She strode into the castle with her head held high, and a sense of triumph thrumming through her veins, half-carrying, half-dragging Edmund in his arms through the courtyard and up the large steps, and ordered one of the gaping onlookers to direct Peter and Lucy to her private rooms.
It did not take long before they came, Peter with a brisk stride, and Lucy barely managing to dodge courtiers in her run.
"What's going on?" Lucy gasped out, face flushed from exertion. She had a dark flower tucked haphazardly into her hair, but all it did was bleach her face further.
Susan stepped aside to let them through the door, pointing towards the bed in the middle of the chamber, where Edmund lay, seemingly asleep.
Beside her, Lucy gave a startled gasp. Peter just stared, his face utterly blank.
"What have you done?" he said finally, and his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear him, though he still stood by her side.
"What I had to do," Susan replied, and pulled the door closed with a soft thud. It echoed in the silence, made more pronounced by the sudden absence of hooves thudding on stone, and the seemingly eternal conversations outside.
"It can't actually be him." Lucy repeated, perching on the bed, and very carefully not touching Edmund. "It's impossible."
"Is anything truly impossible in Narnia?" Peter asked, not looking at her. He seemed to be deep in thought.
"I suppose something must be," said Susan, who always strove to look at everything logically.
Rather than replying, Peter looked down at their brother. Edmund's face was very pale and his freckles very visible, but the usual shadows were missing from under his eyes. He seemed a lot more delicate, a constant reminder of how easy it had been to lose him.
"Perhaps we should -" he began, stopping when Edmund stirred. All three of them stared at him until his eyes opened.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice hoarse, and Lucy's face crumbled. She turned away, and dashed out of the room.
Susan shared a long look with Peter, and then followed her.
It took surprisingly long for Susan to catch up with her sister; despite her status as queen, palace staff tended to be most sympathetic towards Lucy whenever a fight occurred, and one of the maids had tried to placate her with nutty bread.
Eventually she found her sister on a veranda, sitting on the stone wall supposed to act like some sort of fencing.
"Get down from there," she ordered. "You'll fall."
"I'll be fine," said Lucy sullenly. "All the sea folk like me." And, then she added, suddenly mockingly cheerful, "Besides, I suppose you'll just resurrect me, and everything will be just fine."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Susan snapped. "This isn't a game."
Lucy turned to look at her, and then slid herself down to land next to Susan. Just then, a cold gust of wind blew past, almost knocking her against the wall.
"See?" Susan couldn't resist pointing out. "You would have fallen."
"How could you do it?" Lucy snapped out, and did not give her time to answer. "They look to us to lead them, you know, and what we're showing them is that necromancy is fine. The dead should stay dead." Lucy's eyes were red and raw, her mouth pulled taunt.
"Aslan did it." Susan sighed. "Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia. That's the way it has to be."
"It doesn't make us immortal, Susan," Lucy said sharply, and Susan heard her exhale before looking away. Finally, she continued, her words jarringly soft, "We'll all die eventually, and you can't keep doing this, over and over."
"Aslan did it," Susan repeated, because there was no one Lucy admired more.
"Well, he won't do it again." Lucy said it softly, who had always been the closest to him.
They stayed there in silence for a few more moments. Twenty feet beneath them, waves were crashing at the dull rocks.
Edmund would have laughed and teased Lucy that she thought it was a special sign from Aslan. From her sister's sudden silence, Susan guessed she remembered it too.
"Come on," she said soothingly, reaching out to take her sister's hand, but Lucy flinched away as if stung. "We should go back inside."
Rather than answering, Lucy turned away, and stared sullenly far out to sea. After a few minutes, Susan gave up and simply left her there.
Peter's office was panelled in light oak wood, with a large window overlooking the inner courtyard.
At that moment, Susan hated it, resenting the fact that she had to stand there and attempt to explain her actions to her own brother, as if being queen did not mean she alone was responsible for her own actions.
Somewhat predictably, Peter had sided with Lucy, and his voice brokered no argument. "You shouldn't have done it."
Susan didn't even try to reason with him.
"You should be pleased," she pointed out instead. "Ed's back."
She would have liked to be able to honestly claim that it had been done purely for the Narnians, who were becoming accustomed to their rule, and the empty throne in Cair Paravel; rather than the rapidly fading memory of Edmund's wit, and the way he only let himself truly relax when they were alone.
"No," Peter insisted. "He's not."
He sighed, and sat back down on his chair. The sunlight peering through the window turned his hair into spun gold, but it highlighted the tired shadows on his face. He looked impossibly old, far too ancient to be the boy Aslan had crowned not so long ago.
"The thing is that it's not quite him, Su," he said finally. "He doesn't remember us. By Jove, I had to explain to him who he is."
"So we'll explain everything to him," she said, in an attempt to placate him. It didn't work.
"You might as well have gotten a doppelganger. I'm sure that would have taken less effort."
"A doppelganger would not be our brother," she said sharply, and left him there too, not giving into the urge to slam the door on the way out.
Edmund was awake when she entered, propped up against the elaborate headboard. Predictably, he had a thick tome on his lap and a cup of something vaguely medicinal in his hand, from which he took tentative sips every few minutes, and winced every time.
Susan leaned against the door frame and watched him.
It took him longer than usual to realise, but eventually he looked up with a faint smile.
"Hello." At the very least, his voice was back to normal. "Are you Susan?"
Susan had to bite the inside of her lip very hard in order to maintain her composure. "Yes, I am," she answered with a weak smile.
Edmund's answering smile was small, and more than a little cautious. He held up the book by way of explanation.
"Peter has explained some things," he said. "But it's all rather confusing."
"I suppose it would be." She moved towards him, and sat down on the side of the bed. "Do you remember anything?"
"Bits and pieces. Most of it doesn't make sense, though."
"Well, anything in particular you'd like to know?"
Edmund shrugged slightly, one surprisingly bony shoulder bobbing up. "There's probably too much for that. Who is Aslan? The book doesn't say, but the author seems rather impressed."
"Aslan is," Susan found herself searching for words. "Do you know what a god is?"
Edmund looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he answered, "A man wearing a dress?"
"No!" Susan stared at him in astonishment, but calmed herself when he almost flinched back. "Why would you think that?"
"Someone used to take us to one, I think." His voice was tiny.
Belatedly, Susan remembered Sunday services at St Mary's. "No, he was just a man who devoted his whole life to teaching others about God. Well, God could do anything, and most of the time he helped people, and that's kind of what Aslan's like. He's very powerful, and normal rules don't apply to him. He brought you back."
"Did I want to be brought back?"
The question made her smile. Edmund had always been inquisitive to the point of sheer irritation.
"You didn't want to go in the first place."
He didn't seem particularly mollified. "Okay. So why did I?"
"Politics," she said, after a long silence. "We're royalty, these things happen."
Except that they didn't, not to four schoolchildren from Finchley, but it had been almost a relief to realise that when people hated you, it was never as personal as it seemed.
"But what made me go away?" asked Edmund later, finished book set to one side and demanding a more useful one.
Behind them, Lucy made a faintly disapproving sound. Susan had not even noticed her come in. "You mean die," she corrected.
Edmund's eyes went very wide, flickering between them. "Dead people don't come back."
"Sometimes they do," said Lucy, with a very pointed look at Susan. "Apparently."
"What do you mean?" asked Edmund. "What's going on?"
"Just a small matter of policy we disagreed on," Lucy lied, not looking at Susan. "How are you?"
But as Edmund lapsed into a cascade of rapid words, Lucy interrupted him. "Sister dear. I do believe you have unfinished business with some foreign dignitaries."
Her words were sweet, but her tone was pure ice.
"Indeed." said Susan, matching her tone. "Do excuse me."
It hurt more than she had expected, though truthfully, she hadn't given much thought to her siblings' reactions.
Unfortunately, Lucy was right, since by that time the newest gossip had already been tweeted all around Cair Paravel, courtesy of some rather gossipy parrots. So Susan made her way to the throne room, where she summoned all the foreign ambassadors currently residing in the castle.
The majority of them did not look particularly pleased to be there. Apparently their rulers did not bother to arm their liars with acting lessons.
Their moods did not much improve when she had finished talking, though they made a valiant attempt to pretend otherwise.
"O, fair queen, this is a blessing indeed," claimed the Tarkaan whose name she had somehow managed to forget, despite his recent lapse. "I had feared that the sun had darkened forever in your eyes."
"How can this be?" asked the Galmian ambassador, a tall, slim woman with dreadlocks the colour of fresh seaweed. "There had already been a funeral for His Majesty."
Susan smiled serenely. "A gift from Aslan," was all she said, as she watched them bow and exit in small groups, and pretended not to hear the comments about devils and dark magic.
She did, however, order an arrest warrant for the squat Lone Islander who dared to compare her to the White Witch. There were limits to diplomatic immunity, even in bizarre circumstances.
Peter caught up with her at the entrance to the Long Gallery, grasping her elbow lightly and pulling her from the throng of people into a small alcove nearby.
"Why are we imprisoning Sir Istmul?" There was laughter in his voice; he appeared to have forgotten their previous conversation.
"Apparently, he finds us reminiscent of Jadis." In the darkness, she was aware she looked it; the feeble light seemed to leech all the pigment out of her skin, leaving her pale as ice and as smooth as one of the Witch's sculptures.
Peter grinned with all his teeth. Combined with the mess he had somehow managed to make of his hair, it made him look a bit like Aslan, temporarily trapped in human form. "Is that the royal we?"
"He wasn't considerate enough to specify." Susan laughed, reaching up with both hands to try to brush his hair into place.
"What a shame. I had to confine Rogin to his chambers for accusing the Galmian ambassador of arranging the," he paused. It hardly seemed appropriate to refer to it as a murder anymore, since Edmund wasn't dead, and yet he hadn't survived it. "Incident."
"How bad is it?"
Peter sighed. "They're all accusing each other. Thankfully, it hasn't turned violent yet, but I doubt it'll take long."
"I'm almost surprised it took this long."
He shrugged. "They were all in mourning, or at least pretending to be. But we need to sort it out before it really deteriorates."
"How?"
"We need to find out who was really responsible," Peter answered, leaning back against the cold stone. It couldn't have been comfortable, but it did manage to make him appear significantly more regal.
"Does this mean you've worked out a strategy beyond conquering all our neighbours?" She had aimed for sarcastic, but it came out hopelessly fond. He smiled slightly in response, but it was only feeble and fleeting.
"No, but I'm sure you and Edmund will manage to. You've always been better at things like that than Lucy and I."
"You want him to investigate his own murder?" Susan spoke slowly, trying to make him understand.
"Who better? I'd assume he wants revenge." Peter had never been able to comprehend why other people didn't react in the same way he did. It led to many problems.
"He doesn't even remember it!"
"He probably remembers more than he thinks he does. Like we do of Spare Oom."
"I think we remember less than we think. What was our father's name?"
He frowned, before shrugging it off. "But that doesn't matter; it's not relevant to our lives in any way."
"Well, personally, I'd like to remember." Sometimes, the gaps in her memories kept her up at night, lying in bed and thinking for hours.
"I'm sure Ed would too, especially since it would help Narnia."
"He doesn't feel any obligation to help Narnia anymore," Susan pointed out. "He can barely remember it."
"So he needs to get to know her again, and then the duty will come back." He detached himself from the wall, and stepped away from her. "Oh, and don't tell him about what happened with the Witch. He doesn't need the guilt."
And with that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors.
"Susan!" came Lucy's voice behind her, and Susan froze in place, shivers running up her arms as she waited for her sister to catch up.
"I want to apologise," said her sister. "I don't blame you for doing it."
Susan looked at her. Lucy's jaw was clenched very tight.
"I couldn't have done it," she continued. "Aslan had already refused."
"And yet he changed his mind," Susan pointed out, squinting at the wall opposite them. Was that a drawing of –?
"But why? Why should he? He always knows better than us."
"You're the one who always understood him best."
"You make it sound like he's some sort of pet. You know perfectly well he's not a ta-" Lucy began, but the words seemed to choke her, and she stopped and thought for a minute. And then she said, "I don't think we've ever quite understood what that meant," very quietly, as if that made it any less of a failure.
"I don't think we really understand him at all," Susan admitted softly, and almost wanted to take it back at the look of sudden despair on Lucy's face.
"Maybe we shouldn't," she added. "Maybe that's the point. He's more than human, and we can never be."
"Well, he understands us," said Lucy, attempting to smile. "Perhaps that should be enough."
Susan looked down. There were muddy paw-prints leading up to the staircase at the end of the corridor. She hoped it hadn't been a member of the Royal Guard.
"Do you still think I shouldn't have done it?" she asked finally.
It seemed to take forever for Lucy to answer, her quick-witted sister, who was always ready with a vibrant laugh. "I can understand why you did."
It was all she would get, so it had to suffice. Nonetheless, Susan's spirits were dampened by the time she sat down to examine Lord Istmul's proposal for a new bridge to link the capital Avra to his native Felimath.
The man himself may have been temporarily incarcerated, but unfortunately that didn't mean they could afford to pay any less attention to him.
Dinner made for a rather stilted affair, not aided by the way the servers were unable to resist staring at Edmund, who in turn fixed his eyes on his plate, watching diligently as more and more food was piled on it.
"How did I die?" he asked eventually.
Peter paused, goblet halfway up to his mouth. He set it down just as Lucy's knife hit the ground with a dull thud.
"Assassins," said Susan when none of them moved to answer.
"Why?" Edmund demanded. He sounded as if he were enquiring about the weather.
"That's what we're trying to find out," Peter replied. He had stopped eating entirely. "You and Susan, in particular."
"Why them?" Lucy asked, leaning forward. "I'm perfectly capable - "
"I need you near the Archenlander border," said Peter hurriedly. "In case Lune decides to do anything."
"You mean in case he chooses to strike pre-emptively, before you decide to invade his country?" Lucy smirked,
but at least she appeared mollified.
"Our borders need to be protected," said the High King seriously. "There have recently been raids near that area."
"What our dear brother isn't telling you," said Susan in a low voice to Edmund, "is that the raids were specially ordered by him against Archenland."
"They attacked our people," Peter protested.
"Which is what you will say to Lune, no doubt," she answered, raising a goblet to her lips. The wine was old and fine, and had originally belonged to petty Archenlander lords who had the misfortune of residing by the Narnian border.
The triumph was sweet against her tongue, and Susan signalled for more. Mrs Beaver's daughter served her, but uncharacteristically she did not lift her eyes from the plain tablecloth.
"They attacked our people," Peter reiterated. There was a dark flush against his collarbones.
"We attacked theirs first," she side-eyed him.
"No, that was those nasty outlaws, with whom we have no affiliation whatsoever."
"How are we meant to figure it out?" Edmund asked, effectively changing the subject. "Are there clues?"
The old Edmund would never have asked that.
"No," she answered, and drained her goblet to avoid saying anything sharper. "This isn't a detective story."
"I don't know," said Peter with a bright smile. "You were always in charge of espionage."
Edmund's eyes widened. "I was a spy?" he asked incredulously.
"Not a field agent. You were the one who received all the reports, though."
"So who do they report to now?"
"Madame Ness. You can meet her on the morn; it's far too late to bother her now. She can't stand being woken up." He gestured for more wine.
"Absence has not increased your intellect, I see," observed Madame Ness, who was the only person in the world capable of talking to Edmund like that. "Of course I do not know who ordered the attack. Do you not realise that they and all their kin would be only a faint memory upon this earth if I did?"
Stifling a laugh, Susan realised that she had sorely missed overhearing their conversations.
Edmund blinked. "If you're the spymistress, shouldn't you know everything?"
"No one knows everything, dear," said the serpent, her tone almost pitying. "Besides, you were the spymaster, with all of your little reports all carefully filed and coded."
Living secluded from any sort of court, she had not needed to learn any diplomacy during the Witch's long reign, and it showed.
"Coded?" Edmund's voice had risen in pitch. He sounded utterly panicked.
The old Edmund would have wanted to shake him very badly.
"Multiple times," confirmed Madame Ness, with a steel glint in her bulbous eyes. She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself.
Had she really been willing to sacrifice anything for this, this boy who simultaneously was and wasn't her brother? Perhaps Aslan had been more right than she wanted to believe.
"Do you receive them now?" Edmund asked, peering past her into the gloom. Susan felt something vaguely slimy brush her leg, and kept very, very still until she felt the pressure ease.
"Hardly," scoffed the serpent. "Parchment isn't yet waterproof."
"Your office, Ed" Susan said, and their eyes met.
Edmund's office looked like it hadn't been inhabited in a very long time; someone had cleaned it the day after his funeral, but few had entered since, so there was a very fine covering of dust across his otherwise empty desk. Susan pulled off the ornate sheets covering the filing cabinets and folded them carefully on top of each other. They were all from the same set: cloth-of-gold whorls on heavy crimson velvet, the fabric of their winter bedspreads.
"The key should be somewhere in here," she said. "Check in the ones by the window; I'll do these."
She was shifting gingerly through the papers, careful to keep them in order, when a glint caught her eye. She reached under the pile and dragged it out.
It was a nondescript envelope, thick and smooth under her fingers, but when she flipped it open, the waxy seal was unbroken.
It was dark brown, almost black, with indentations marking out the shape of four acorns positioned together like a clover. Susan knew it well: it was the emblem of the Terebinthian Imperial family.
"What is this?" she called out, and heard Edmund move towards her.
He stared at it for a rather long time. "I've never seen it before."
"Do you mind?" Susan asked, waving it half-heartedly.
"Go ahead," he answered, making a move towards one of the chairs in the room, before gazing down at it in distaste. He remained standing.
Susan slid her thumb under the flap, and brushed it along the parchment before pressing upwards to dislodge the wax. It did not break cleanly, but rather fell apart into clumps, half-sticking to the paper.
She pulled out a wad of badly-folded documents. The parchment was fine, and obviously expensive, but the ink was strangely pale.
"I don't know the code," she said, after staring at the words for a while.
Edmund reached out for it, and she handed it over gratefully. "Something about the thirteenth day," he said finally.
"You died on the thirteenth," Susan pointed out. "What else does it say?"
He didn't answer. "I thought it was the fifteenth."
"Who told you that?"
"A leopard, I think. Could have been a cheetah, I suppose. I was too surprised that it was talking to me to pay particular attention."
"It was the thirteenth," she repeated, then sighed. "Someone lied."
"Maybe he just made a mistake," Edmund suggested, unusually generous.
Susan shook her head. "It's not the kind of thing anyone could make a mistake about."
"I doubt it was as important to random citizens as it was to the three of you."
"You're a monarch," she stated. "Trust me, it was important."
Edmund couldn't translate any more of the message, and Susan had been at Anvard when that particular code had been invented, so they went to Peter.
They had tried to find Lucy first, but were informed that she had ridden out to join Tumnus for tea, and was not expected back until nightfall.
"Is it the anniversary?" Edmund asked unexpectedly, and then, when Susan had stopped to stare at him, added jovially, "I do remember some things, you know."
"That's not for a couple of months," she replied, but couldn't help smiling nonetheless.
Peter stared at the message for a very long time. Finally he took a small pencil out of his pocket and crouched down to scribble something at the bottom of the parchment.
"Where did you get this?" he asked finally, his voice cold.
"What does it say?" Susan asked instead.
Peter looked right at her. "Where did you get this?" he repeated.
"In my office," Edmund answered. "Answer her."
For a minute, he sounded like his old self.
Peter looked at him for a long moment, before switching his gaze to the parchment still in his hand, and recited. "Princess Elluera, rightful ruler of the Isle, to Parnrtya Tarkheena, High Priestess of Zardeenah at the Calavar Temple. Let it be known to you that by the thirteenth of the discussed month, your fears will prove unfounded. I will await the favour I have been promised by no later than the anniversary of our initial meeting."
"Who are these people?" Edmund asked.
Susan frowned. "There is no Princess Elluera of Terebinthia."
Peter nodded slowly, and added. "All the High Priestesses in Calormen are based in Tashbaan."
"So either codenames or a red herring." said Edmund.
"It wouldn't be a very good one," Susan pointed out. "It's really rather obvious."
"Maybe they think we're stupid."
"Don't call it a red herring," Peter chimed in. "The fish might take offence."
"It wouldn't be a very good false clue then," Edmund corrected. There was a vile combination of a smile and a smirk on his face. It reminded her of England, of lies and shouts in small cold rooms. "Happy now?"
Peter matched him in tone. "Very much so," but he didn't look it.
What if Peter, Susan caught herself thinking, but stopped that thought before it could get any further. The only people they had left to trust were each other.
She couldn't lose that too.
The clearest memories Susan had had of Edmund had all been from the day he died; the morning, rubbing sleep out of hazy eyes, dark bruises upon an eternally pale face, and then later, the way the blood had stained his favourite blue tunic a damp purplish brown, and that last gasp of shocked pain before the endless silences.
She had forgotten so many things, the way he drank endless cups of coffee but never Calormene tea, and the way he woke up all at once, unlike Peter's slow stirrings; or the way he always played chess as if the pieces were real troops, the game eternal and endless, self-contained victory or defeat as final as the result of the Germans' bombs.
She remembered it now because of the glaring contrast between Edmund then, and Edmund now. He had been so good at chess and biting sharp comments just this side of affectionate, but now he just stared at the pieces on the board, and it was painfully apparent that he was trying so hard to strategise beyond moving a random piece and hoping for the best, but it wasn't working.
Susan had lost a brother once, but she hadn't quite gained him back yet.
It got worse.
Lucy came back early, her hair windblown, and her eyes wild. She almost jumped from her horse, ignoring Alambil's strident protests, and tore through the palace as if attempting to out-run an army.
"Susan!" she panted, "You'd better come quickly."
There was a thick envelope squeezed tightly in her hand.
Susan stuffed the cap back onto her best inkwell, and followed her downstairs, one arm hovering over the banister.
"Where did Tumnus get this, Lu?" Peter asked, gesturing to the document Lucy had insisted on holding onto.
"What is it?" Edmund asked simultaneously.
Lucy looked right through them. "He said someone had left it on his coffee table while he was on his daily walk." Her words were stilted, as if she were fighting to get them out of her mouth at all.
Susan reached over to brush her sister's hand away from the envelope, and met with surprisingly little resistance. Lucy sat with her back utterly straight, as still as one of the Witch's sculptures.
It already had been opened carefully, so she was able to slide the papers out easily. It felt like her heart had stopped beating.
Wordlessly, she extended it to Peter, who blanched.
"What is it?" Edmund demanded.
None of them answered for a long time, Edmund looking between them frantically.
"Your suicide note," Peter breathed out finally, the words a single oomph of withheld breath.
Edmund blinked. "What! I thought it was a murder."
"It was," Susan assured him.
"It's not real," Lucy said hurriedly, sounding as if she were trying to make herself believe it too. "It can't be."
"No," Peter confirmed, looking down to read it through. Unbelievably, he laughed.
They stared at him in astonishment.
"What the heck is wrong with you?" Lucy demanded.
"Ed seems to have suddenly become greatly melodramatic," Peter chortled. "Listen to this." He cleared his voice and read, "My darlingiest siblings, it has gotten far too much for someone as insignificant as me to bear."
Even Edmund burst out laughing at that.
"Are they mocking us?" Susan asked when they had all finally calmed down, before side-eying Edmund. "Darlingiest siblings?"
"As insignificant as me?" Lucy added, giggling.
"Finally developed some humility, have you Ed?" Peter questioned, raising his eyebrows.
"I think we've all established that I did not, in fact, write this."
"They took quite a good stab at your handwriting though." Peter commented, and then, when Lucy glared at him, added "metaphorically speaking, of course."
"This makes no sense," Susan pointed out. "First they're trying to make us think it was the Terebinthians, and now Edmund's supposed to have bought that assassin himself?"
Peter shrugged. "Maybe they changed their mind about the scapegoat. All we know is that it probably wasn't them."
"But that's what they want us to think!" Lucy appealed. "Think about it, they make their attempt purposely clumsy, so that we'd know that it's just framed, because it was them all along."
"Perhaps that's precisely what they want us to think," Edmund suggested.
It was making Susan's head ache. She'd never been good at theoretical thinking, much better at practicalities and logistics than deciding on a culprit.
All in all, a terrible sleuth, she realised, and glared at Peter.
He didn't even notice.
"But it could have been anyone," she protested later when Lucy and Edmund had both gone to bed, tired out. Edmund had a lot less energy than she remembered.
"Let's not talk about that," Peter answered, getting up to exchange a few words with the guards outside the room, after which Susan heard retreating footsteps.
He'd said that at breakfast too. "You keep saying that," she remarked, striving to remain calm. "Pretty soon we'll be conversing about the weather."
"Lovely for this time of year, isn't it?" Peter commented jovially, just as a faun entered to pour them summerwine in long champagne-like flutes.
He raised his glass. "To success."
"To Narnia," she said instead, licking her lips.
"Is that not the same thing, fair sister?" He laughed, but it was flat and bitter, and sadder than she'd ever heard him.
"Indeed," she agreed, and wondered whether they were all falling apart even more now that Edmund was back.
Five cups later she was laughing, and Peter was spinning her around the room to imagined music, and then he was laughing too, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she could forget, and just feel happy.
He deposited her gently on the ground, but her head felt like it was still spinning, her vision dodgy, and when Susan reached up to kiss him on the cheek, her mouth landed at the corner of his instead.
Instantly, he froze, and pulled away from her, hands clutched very hard around her forearms.
"What are you doing?" he asked, as if it wasn't perfectly obvious. Susan laughed, a little breathless.
"What do you think?" she responded, stepping closer to him, and if her head felt a little fuzzy, then it had been like that for days.
"You're drunk," Peter proclaimed, and pushed her away, so hard that Susan stumbled backwards and wobbled for a bit.
He was at her side almost at once, one arm held very tentatively around her waist.
"Come on," he said, as soothingly as if she were still merely a child and not a queen. "Let's get you to bed."
When she woke up, it felt like there was something extremely heavy laid across her brow, heavier than a thousand of Peter's crowns, and it was pressing down from impossible angles.
Susan pushed herself up, and only then realised that it was just her head. Cautiously, she tilted it back and rested it very carefully against her headboard.
There was a flurry of movement to her side, and one of her handmaidens pressed a vial into her hand.
"To relieve the pain, Majesty," she murmured. Susan took it gratefully, and pulled the small cork off with one hand.
It tasted surprisingly bitter for such a sweet-smelling substance, but it worked swiftly. Within moments, Susan felt so light she thought she could float up to the high ceiling, and touch the figures painted so lovingly upon its surface.
She did not even notice her eyes close.