AN: Sorry for the long break between updates; I had midterms and spring break. To make up for the long break, here are more answers! Also, this is the longest chapter yet. I know there's not a whole lot of action, but it's super important. *sings*past the point of no return,no going back now . . .

Chapter Ten

Peter was pretending to sleep in order to spy. It was silly and juvenile but desperate times called for desperate measures and Peter was reaching his wit's end. He didn't know what to do anymore, and so he had opted to do nothing, simply lie back and let the women in his life decide his future. Or at least he wished they would. He remembered a time, back in Narnia, when Susan had been lecturing him about something, and he had yelled at her, "Well why don't you just get it all sorted and let me know how you've decided I'm going to spend the rest of my life!" She had angrily insisted she should, that she could manage his life much better than he was. It had been some kingdom affairs disagreement at the time.

Now he really wished it had been a valid agreement.

It wasn't so much that he had come to terms with some fateful love for Charlotte for which he was willing to quickly cast Lydia aside. No, he did love Lydia, and had loved her solidly since they had met. He knew he could be happy married to her, that they could make a good life together, and he couldn't say that about Charlotte. Everything about Charlotte was so convoluted.

In reality, Peter sometimes wished they would run really hard into each other and combine into one perfect woman. Each possessed qualities he wished he could pick out and stitch together into his ideal woman. Lydia was cheerful and doting, while Charlotte was oftentimes morose and distant. Lydia made him smile and swell with pride at her social grace, while Charlotte made him think and question everything about himself. Lydia loved him for all that he was; Charlotte made him realize how much more he could be, remembering how once he had been High King of Narnia and now couldn't even figure out his own feelings. Lydia was simple and honest, while Charlotte was complicated and quite possibly a lying home-wrecker. But Charlotte was intriguing and overwhelming, and while he appreciated the ease with which Lydia could be read and figured out, the mysteries surrounding Charlotte were frustratingly captivating.

"That's all it is," he mumbled, and then realized he was supposed to be asleep. So he mumbled a bit more to make it look like he was talking in his sleep and twisted on the couch. He knew that Lydia would be fooled and that Charlotte probably would not. But that had to be all there was to it: that Lydia was right for him, and Charlotte was just the niggling little question that he needed to solve before he could shove her out of his way and go on with his happily simple life with Lydia as his wife. She would be a good wife. Charlotte was too dominant, too strong, too clever and provoking to be a good wife. Lydia was born to be a wife, and Charlotte was born to be a seductress –perhaps physically as well as mentally.

Peter groaned with disgust at his own thoughts. What an awful thing to think about Charlotte. She was not born to be a seductress. She was born to be loved and cherished, just as Lydia, Susan, and Lucy were. Peter knew that.

He squinted to subtly watch as Charlotte, Lydia, and Susan hunched around the coffee table nearby, their heads pressed together: red, dark brown, and light blond. If only Lucy's light brown had joined, but she had gone with her mother to buy new shoes, a special treat so close to Christmas. Their fingers were flitting over pieces of ribbon and twigs as they pressed them into wreaths. The church wanted them to hand out to visitors at the Christmas Eve service, and Mum had said "her girls" would do it. Charlotte seemed to be the only one that didn't mind. Peter couldn't make her work. Home-wrecking was about as selfish as it got, but he couldn't make that fit with the girl who would spend her Thursday afternoon pricking her fingers with sharp sticks to make someone else happy.

"Well he wants me to go to dinner with his family this weekend," Charlotte answered some question Peter had missed. "I haven't decided if I'm going yet or not."

"Oh, you should!" Lydia insisted, grabbing Charlotte's hand familiarly.

Susan nodded, "You should, Charlotte. He seems so wonderful—"

"He is, but . . . Lydia, are you going to be in Paris any time soon?" Peter wanted to laugh at such an obvious subject change, but wouldn't say he wasn't grateful, both for Charlotte's hesitancy to join Lesley Stevens for dinner and to divulge what had gone on between them on Tuesday evening. If she wasn't willing to share, Peter was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

Immediately Lydia launched into suggestions, insisting she would be visiting her family soon and was hoping to bring Peter with her. Even if he didn't come, though, she hoped she would be able to see Susan and Charlotte.

Susan politely agreed, "Yes, that would be lovely."

"Yes, lovely," Charlotte agreed. "The post-holiday season is always so depressing; it would be nice to look forward to a visit from you. I'm sure Peter would be bored with us girls, anyway."

Then Edmund ruined everything, crashing down the stairs and hollering, "Come on, Su, Charlie, you've got to listen to this radio program. It will make you split your sides!"

"Oh, turn it on down here so we can keep with the wreaths," Charlotte insisted, motioning to the old radio in the corner.

"But Peter is sleeping . . ." Lydia mentioned, to which Charlotte laughed and motioned for Edmund to turn it on. Peter grumbled at the noise and turned on the couch to continue the charade, but he knew his number was up. Stupid Charlotte.

After supper that evening, the familiar routine commenced. Everyone gathered in the fire-warmed den for activities until, one by one, drifting off to their rooms upstairs. Lucy went first, then Mr. Pevensie, followed by Edmund and Lydia, Susan, until only Mrs. Pevensie, Charlotte, and Peter remained. Peter read on the couch, Charlotte in the chair, and Mrs. Pevensie stitched, her tongue poking out between her red lips as she concentrated on monogramming the handkerchief for her sister.

Peter glanced up at Charlotte, watching the way the firelight pulled out the gold in her red hair. She had worn her hair up, but now tugged on it until the pins came out and it fell around her shoulders. Peter saw Mrs. Pevensie cast a surprised and slightly scornful glance in Charlotte's direction; in her day, after all, such an act would have been entirely inappropriate. But Peter didn't see what was so bothersome. After all, he preferred Charlotte with her hair down. And her relaxing her hair in front of him was just further testament to the ease she felt around him. She probably did the same thing around her brothers. It wasn't as though she were undressing right there.

Mrs. Pevensie yawned and closed her eyes for a moment before going back to her stitching. Clearly she was ready to sleep, and Peter wondered why she hadn't left yet. Then he saw her cast another glance at Charlotte, and suddenly Peter felt heat wrap around his neck. Because of Charlotte! His own mother, whom had adored Charlotte from the beginning, whom had even failed miserably at hiding her preference for Charlotte to Lydia, refused to leave them alone in the living room together. Of course she wouldn't know that they had already spent plenty of time together, unless Susan had said something, which he highly doubted. What this meant to Peter was that it wasn't just Susan being absurd, but Susan and his mother. Who else? He had never paid much attention to society or the rules it dictated for men and women; after all, he hadn't given serious attention to any girl in particular until Lydia, and she was more than happy to let him know what he was and wasn't allowed to do according to French aristocratic laws. But even his own mother didn't trust him and Charlotte to sit on opposite sides of the den, reading their own books, in the family home! The world was ridiculous!

With an indignant huff, Peter rose and tossed his book loudly onto the coffee table. "Good night, mother," he spat, then spun and stomped off to the stairs, not caring how confused he left the two women behind him. This was all so stupid. Why couldn't a boy and a girl simply be friends without everyone acting as though they were carrying on some secret affair? Why couldn't anyone trust them?

He waited in his room until he heard his parents' bedroom door close. Then he ambled back down to the couch, picking up his book and returning his eyes to the page as though nothing had happened. Charlotte had not moved.

"I thought you were going to bed," she suggested after a few minutes. Peter glanced surreptitiously up at her, but her eyes remained in her book.

He returned bitterly, "I'm not tired."

"You know there's a reason she wouldn't leave us alone."

"What reason is that?"

"Because it's inappropriate."

"We've spent other nights alone in this room together," he pointed out, not even balking at the audacity of his own words. "And there wasn't a problem then."

"No one knew about it then." Both were refusing to look at each other, and Peter realized again how silly this all was.

He pushed his book down and stared at her, "Is that the difference, then? It's wrong, but we're allowed to do it if no one knows? Or it's only wrong if people know?" She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes for a brief moment, apparently in pain, and Peter felt a jab in his chest. He hadn't meant to hurt her, only to point out how ridiculous everyone was being. To smooth it over, he quickly added, "I don't see how we did or are doing anything wrong. We're friends."

"Yes, we are that," she nodded and said no more. Peter wanted to throttle her to get her to continue because it looked like she wanted to; he could practically see the lump of words caught in her throat. But she simply turned the page of her book and continued reading. It infuriated him. He wanted a reaction. He wanted the passion –either positive or negative—but something, not this silent avoidance.

So he pushed the button he knew he shouldn't and insisted, "Were you alone with Jack?"

Sure enough, that worked. Charlotte flew up, threw her book onto the floor, and made straight for the stairs. Peter intercepted her halfway across the room, grabbing her arm and spinning her so that she was pressed into his side and they were both facing the fire.

"Stop it, Peter," she hissed, and he saw with alarm the glassiness of her eyes. He hadn't meant to upset her that badly! Gee, he could be a real idiot, couldn't he?

"I'm sorry," he whispered. They were close; they were too close. One arm was around her waist, the other holding her arm. She was so little, a tiny ball of fire held in his arm. He felt his eyes drift closed and struggled against the urge to press his forehead against hers. No, no, this was wrong. He had a sweetheart! But he and Charlotte had never been this physically close and he couldn't find it in him to pull away. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I just wanted a reaction out of you."

"Well you got it and you hurt me."

Her willingness to admit that sent a shooting pain down Peter's back, but he continued, "I just wanted an answer to something, to the hundreds of questions I have. You're so frustrating, Charlie." He inhaled deeply, her sweet scent soaking into his lungs. Cinnamon. She smelled like cinnamon and something wood-like and warm, nothing like the sugar and roses of Lydia.

Suddenly she was gone, pulling quickly away and sitting on the rug before the fire with a sigh, "I know. I'm sorry."

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Answer some of my questions," he pressed. It hadn't ever really occurred to him to flat-out ask her, though she had told him before that he should.

She hesitated, and then nodded before quickly adding, "But not about Jack. Just . . . please anything but him."

"Why not? Because you don't want me knowing—"

"About the scandal? Clearly you've already heard what's said about me." She gave a sad smile and shake of her head as he sat beside her, bending his legs and wrapping his arms around his knees. "I know what all the rumors are. I know which ones are true and which ones are false and I know that in the grand scheme of things, the truth only matters to those directly involved. For the same reason that your mother won't leave us alone in the room together, the rest of the world will think what they want to think, my actual actions be damned. Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter. Innocent or guilty, I'm damned, Peter." It was a heavy answer, much deeper and more depressing than Peter had expected.

But she was wrong. In light of her answer, Peter realized she had it completely backwards. She claimed her guilt or innocence didn't matter because people had already judged her guilty via their gossip. Well, he would claim her innocent. He knew her. He could see the girl sitting beside him, the beautiful girl with the sad eyes and heartbroken smile, and nothing else mattered: the world, his mother, Susan, Lydia –nothing! Whether she had stolen a married man or not, Peter couldn't look her in the face and tell her he cared because he didn't. Her goodness cleansed her of anything she might have done wrong. Maybe it was an idealistic thought, but it was how he felt.

Peter didn't know what to say, though, so he said simply, "I won't ask then, because it doesn't matter—"

"It always matters."

"I wouldn't take you for someone who cared what others thought about you," he argued.

Again she shook her head, but this time her smile had lifted to one of amusement, "I don't about me. But you and Lydia and Susan and Lesley deserve to be protected. I told you, I'm damned. I don't care about me, only you." He knew she meant the four she had listed, not just him. He knew it. He pretended not to and smiled, then frowned.

"I wish you would stop saying that," he insisted. "You aren't damned."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

"Do you?" she blurted out.

His frown deepened, "More than is apparently appropriate for me to admit. I would answer in depth, but I'm afraid it would just make you--"

"So you're really a high king, huh?" she quickly asked, and Peter didn't miss the flush that crept across her cheeks. It was beautifully innocent, her blush. He laughed at the subject change, though, and gave a short nod. She laughed as well and shook her head, "I don't know why Lucy was at all impressed with me being in films, then, if she's a queen."

"You believed me much more easily than I had expected."

She thought this over, chewing her lip, the admitted, "It's the way you talk about it, I think. I've become quite good at telling when people are lying to me, and you are not a liar, Peter. And the way you talk about Narnia is just so . . . so honest. I think maybe you are one of the most honest people I've ever known."

"I don't feel honest anymore," he sighed, but he had not meant to say that out loud. Everything he said belied the easy smile. Every time she said he was honest, he wanted to press his forehead to hers and confess that he was not honest, that actually he was awful. The thoughts he had about her were a betrayal to Lydia. But, and he wasn't sure if this was better or worse, he was lying to her when he said they were just friends. And he knew it.

Before he could smooth over his slip, Charlotte insisted, "You're a good man, Peter. And that's why I don't like you asking me about Jack. Not because I'm unwilling to confess mistakes I've made but simply because you are too good to speak that monster's name. I don't like hearing you say it."

"Well I'll stop saying his name if you'll stop saying you're damned." She laughed but agreed. "Well, if I can't ask you about the dragon," –at that, she laughed again—"what can I ask you about?"

"What would you like to know? I'm not really so complicated and interesting as you give me credit for."

He puffed his chest out and stretched his legs importantly, "I believe I will be the judge of that. When is your birthday?"

"February 2nd, 1928. I was born in Bixby, Oklahoma. It's in the northeast, farmland, but near the mountains."

"You said you were the youngest of six?" He was surprised to see her answering his questions about her family; before she had reacted always as if the mere mention broke her heart all over again.

She nodded, "Joanna was the oldest and already had two children by the time I was born. You start having children young where I come from. After Joanna was Becky. Both of them were just awful. I guess they were too old when I was born to think of me as anything but a nuisance. They hated me and I hated them – we were nothing like Lucy and Susan."

"They sound rather stupid if they hated you . . ."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and gave him a stern look, then continued, "Timothy was next. I always felt bad for him. My father had wanted a son so badly, and he just really wasn't the sort of son Papa wanted. Very . . . intelligent, I mean, but not right for farming. He was always sick. He died right after we moved to California. Made the trip all right and then got sick and died. Mama insisted it was the fever, but I think he just got tired of our parents not . . . not loving him right, you know?" Peter nodded and apologized for her loss, but it was hard not to smile. Typically when she spoke, Charlotte was refined and elegant. Though clearly her accent was American, it seemed almost watered down. But when she spoke of her family, words began slipping in that made her sound more like the "Southerners" Peter had seen in the films: "Mama and Papa", clipping words a little shorter, even simply the cadence of her speech. It was beautiful. He wished she spoke like that all the time.

"And finally, Julian and Ashley," she continued. "They were my best friends."

"You mentioned you three were always playing together."

She nodded, "Yeah, us three. We were little monsters and didn't really outgrow it. Then I went to Hollywood and didn't ever go back."

"And your brothers?" he asked when she lapsed into silence. One of them died, he guessed.

"Julian had a good stroke of luck. After Ashley and I were gone, he met a lovely woman and married her. I never met her, but Becky and Joanna only have nasty things to say about her, which probably means she's wonderful," Charlotte laughed. "They live in Virginia and have two children. You don't understand how . . . how miraculous it is for someone born into our position to end up with such a different and successful life. Everyone else I knew growing up is either dead or leading the same life our parents led. It's a miracle, and he deserves it. I'm so happy for him." Peter waited patiently as she organized her thoughts. "And Ashley . . . left for war. Off he flew and that was the last we ever heard of him."

"He—"

"He died," she interrupted. "I didn't mean to be vague. That wasn't the last we heard of him, I guess. We got the black letter. It's funny the sort of things you remember. I was wearing a long yellow sundress with big orange flowers –it was really ugly, but it was for a film. We had just taken a break for lunch when I got a telegram from Mama saying simply, 'Ashley is dead.' I was a mess, an absolute mess. I thought about going home, but Mama didn't tell me about it until the funeral was already over and I . . ." Here Charlotte turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading as she admitted, "I hated her for that. For robbing me of my chance to say goodbye to my brother. I mean, he was dead, he couldn't – but I could have apologized."

"What did you have to apologize for?" Peter asked, wondering if she would answer.

Surprisingly, she did; perhaps she was simply on a roll, "He . . . he married a girl I didn't like and I resented him for it. Granted, I think I would have resented any girl he married. He was still so young, and I felt like she was stealing him from me. He and I fought, and I left for Hollywood before we made up . . . I didn't go to the wedding, and I never apologized." She turned her face away and wiped at her cheeks and Peter felt his stomach clench. The last thing he wanted was to make her cry, but she was still talking, and he craved every iota of information he could get from her.

Unsure how to comfort a crying girl, he placed his hand gently on her arm. He expected her to pull away and scold him for being inappropriate, but of course she was in no state to do any such thing. Instead, she placed her hand on top of his and held it there, her eyes trained on their joined hands, as were his. They sat like that, still and silent, for several long minutes. Then Peter, not meaning to but unable to squelch the desire, twisted his fingers so they were almost wound around Charlotte's.

She gently pulled her hand away and stared in the fire as she continued, much calmer, "I think she was good to him. I don't really know, though. I do know that he was excited to go to war. He was like that, you know? Always looking for adventure, no matter how dangerous. After I got the telegram . . . well, Jack saw how upset I was. He cancelled filming for the rest of the day and offered to take me out to coffee. Coffee was the last thing I wanted, but I didn't know what else to do. He was there for me when no one else was, when I needed someone to help me get through the day. Losing Ashley was . . . it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and I've never exactly led a blessed life.

"That was the last film I ever did. I wanted out of Hollywood. Nothing mattered anymore with Ashley gone. Then my father died – he and I weren't really close, but I guess I was closer to him than anyone else in my family. I was just done with everything. When Jack asked if I would go to Paris with him, I agreed if he would marry me. By that point, as you apparently already know, rumors had started about me. It only mattered so much in Hollywood –I could have still worked with no problems. But I'm afraid I'll always be a poor little farm girl at heart, and at that point, scandal surrounding me still mattered. Mama made a point of calling and telling me I was dead to her, without even asking if the rumors were true or not. I was mortified. I didn't realize going to Paris would bring all the rumors to a head. I thought . . ." She laughed and cast her gaze down to the carpet, picking at it with her nails. "I was such a little idiot, Peter. I thought . . . oh, of all people to trust! I trusted him when he said he could make everything right. I thought he would be true to his word and that an engagement would mean something. Lies are so much prettier than the truth, so I believed him, and we went to Paris."

This was more than Peter had ever expected Charlotte to tell him. Hadn't she told him specifically not to ask about Jack? And yet here she was, telling him almost everything –except, of course, dancing around the crucial points that Peter was curious about, even if he was insistent they didn't matter.

"We arrived in Paris in July. I moved in with Susan in October."

"And between that?"

"I told you not to ask about Jack!" she reminded.

He wagged his finger at her, "I didn't. I'm asking about your time in Paris."

"Don't get clever with me, Peter. I've already said more than I meant to." She paused, her lips pursing as she thought. "But maybe I should say more. Maybe I should tell you everything and watch your back as you run up the stairs . . ." That was her motive?

Peter scoffed, "It's too late for that."

"Don't say that to me," Charlotte hissed, suddenly jumping away from him. Clearly she had understood his meaning and the look of fear and betrayal in her eyes was evident as Peter frowned at her. "Don't even think such things. It's not too late for anything."

Her words worked two ways, though, and Peter cringed, realizing where all of this could, and probably would lead. He could fight it and deny it all he wanted, but he wouldn't be able to remain passive forever. At some point in time, probably in the very near future, he was going to have to make a choice. It wasn't fair to Lydia if he and Charlotte were going to continue this non-affair, and it wasn't fair to Charlotte if he could be the first person to ever treat her as she actually deserved.

But for now, to appease her, he offered gently, "I'm sorry. I just meant I'm too curious to run away." He knew that she knew that he was lying, but she relaxed. Apparently, as long as he kept up appearances, she would play along. "Now Paris."

She smiled and shook her head, picking at her bracelet, "I'm afraid I care far too much about your opinion of me to answer that."

"I won't think less of you."

"You might not say it, but you'll think it. I'm not good like Lydia or Susan or Lucy. I . . . I mean—"

He snorted, "I'm not stupid, Charlie. I know you and this Jack fellow didn't pay for two apartments in Paris." Her eyebrows lifted in shock. "I put two and two together a long time ago. Don't act like I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid, Peter, and I knew you would figure it out. I just . . . you just say it like that, as though it's no big deal—"

"I said it because it's the truth, Charlie, for better or worse. I'll be honest if you will." She snorted and he knew he would only get so much from her. "And don't assume things about me. I may not be as complex as you," he teased, poking her shoulder. "But I've got a bit of depth."

She laughed, then gave him a challenging look, "Then think of the implications, Peter, and let me watch you run."

"What implications?"

"I lived with Jack in Paris. Before we were married."

He knew what she was saying. And he knew why she was saying it. So she had lived in sin with her fiancé. She wasn't a virgin. Actually writing it down in the "facts" column made him cringe, but more with heartbreak for her than judgment. Sure, it was scandalous. It was appalling. He would kill Susan or Lucy for doing it. But . . . actually, in light of all that she was telling him, what choice had she had?

"All right." He dramatized thinking, holding his chin in his hand and staring pensively at the ceiling. "Done."

She rolled her eyes, "Be serious. I'm crossing every line known to mankind talking about this . . ." Only then seeming to realize where their conversation had drifted –that she had just told Peter Pevensie she had participated in extramarital relations—she suddenly gasped, "I'm so awful! I shouldn't be here telling you this. What was I thinking?" She leapt up to go but just as quickly, Peter grabbed her arm and dragged her back down.

"Don't, Charlie. Stop that. Stop letting society decide how you and I should treat each other or speak to each other or what we should say." She was forced to sit again, and he pulled her a bit closer, "I don't care if it's inappropriate to say it to me. I'm flattered that you feel comfortable enough to say it. This isn't a conversation between you, me, and the world. It's between you and me. It's none of the world's business. I'm . . . I'm honored that you trust me."

"Aren't you disgusted? You should be."

He shrugged, "Not disgusted. I mean, I'm not thinking about it in detail here," and she laughed. "The idea of you living with a man bothers me less than the idea of you living with that man. I don't think less of you, only I hate him for taking advantage of you."

"I chose to go to Paris with him. I never did anything against my will."

"You were boxed in. He took advantage of your grief when your brother died and then your father, waited until you felt isolated and needed an escape, and then dragged you around the world to a foreign city where you had no one to rely on but him," Peter illustrated.

Charlotte had never, not once in her life, thought of it in that manner. She fell silent, staring into the fire. Could Peter be—no. She had made her choices.

She wanted to get away from the reality that she had just confessed to Peter about living with Jack –really, why did she always say too much to him?—and so explained after a pause, "I was bored in Paris. He would take me to nightclubs and fancy dinners and the ballet at first, but that was the world I had tried to leave in Hollywood. Then he suggested I find a hobby, and I realized I really enjoyed art, so I began taking classes. At night, he would suggest I stay home and paint instead of going to the clubs, and I agreed. It was nice being alone, I guess. I had never in my life been alone before."

"And you liked it?"

"For a while," she shrugged. "It's hard to think when everyone is telling you what they think. It was peaceful. Then class was cancelled one day. I came home when Jack wasn't expecting me. Did Susan tell you this?"

He shook his head, "She had only told me that you had a fiancé but things went poorly. She never said who did what or who called it off or . . . she respects your privacy."

"She's a good friend," Charlie smiled, running her fingers along the carpet. "I called it off, I suppose, but maybe I just tell myself that because really, there was never anything to call off. Jack was never going to marry me. I came back from class early and found him with another woman." Peter inhaled sharply. He had thought that was what she building up to, but he'd hoped he was wrong. "And the sick bastard didn't even care," she laughed, but it was a pained, harsh laugh. Peter wanted to touch her again but feared she would pull away. "Told me to get out until he was finished. She wasn't the only woman he had been with, and maybe I had even known before and just chose to ignore it . . . but when I actually walked in . . . you have to stop ignoring it at that point."

Peter's jaw clenched. He wanted Jack dead. He realized that wasn't the way one was supposed to think in England. He realized it was High King Peter crying out for justice, but Peter felt warmth in his chest as he pictured himself running a sword straight through Jack's stomach. Or knocking his head off. Or stomping on his throat. The more graphic, the better. How dare he do such a thing to Charlie. How dare he!

"I didn't tell you that for your sympathy," Charlie suddenly insisted, shoving his arm. She had seen his defensive posture. "It was my own fault, Peter. I should never have put myself in that position in the first place. I told you because . . . because I'm afraid you're developing a much more flattering image of me than I deserve."

Peter snorted and tossed his head, "I'll tell you what you deserve, Charlie. You deserve someone to finally take you seriously and treat you like you deserve. No one has –not your family, and definitely not Jack."

"Well," she shrugged. "Maybe that's true, but it's nothing you need concern yourself with."

"And why not?"

"You have someone to concern yourself with, Peter." And just like that, she laid it out for him. She poked him in the chest and reminded him that he couldn't take care of her because he was supposed to take care of Lydia. He couldn't wrap his arms around her in comfort and breathe in the cinnamon from her skin and show her what it meant to truly be loved and appreciated, because that's what he had agreed to do for Lydia.

He had never felt so trapped before. On one hand, the girl he had, who was at least superficially perfect for him. On the other hand, the girl whom he should, according to society, hold his nose and run away from. It was hard to remember Lydia at all, sitting in such an intimate bubble with Charlie. He could see now why it was inappropriate for them to be alone together. With as intoxicating as Charlotte was, he forgot everything else when he was with her. Perhaps later, once away from the influence of her flushed cheeks, he would really consider all she had said and be horrified. Perhaps he would want nothing more to do with her. Clearly that's what Charlotte was hoping for. He couldn't honestly see that happening.

With a frown, Peter sighed, "But maybe—" but Charlotte's hand was suddenly over his mouth. He smiled and pulled her hand away, holding her tiny wrist loosely in his fingers. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I don't want to hear what you were going to say."

"But—"

"No buts, Peter." She leaned in closer, so close Peter almost wondered if she was going to kiss him. But of course she wouldn't. He saw that now. He saw that he couldn't tell what her feelings were towards him. Maybe he was her brother substitute. She hadn't said anything to oppose that. Perhaps all this tension was one-sided, and Peter was working himself into a tizzy over a decision that he didn't actually have to make. Perhaps the decision had already been made for him and he could continue to float along, happy and content with Lydia.

"Then what?"

"Then nothing," she whispered, still so close. "Haven't you heard anything I've said? You must be more careful about how you act around me and what you say. You might not understand society and scandal, but I do, and Lydia deserves—"

"Oh, Lydia!" he sighed, unintentionally letting his eyes roll. Lydia was obnoxious to him at the moment. He saw nothing but Charlotte.

"Don't say that. She loves you and you love her." In such a simple statement, Peter saw that she knew. She saw the feelings he had for her, and she was trying to let him down easy.

Boldly, to see what she would say, he challenged, "But maybe—"

"There is no but maybe, Peter!" she cried. "That phrase does not apply to us. There is no but maybe for us, and you would do well to remember that. Lydia deserves that. Think how heartbroken she would be to hear you say 'but maybe' to me!"

But Peter wasn't thinking about Lydia right now. He was thinking about this silly little girl so close to him, this silly little girl who was lying right to his face.

He sat up straighter, leaving even less space between them, and demanded, "Stop lying to me. Don't tell me it's not too late and then tell me there is no but maybe for us."

"Don't twist my words. You know what I meant before—"

"Be honest with me, Charlotte."

"I am, Peter! I'm being as honest as I know how to be."

His glare was fierce as he challenged, "Then tell me we're just friends and mean it. Tell me there is no but maybe and mean it." His voice was a low hiss; the fire danced across his features, alive in a way Charlotte had never seen before, their faces inches apart. "Tell me—"

"We're just friends and there is no but maybe!" Charlotte blurted out, her eyes wide with terror.

The second the sentence was out, Peter leaned forward, aiming to crush his lips against hers. Charlotte's reflexes were quick, though, and she turned her head just in time. Peter's lips fell against her jaw. Both remained frozen, eyes closed, hearts racing, the fire dancing around them, taunting them with its warmth.

This was hell. Peter knew it. Charlotte knew it. Both were damned. Both were in hell.

Peter kissed her jaw and kept his head pressed against hers. Charlotte was scared to move, or rather couldn't move. This was it. This was all she could ever have from Peter Pevensie, that kiss on the side of her face and a couple seconds with their heads leaning together, and she felt the world shattering around her once more. Timothy, Ashley, Papa, Jack, Peter, everyone was bound to slip from her grasp.

After a long moment, the longest Charlotte could selfishly allow herself, she stated calmly, eyes still closed, "Lydia believes you are going to propose to her on Christmas. I think you should propose sooner. Tell her you can't wait to have her hand."

Peter's voice cracked traitorously as he whispered, "And if I don't?"

"I'll leave, and you'll never see me or hear from me again."

"So that's it, then. That's—"

"Yes. That's all there is to be had. That's all I have to for you."

Peter pulled away and gave her a hard look, his eyes dark as he insisted, "I don't believe you." She returned his look, searching his face before her own hardened, her lips pursing for a moment.

"We are just friends and there is no but maybe."

A painful pause.

"You're a liar."

"No, Peter. I am doing the right thing for the first time in a long time."

"Which is?" he scoffed.

She smiled, and he could see by the sudden brightness in her eyes that she was thoroughly convinced, "I'm saving you and Lydia both. Let me do that. Consider it . . . consider it my tribute to the High King of Narnia and his lady. My gift to the king and queen." She was laughing now, but it was cruel, taunting laughter. He hated it. It wasn't hers. She was trying to poke at everything that might possibly get him to collapse, but the harder she shoved, the clearer things became in Peter's head.

She jumped to her feet with a relieved energy and bid, "Good night, Peter. I look forward to hearing the announcement."

Peter waited until she was almost to the stairs to call after her, "Do you know what Susan told me in a letter?"

"What did she tell you?"

"She told me that Cair Paravel would be honored to have you, that you would make a fine queen."

Charlotte let out a sharp exhale, a sardonic laugh, "Susan was mistaken."

"Have you met my sister? Susan Pevensie is never wrong."

The laugh Charlotte gave was genuine as she repeated, "Good night, Peter."

"Good night, Charlotte."

The living room was cruelly empty with her gone.

Thoughts? Judgments on either Charlotte or Peter? Feelings about Lydia? Love for Jack? I'd love to hear your reactions! :)