Missing chapters: stopped sending emails out for a while. If you just got an email update and are checking the story for the first time in a while, I have been updating every week, and I think the emails stopped near chapter thirty one? So maybe double check to make sure you're on the right chapter, that you didn't miss anything?

Disclaimer: Susan gently and firmly reminded me that she's not my creation, only my imaginary friend.

"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats."
~ Voltaire

England quickly became one of Susan's least favourite places. Work…work dragged. The same routine, different people with the same questions and complaints. Two weekends passed, and she stayed home. The same house, the same rooms, the same emptiness.

A part of her knew what she was doing, knew she could pick up the phone and call Nancy, call Carol, call someone. Or go to the graveyard. Or go to church.

She argued with that part at first, that Nancy had a bad boyfriend, Carol a silly head, and who else was there to call? The graveyard was too cold. She didn't have the energy to go to church. She spent most of the time reading or listening to the wireless. She didn't particularly like reading, but sometimes she could not take the shows that were on, and so she picked up some of her mother's books instead.

If she'd let herself think about Edmund, he would have pointed out that she was avoiding life. But she'd had a lot of practice ignoring the truth and ignoring her siblings.

So it went through the third week of work, till Nancy called.

"Hello, Susan," Nancy said, in a voice that was a little stiff. "It's been a while since we talked."

"It has."

The conversation paused after that, but what was Susan to say? "How're things with Robert?" she asked after a moment.

"Good, they're good. We talked about what makes me uneasy, when he's around other girls, and he's not done any of it. We go together to every party now. The boys all like Robert, and I've been trying—trying to be a queen."

"I'm sure they welcome it."

"Most of them."

Another pause. Susan thought about observing that there would always be some that didn't welcome it, but that sounded a bit too much like something Edmund would say, and she was avoiding him.

She especially avoided thinking about Peter. And wasn't it Nancy's turn to carry on the conversation?

"What have you been doing?"

Susan suddenly hated that question. Nothing, would be the true answer, but that wasn't learning to be a Walker in England, and that…

That meant she'd be here longer.

So she couldn't say it. "I've been working."

"On the weekends?" She heard concern in Nancy's voice now. "Susan, that's not a good idea. Is it a money problem?"

"No." It wasn't. Susan owned the house, she made enough for food, clothing, and all the household things. "I'm not working weekends."

"Then what have you been doing? Sitting in that house all by yourself?"

Something about her tone was so familiar, echoing Peter, her parents, those nights she came home late, the judgement on her bad choices—Suan snapped. "That isn't any of your business!"

"Susan, what is—"

"Enough! Stop barging into my life just because your own is so perfect!" Slamming down the phone, she spun and walked to the kitchen. Dinner. Dinner would be a good idea. But when she opened the cabinets, nothing looked appealing.

A walk, perhaps. But where would she go?

She would not think about the places she didn't want to go. Or the streets she used to walk with Lucy, or Peter, or—

Why did Nancy have to call?

Where didn't matter. Anywhere would work. Anywhere, nowhere, places that had no purpose or memory—she grabbed her mother's coat, a pair of dark gloves, a black scarf, and the keys to the house. When she opened the door, the bite of the cold air on her cheeks made her hesitate, but not for long. What if Nancy called back when she cooled off? Susan couldn't stay in the house.

She turned right on the first street she could, walked several blocks, avoiding the icy patches and frozen horse droppings. She turned left. Grey houses to the right, a dirty street to her left—where didn't matter anymore.

Because she knew where she wanted to walk. She'd felt this longing for years, for Narnia's woods; now she felt it for Arwen's world, with Huan waiting for her. She wanted out.

Another left turn.

But out wasn't an option, not till she found out how to live in this grey, ugly, burdensome world. Because she had to learn to be weak. Everything about Susan felt weak now; her loves, her will, her desires—even her grief seemed weaker than it was before, less consuming. "More smothering, though," Susan muttered into her scarf.

This was what Aslan wanted to make into a Queen? Into someone who loved enough to be taken out of herself?

A warm breath, strong enough to be felt through her glove, touched her left hand. I came for the sick and the sinners. Hadn't she heard that somewhere before? In that church Edmund and Lucy liked to attend?

Aslan—Aslan came for the traitors. For the fearful, the doubting; for her.

The street ended; she looked both ways, down a street that seemed the same either way, shrugged to herself, and turned right, her steps tapping the pavement faster and more loudly as she tried to keep herself warm.

"Bother walking," she muttered. "Bother the cold. Bother England. Bother—bother tasks. They're all like work, pointless and false and so utterly trying—"

But memory stopped her. She knew of other tasks that were not pointless nor false, tasks true and heartbreaking and beautiful. The same One who directed her steps to those worlds had brought her back to this one. Did she really believe this was a pointless task?

"I could make it a pointless task." She burrowed her nose into the scarf. "But…I don't want to think about facing my family if I do. And I already miss you all." Saying that out loud brought her emotions out, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks and into the scarf, leaving icy cold behind. "I miss you all. I've been running from myself again, haven't I? Unwilling to believe, to even try living. But it's so hard here—oh, how could it be worth it?" She thought of trying to live at work, to make herself go through one more long day, and it didn't do anything. Except exhaust her. Except take what she didn't have to give. "Why? Why even try, when there's no more colour or beauty in the world? Or when the beauty doesn't matter anymore?"

Love gives colour, don't you think, Susan? Lucy's voice, a memory of the two of them leaning over a wall to look into a courtyard as Lord Peridan proposed to his love. Time had sighed at that moment; the sun shone on the couple, highlighting every strand of hair and glowing skin; their cheeks had flushed a lovely red. It's why Aslan is such a vivid colour, Lucy added.

Colour—England had had colour, before Susan began running away.

But what was she supposed to do, when Aslan took away the only thing holding her together?

She could no longer feel her toes. In fact, she realised with bitter surprise, she'd stopped walking. She stamped both her feet, rubbed away her tears with her scarf, and blew on her hands. As she looked around, trying to figure out where she was, she thought she glimpsed a swirling square of white light in an alley between two houses.

She didn't stop to think. She began to run, dashing into the alley, not realising she hadn't felt the door open, forgetting she wasn't supposed to walk other worlds—all her heart knew was that everything it wanted that it might possibly have, could be in this alley.

It wasn't. The alley was a dark, dirty alley, like many others in London; as Susan realised that, heart dropping bitterly, she also saw three men huddled by the wall, hands clutching something. All three heads turned in her direction.

Susan quickly turned around, her heart beginning to hammer.

"Pretty lady," she heard behind her, the voice rough and jeering. "What are you doing in this part of London? Came for some company, did ya?"

"Stay for a bit," another voice added, this one smooth and cultured. "I was just about to introduce these two gents to a bit of fun."

Susan took two more quick steps; out of the alley. But as she glanced up and down the street, she realised there was no one there. The windows of the houses were dirty and curtained.

She began to run.

But she glanced back as she ran, watching as the three men emerged from the alley, already quickening their pace to match hers—she hit ice.

The pavement slammed into her hands, and she rolled, desperately trying for memories, memories of Narnia; she hadn't learned much fighting but she knew how to run—

Up on her knees, climbing to her feet—but a hand on her shoulder shoved her back down, her cheek thudding into cobblestones. Another hand on her other elbow—"Help!" Anyone, anyone, please—

She felt it that time, the door and the wind that wasn't so cold—a growl sounded above her, heavy paws hitting the pavement at a run.

A curse from one of the men above her, a yelped "Run!"—the hands were gone. Something large and soft touched her shoulder, and a heavy breath washed over her. She rolled over and looked at Huan.

"That," said an angry, fussy voice above and beyond the large dog head, "was utterly foolish."

Susan didn't answer. The warm, anxious eyes above her were everything, the paw patting her arm with gentle urgency, the small whine that meant he cared—

Love gives colour to the world.

But she knew Huan was worried, so she put an arm around his neck and let him back up, pulling her to sit, and then to her feet. Once she stood, she faced the glowering Doorkeeper, noting absently that his glasses had slipped to the very end of his nose.

"What were you doing?"

"Walking," Susan answered before she thought. "Not—that kind of walking. Just taking a walk."

"In this part of London?"

He sounds like a native, Susan thought, surprised to hear some amusement in the thought.

Oh.

She knew this too, the hilarity that sometimes followed narrow escapes. Taking a deep breath, she forced the emotions down. "I thought I saw a door opening. I wanted—" to go through it. The words, she couldn't say them, not without hearing how wrong they would be out loud. So she said nothing.

"England is the place for you. Did I not make that clear last time? Let's get you home, perhaps some of your tea will put sense into that empty head of yours—" He drew a handkerchief out and wiped his face as he spoke.

The words hurt to hear, too much like the criticisms she'd heard before; too much like the voice in her head that cut her down. But already he'd put the handkerchief away in a different pocket and was drawing a door, a door in midspace, she realised with surprise. They usually only opened in midair. Huan picked her up by her coat and carried her through it before she could comment, and had her seated in her own living room before she realised they weren't outside anymore.

Then he lay down by the hearth, looking for all the world like a house dog as big as a horse.

The Doorkeeper had moved into the kitchen, fussing about tea, and Susan took a moment to collect herself.

This conversation—was there any way to avoid it?

But Huan's eyes were still on her, from his spot by the fire, and she didn't think he'd let her escape, anymore than Peter would have.

Peter. What would Peter have thought, if he could have seen her today? Walking in the cold, avoiding reality—though not during the walk—or running into a dark alley?

"Here, Aslan's Queen, drink this." A plain white teacup, thrust into her hands, held a dark brown liquid that smelled like cinnamon. "I'll have some for myself too."

Perhaps the best way to avoid the worst of the conversation would be to bring parts of it up herself. She'd done that in Narnia too. "How did you arrive so quickly?"

"You've been growing doors all over your neighbourhood and house these past few weeks. Your heart created three, just on that walk alone. One to your house, one to Huan's rest, and one to a dead world."

The teacup rattled. Susan had set it down without thinking about it, staring at the Doorkeeper.

"You have a very strong heart. And it's running absolutely wild. I've spent the last two weeks bringing hunters for the monsters that lurk around your doors—do you realise how dangerous this is? You simply must get your heart under control."

"Then perhaps you could offer advice on how to do that, instead of just judging me for it!"

"Don't be stupid. Oh, listen to me, I'm being as stupid as you are. You already know the answer to this. Think. What did you discover the last time we talked? What were you here for?"

"To be made into a Queen." How silly that purpose seemed, after her actions.

"No, no, before that. What takes you out of yourself, gives life purpose?"

The word felt heavy in Susan's throat, like a weight it hurt to lift. "Love."

"The two greatest commandments in any world are both about love. Aslan Himself is Love. And more than that, of course, but that doesn't make it any less true."

"Then offer suggestions on how to make a broken and mostly dead heart love, and I will listen." But only then, Susan added silently. She had had enough of people judging her choices.

Even if they were bad choices. Didn't people understand how much she had lost.

Yes, they did. Or the Doorkeeper did—he'd said as much, when he saw her siblings' faces in her memory, one of the first times they'd met.

"I'll offer one the Bookkeeper has told me, written by one of your fellow Englishman. 'Do not waste time bothering whether you 'love' your neighbour; act as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him.'* Have you been acting loving lately?"

Thinking of her phone call with Nancy, Susan did not answer.

"Then be about it. All of you humans, each and every one, have a soul that's worth loving. The same man once said, 'Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest upon reciprocity.' But don't—oh, yes, that's a good warning. Don't try to love with your own broken heart. Remember how much Aslan loves you, before you go about trying to love others."

The emotions all came piling up—Aslan's name, all the advice, the task that lay before her, her scare—and Susan began laughing, a little hysterically. Huan got up, coming with deliberate steps, and placing his head on her lap. "Aslan loves me? Really. You can say that. He took away my country, my family, my purpose—so many times, He's taken away everything. What kind of love—"

Great, golden eyes filled her memory, her mind. Her words cut off. She'd seen love, known it. She could try to deny it—but sorrow made her value truth, value the things that could not be shaken.

"He does not take from you anything He has not given Himself," the Doorkeeper said soberly. "In fact, with my clumsy tongue, I think I'd better leave you alone with Him. Do try to seek Him. If you don't—no, that's more than you need to hear. But try to seek Him tonight. Come, Huan."

A warm breath washed over her lap, a small whine escaping; Huan's eyes met hers, warm and loving and so like a dog, and then he turned and left, walking through the sudden white light.

Leaving Susan alone with the empty space that suddenly seemed crowded, as if many were watching, witnessing, waiting on her to meet the Lion. But would the Lion come?

*CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

Response to Magi: The Wingfeather saga is on my list to read, but unfortunately I haven't read it yet. After your description, I want to read it even more—but I will also admit the to-read list is forever long. Since I haven't read it, I can't write Susan visiting. :( The Queen's Thief series is not for the very young, due to some of the elements in it; I'd say probably fourteen and above, depending on the fourteen-year-old? But the author's ability to blow the reader's mind with her endings, to introduce new characters and make you love the old ones, and to create a world where awe is understood by a select few, is something I haven't read in any other modern writer.