, lives.
She does this throughout the long, cold, dark winter years, never suspecting the truth: that hers is the harder task, hers the life that drives Jadis mad. Hers is the greater revolt because she refuses to change; Castor, for all that he works for the overthrow of the White Witch's reign, has become something else, something harder and colder and not all Narnian.
But Castor's wife- his quiet, cheerful, mothering wife- is entirely Narnian.
And she lives in perfect rebellion.