I wrote this as part of my Carmine anthology for the Adventures in Narnia 2021 Encore, but I've since decided I would prefer it be posted separately. Further AN may be found at: tmblr . co/ZrXgjTauHg7cWu00
There is a world in which Peter learns the cello, and a world where Lucy learns the pipes, and a world where Edmund learns the harpsichord, and a world where none of the four siblings can play a note.
But they are not this world, and in this world, Susan learns the harp.
The first time they fully explore Cair Paravel and catalogue its contents, amidst dozens of other rooms and treasures, they find a small chamber full of finely-crafted instruments. The strings on many have perished, but the wood and metal are still sound, and Susan finds herself strangely drawn to the deep ebony shape of a harp decorated with elaborate florals.
She gently traces the wooden petals of the large lily that forms the crown, gazes at the empty frame, and resolves to inquire of the dwarves whether any of them recall such craft as may restore it.
They present it to her at Christmas, fully strung and tuned with the kind assistance of Archenland's musicians.
Susan is gentle, but she is also stubborn, and she insists on teaching herself to play. It is rough going, for though she has learned music at school, reading lines on a page is different to playing by ear, and she has never so much as touched a harp before this. Yet she persists, and slowly her persistence is rewarded.
As her skill grows, so too does the depth of emotion she can express with it, and by the time they reach their fifth anniversary of rule, it is not uncommon to find her using the harp as a means to work through feelings. A tense day of court may be followed by the faint sounds of a loud discordant composition, or a letter bearing bad news by a slow sorrowful song. But these are not the only things; joyful dances ring brightly from its strings on days of happiness, and tranquil arpeggios lull the restless to sleep and calm angry spirits.
Narnia rejoices in its queen, and she rejoices in them.
There is a world where the elder queen is called Susan of the Bow, and a world where she is Susan of the South, and a world where she is Susan of the Horn, and a world where she is Susan of the Night.
But they are not this world, and in this world, she is Susan of the Harp.
On their first night back in England, Susan's hands twitch in her sleep, reaching for strings that are no longer there to express anguish that runs too deep for words, and silent tears stain the pillow.
A week later, Lucy comes flying into the room with news that she has just remembered an old harp in the green-draped parlor of the south wing's second floor, and the professor has given permission for Susan to examine it.
The moment she sweeps her fingers across the unfamiliar strings, the dam breaks. All her sorrow and grief pours out through the silken strands into a symphony of heartbreak, and she weeps, and so does Lucy, but there is a peace found in the grieving, and they know it will not be so hard again.
Professor Kirke is a wealthy man, possessed of several fine harps, and when he sees the magic Susan works on them and they on her, he feels not a single iota of reluctance in informing the children he will be shipping her favorite back to London with them when they return.
Susan bursts into disbelieving, joyful tears and throws her arms about his waist, crying into his beard, which is as high as her head reaches.
"Oh, my dear child," he says gently, "music is the speech of your soul. How ever could I bear to part you from it?"
That night, he hears a faint shimmer of sound rising in glad spirals, and he smiles.
Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie are stunned to discover their daughter has returned from the country an accomplished musician, but they can find no fault with the rippling beauty that fills the house, and they soon learn to read her moods by her music.
There is a world where Edmund loses hold of Peter's hand, and a world where Lucy is late to the platform, and a world where Susan delays to comfort a crying child, and a world where Peter must run an errand on the way.
But they are not this world, and in this world, all four are together when the horn sounds.
She finds the ebony harp next to her quiver and bow in the treasure room of Cair Paravel, its strings long since disintegrated. The lilied crown is shattered; the vines on the neck have partly rotted. Only one of the dwarf-made pedals remains intact.
Susan leans her forehead against the broken lily, wraps her hands tightly around the column, and whispers "Thank you." She reaches down to pick up one of the fallen lily petals, and tucks it carefully into her skirt pocket.
Then she leaves Cair Paravel behind her.
Caspian the Tenth's coronation is a grand affair, but no musician is remembered so often in history books as the Gentle Queen of Old, robed in brilliant emerald and bringing alive the dances of Old Narnia on a golden harp once owned by the new king's mother.
Susan has just returned from America, and is entertaining her mother with a light and springy dance as Mrs. Pevensie mops, when a priest passes by the house, lost on his way to a sick call. He returns later and asks if his parish might hire her as a musician, and so Susan begins to play sometimes at St. Cecelia's.
It does not take them long after that to find Aslan, and all of her music takes on a hint of hidden joy.
One night during Christmas holidays, they find her curled into a ball next to the fireplace, clutching a piece of broken ebony worn smooth by handling.
Peter, Edmund, and Lucy trade looks, and nod. Words are unnecessary. As one, they gently help Susan to her feet and lead her to the harp.
"Play it, Su," Edmund says quietly. "Any time you feel this way. Play it through, and play it out, and let us be with you. You are not alone. You will never be alone."
With three hands on her shoulders and a cross around her neck, Susan plays.
There is a world where there are seven coffins in a chapel, and a world where there are three, and a world where there are five, and a world where there are none.
But they are not this world, and in this world, there are eight.