AN: Hey guys, sorry for the stretch. Life is kicking my butt, but definitely keep on me about updates; my e-mail is listed in my profile, so if I go to long, feel free to bug me, haha. It really DOES motivate me. I know a lot of you have questions about Charlotte, so some things are answered in this chapter. A couple things are still left vague, particularly concerning Lesley, but don't worry, more answers will come.

ALSO, anyone have any ideas where I can post links to this story? I submitted it to narnia revolution or whatever, but I guess I got rejected, lol, because I never heard back. Where else do y'all read fanfiction? Any lj communities or something?

Chapter Nine

Charlotte woke with a headache in the morning, and wished desperately to spend the day in bed. She was very tired, was the excuse to Susan, who reacted sympathetically but reminded her that she had promised to visit the British Museum with Edmund and Lucy. Both knew it was simply that Charlotte should not have had quite so many cocktails the night before.

"And I do never break my promises," Charlotte sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to tough it out." She pushed herself out of bed and dressed while Susan ran to tell Lucy and Edmund that really, Charlotte was wonderfully self-sacrificing and they ought to be especially grateful to her for going with them now, through her pain.

Mrs. Pevensie had breakfast waiting, and when Lydia heard of the rest of the children headed to the museum, she only had to lift an eyebrow to get Peter to agree that they might as well go along. Charlotte hoped no one noticed her slight frown in response, because it certainly had nothing to do with any ill will towards Peter and Lydia. Only she wished very much that they would go off and do something on their own. Perhaps they could take their rainchecked dinner and Peter could propose to Lydia. That would be a lovely way to end of the day.

Really. Lydia was good for Peter. Charlotte chanted that to herself as she buttoned up her coat and adjusted her hat. They would have beautiful little blond children. He would spoil her into old age and she would see to it that there was a roaring fire for him to read before after work every night. They would have a lovely, wonderful life together, and Charlotte was happy for them both. Truly.

To think how clearly Lesley had made things up for her in one single sentence. He always did have a gift for reading people. He was right about her and he had been right about Jack and the small possibility that he was right about Peter terrified her.

Charlotte watched Peter help Lydia into her coat and bit back the tangle of emotions that knotted in her throat. Lydia tucked her hand into his arm as they walked to the Tube stop, and all during the ride, and as they stepped into the museum. He smiled at her and patted her hand.

She was happy for them. And jealous, yes, that they had found such wonderful, beautiful love in a cold and malicious world. Her own love story hadn't worked out quite so well, and that was regrettable, but look at all she had going for her! She was young and beautiful. If she really wanted she could go back to California and return to the film industry, though the idea truly sickened her. Instead, she would go back to Paris, back to her lovely little apartment with the best friend a girl could ask for, and study art in order to try and make something beautiful in what she saw as such an ugly world. She would try to behave herself until Susan found someone to marry, and then she could really let loose and do what she wanted. The flattering admirers, the stiff drinks, the smoky nightclubs: she disliked them because it clearly hurt Susan to see her partake of what she viewed as a dirty life, and she disliked them because they were so false and pretentious. But no one there cared about anything, and everything just seemed so much better with a bit of gin warming their belly. And someday Susan would marry and then . . .

Then what would Charlotte do? Perhaps she could – no, keeping in touch with Lucy in the hopes of someday living with her was absurd. She was a bad influence. She was a bad person. Her dirtiness didn't need to be anywhere near such a sweet girl. Really, Susan deserved better, but Susan was strong enough.

Charlotte gazed up at a wall-size painting of some religious parade, everyone decked out in bright reds, greens, and blues. Shiny gold paint emphasized the gaudiness, while plates of grapes and bread and meat were being passed around among the people gathered to admire the saintly figures on horseback. The chaos of the pictures almost hurt her eyes, everyone clamoring for food and attention and a position near the holy figures.

But not Charlotte. She wouldn't have clamored for any attention at all. She would have sat down in the bottom corner and watched everyone with their family and their friends. Because she had none. She didn't belong here with the Pevensies and it had been a mistake to think that she did, that she could find some sort of home with the family of her best friend. She was hopeless, ugly, and alone, and that was all she would ever be, and what then was the point of even bothering? She should leave, and fast, before she did anything to cause any more problems than she maybe already had. She should flee back to Paris now – right this very second! She would have to stop at the house to get her train ticket to exchange at the station, and then she could get the things still in their apartment in Paris and leave a very apologetic note for Susan. From there she could go . . . go where? Susan was the only woman she knew, and the scandal if she moved in with one of her male friends –Lesley, for instance—would be . . .

Well, but did she deserve anything less? Certainly not.

Just as she turned to put her plan into action, though, a hand pressed to her back and a voice asked gently, "Are you all right, Charlie?" She gasped and tensed and only realized how near tears she had been, standing there with her hands clasped beneath her chin and her entire body closed inward.

"Peter!" she gasped, horrified, surprised, and relieved to see him there. "What—where's Lydia?"

"She's looking at the statues and said I was bothering her with my . . . well, I just don't think statues are very excit—"

"Where's Susan?" she tried again, hoping for anyone to save her from this situation. It was just the two of them, no one else in sight, and how lovely would it be for that to be the way it was always?

Charlotte frowned at herself. She had slipped and let herself think it and welcomed the pain that accompanied the realization that it would not, could not ever be. She deserved the pain for letting herself think such awful things. After all, Peter was a taken man!

But that hadn't stopped her before, had it?

No.

With a strangled cry, she turned away and took a few steps, but the noise had been a bad idea. Now Peter's concern only intensified, and he dove after her, grabbing her upper arms firmly and forcing her to look at him.

"Charlotte, honest, what's wrong?"

I'm being a nut, that's what's wrong. She needed to calm herself because dramatics were not going to fix this. Granted, nothing would . . .

With a hesitant smile, she offered, "I just think perhaps it is inappropriate for you and I to be alone when—"

"Oh," he interrupted her, his voice falling flat. After a pause, he seemed to realize he was still holding her and yanked his hands away to rub the back of his neck. "Susan got to you too, huh?"

"I . . ." but then she recalled what she had overheard and nodded, lied, "Yes. And I think she's right. It's entirely inappropriate."

He frowned and gave her a hard look, "But we were just . . . talking." She sighed. Of course. He was so sweet and innocent. Of course he wouldn't understand what was inappropriate about it. He lived in a world where the truth actually mattered and people trusted you and people didn't do awful things to each other. There weren't scandals or deceit or manipulation and people actually cared about the needs and feelings of those other than themselves.

"I know, Peter," she frowned, and her hand betrayed her, reaching out to rest on his forearm. He was very warm, and she could feel his muscles twitching through his sweater. She pulled her hand away. "I just would hate for Lydia to take things the wrong way. I would hate for her to think anything was going on between us besides friendly conversation."

She wondered if Peter actually listened to her words at all. It was impossible to tell. Nothing is going on between us besides friendly conversation. Did he hear her? Did he believe her?

Well, they had said Charlotte was one of Hollywood's most talented rising stars before her sudden disappearance. Perhaps there was something in that, because Peter suddenly gave a nod.

"Right. Of course you're right, Charlotte. But, before you stop talking to me for—"

She rolled her eyes, "Don't be dramatic, Peter. I'm not going to stop talking to you. I just don't want—I wasn't thinking before about how it might look, and I don't want to—"

"Cause problems, right, right. I heard you. But may I show you something first?" He held his hand out and waited, watching as her eyes locked hesitantly on his fingers and she chewed her lip.

Of course, Peter, you can show me anything. She relented and placed her hand in his, trying to keep the flush from her cheeks as he slid her hand into his elbow and led her away from the painting. Her hand had been in the crook of dozens of handsome men's arms, even Lesley's only a day before, and yet it was the heat of Peter's arm through his sweater seeping into her fingers that made her blush. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was anxious someone would see and spread word about a scandal. She tried to tell herself that the entire attraction to Peter was simply because he was off limits, and she had always, even as a poverty-stricken tenant farmer's little girl, wanted what she could not have.

Charlotte, though, had never been good at lying to herself.

Peter led her through rooms for several minutes, and she anxiously scanned faces, terrified Lydia or Susan, or even Edmund or Lucy would see them. It shouldn't matter. He was just going to show her something. All they did was talk. It shouldn't matter. But it did matter, because surely anyone would be able to feel the waves of tension rolling off of Charlotte when Peter finally brought her to a stop before a small painting at the far end of a room of much more garish and attention-demanding paintings. This one was almost hidden simply by its lack of gawdiness.

She dropped his arm and stepped closer, as did he, but the painting captivated her too much to react to the way their arms pressed together. It was smaller than a film poster but larger than a looseleaf sheet, presented in a simple gold frame. A beautiful white palace perched on the edge of a cliff, clouds drifting around the high turrets and a few seagulls circling the trees on either side. A brilliant red and gold flag waved in the wind, and crashing waves against the shore seemed to be hurrying forward to bow before it. Several tall stained-glass windows peered out from the castle, and though the details were difficult to make out, it was clear a great light shone from within. In most ways, the painting was beautiful but insignificant, but in looking at it, Charlotte felt something, some sort of strength or beauty, some importance radiating from the frame.

"It's . . . what is this?"

Peter was vibrating with excitement beside her as he beamed, "This, Charlie, is Cair Paravel."

"Your palace? It looks like this?"

"No," he shook his head. "This is it." He pointed to the small tag beside the painting that named the painting as "Cair Paravel," painted by Anonymous only a year before, donated to the museum by Professor Diggory Kirke.

"Diggory Kirke!" she gasped, remembering the name from the history of Narnia. Peter had told her of a little boy, Diggory Kirke, and his neighbor Polly, and the wicked white witch, and the lamp post which had all featured so prominently in their own adventures of Narnia years later. "But, Peter, then . . . I don't understand! Did the stories come from this painting or the painting from the stories?"

He seemed pleased by her question and explained in a low voice, "Well, Charlotte, it would seem the painting comes in the middle. I told you of the battle with the white witch and our reign following that. Then I told you of another adventure where we helped Prince Caspian regain the throne, right?" She nodded. "But remember you asked me what happened during all that time between our reign and our adventure with Prince Caspian?" Again she nodded and he laughed. "You're more clever than I am, Charlie, because I didn't mean for you to notice that there was any gap at all. But of course you would. Well, during that time, we actually left Narnia. It seems someone else visited during that time and painted this picture, very soon after we left, I suppose, since it looks very much like it did during our reign."

Charlotte's face screwed up in confusion, "But, I don't understand still. You left? Where did you go?"

"Why, back to Finchley, of course. Well, not at first. We were staying with Professor Kirke, you see, because of the air raids."

"Oh," was all Charlotte said because she didn't know what else to say. Peter gave her a concerned look and leaned closer, too close, but Charlotte didn't think to pull back. Her brain was trying to make pieces fit that clearly fit together, but the picture they created was . . . was impossible.

"Charlotte, would you . . . would you believe me if I told you that . . . that Narnia is a real place?" She stared hard at the painting for a moment before realizing he was watching her, waiting for a reaction.

She gave him a small smile. "Of course I would, Peter. I do, Peter. I mean . . . that I would believe anything you told me," she stammered out. Was she allowed to say that? She probably shouldn't, at any rate. To smooth it over, she ignored his grin and explained, "Do you know . . . I always knew that, I think. From the first story you told me, I think I knew, or I felt, like it really existed. Or maybe I just hoped or wished but . . . but it does?"

"It does, Charlie, and I wish with everything in me I could take you there. At least there's this painting that you can see . . . but I should go find Su, Ed, and Lu. They'll want to see this."

He turned to go, but before he had moved too far, Charlotte pressed, "You showed me first?"

"They don't know I've told you anything," Peter admitted, and now he looked sheepish. He glanced up at her through his lashes and added, "Besides, I wanted to see your face when I showed you. . . and apparently I'm not allowed to look at your face around other people."

Pretend you didn't hear that, Charlotte ordered herself, spinning back to face the painting. She heard him hesitate, then leave. When he returned with his siblings, she kept her distance and perused other paintings, listening with envy to their squeals and gasps of shock and delight. Peter glanced over but she avoided his eyes then and for the rest of their day at the museum, skirting away from him any time he took a step in her direction. He was right, he wasn't supposed to look at her face, and he wasn't supposed to want to look at her face, but the only reason that would be a rule was because of the meaning. Anyone could look at anyone's face. That wasn't what caused scandal. What caused scandal was what the look meant. If there wasn't anything between them, he would be allowed to look at her face all he wanted, because it would be the same as looking at Lucy or Susan. But he was implying, by accident but an ironic accident, that he couldn't look at her in front of other people because it would "give them away."

He had accidentally called her his mistress.

And Charlotte laughed because Peter was so sweet and he just didn't know, and because he was older than her so she shouldn't think of him as so young, and because she was too young to know that sort of thing either but she did. She was ruined for this world.

Finally they were all meeting at the front, preparing to head home. Lucy and Susan were in the cloak room and Edmund was poking at something near the door, and Peter and Lydia were strolling out of the cloak room, bundled and ready for the cold. Well, Charlotte would prove that it was okay for her and Peter to talk. That they could talk without it being secretive and scandalous. Because it meant nothing.

She approached quickly and asked, "If it's real, is he real?" Then she realized how vague that was, and probably Peter would have no idea what she was talking about and she would just look like an idiot.

Instead he gave a tight smile and nodded, "Yes, he is."

"And he . . . you said he loves everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Even . . . even someone who hasn't been as good as they should be?"

"Perhaps Ed should tell you his story," he suggested, and Charlotte didn't know whether he was joking or not. She chewed her lip in thought, but he added, "Everyone, Charlotte."

Lydia giggled beside him, "What are you two speaking about? So secret!"

"Oh, just some story I was telling Charlotte about a painting, that's all," Peter assured her, patting her arm. It suddenly occurred to Charlotte that . . . that maybe he had never told Lydia about Narnia. It seemed logical that he would have: she was his sweetheart, after all, and Charlotte had guessed how dear Narnia was to Peter's heart even before he had confessed it was a real place. She would think about the logistics of that later, when she had time to remember every word of every story and this time know it was real. But for now, she glanced curiously between Peter and Lydia, hoping he would understand her unasked question.

When he said nothing, she guessed, "Me first?"

"You only."

It took everything in her not to run away because how could he say something like that with Lydia right beside him? To anyone, it sounded scandalous. And Charlotte couldn't even chalk it up to innocence this time, because he had just lied to Lydia, more or less, and quite easily. Story about a painting. He made it sound so singular and momentary, a one-time occurrence. But it wasn't. And he wasn't telling Lydia, either about Narnia or about them sitting up late, which meant he was keeping secrets about Charlotte from Lydia . . . even if the talks had been nothing but innocent, everything around them had so quickly turned messy. And it was getting harder for her to try and convince herself Lesley was wrong.

Why did Charlotte feel like she and Peter were having an affair?

Susan was coming out of the cloak room and Charlotte scurried to her side. Peter wasn't supposed to talk to her, and she sure didn't want him getting in trouble when she had been the one to broach the conversation. Really, how could Lydia not wonder, having stood there for that cryptic exchange? Had Charlotte been in her shoes, she would have been going insane with jealousy and suspicion.

But Lydia wasn't her. Lydia was sure of Peter's love for her, and sure of Charlotte's friendship, and sure of the people around her. She had no reason to suspect anyone, and so she didn't.

"Didn't you enjoy it?" Lucy asked, slipping her arm into Charlotte's. "It's wonderful fun. It was closed down sometimes during the war but they've put it back together quite nicely, don't you think?"

Charlotte grinned, "Well I didn't see it before, but it's certainly lovely now." That set Lucy off chatting about her favorite parts, and Susan offered enough responses that Charlotte didn't have to say much. Instead her mind wandered to Cair Paravel and the sheer cliffs and the Lion Aslan that loved people, even the ones who didn't deserve it.

As if sensing she needed saving, Edmund stole Charlotte away, and the two of them walked between the other two pairs. Should she ask him about Narnia? About what had happened? That might betray Peter's trust, though; he had told her that no one knew he'd told her about Narnia. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to tell. Perhaps that was yet another secret piling on top of her chest, another thing that shouldn't have been a big deal but was.

She forced herself to focus on Ed. She wasn't blind to his little infatuation. It was sweet and innocent and even he knew it wasn't anything serious. For that she was grateful. The last thing she wanted was to go breaking a perfectly good heart. He had said himself, a couple days before, while the two of them were trying their hand at Backgammon, that he really wouldn't mind finding a girl like her some day. Charlotte was beyond flattered and relieved and mused to herself that, were she not such a disaster, she wouldn't mind finding someone like Edmund, too. Perhaps that was her problem. She was always attracted to the complicated ones, the over-achievers, the go-get-em ones. The already-taken ones.

But suddenly Charlotte smiled, because that didn't matter. She was going to Narnia. One way or another, she was going to find a way to Aslan, and she would tell him everything and let him do with her what he would. Perhaps, if he was as merciful as Peter made him out to be, he would allow her to live in Narnia, whatever state it might be in right now. She could live there forever, far away from Hollywood and Paris and London, far away from her family and Jack and Peter, far away from all the things she had done wrong, far away from all the things she wasn't allowed to feel. If she could only get to Narnia, everyone would be safe.

Now how did one go about getting to an imaginary land that wasn't so imaginary after all?

So . . . what's going through Peter's head? What's the deal with Lesley? What are your feelings about Charlotte now that the self-hatred has been let loose? More reviews means a faster update! :)