Chapter Sixteen
Dahlia pushes off the heavy furs and immediately casts a wandless, non-verbal warming charm. Half a year of constant practice was bound to get anyone very good with a spell. She digs her bare toes – even in the most sever of cold she hated wearing socks to bed – into the bear pelt on the ice floor and stumbles sleepily to the wash basin. Another wandless, non-verbal spell melts the frozen-over water in the bowl, but does not warm it further. The shock of the cold completely wakes Dahlia. She wipes the droplets dripping down her face with a fluffy towel and moves to prepare for the day starting with brushing her teeth with a teeth-cleaning charm. It may have felt uncomfortable, but it was more effective and quicker than a regular toothbrush.
She dresses in her enchanted Quidditch clothes. It was just too damned freezing for anything else. Though hard to do, it was possible to exhaust one's magic and trying to hold a warming spell 24/7 would have done it.
The outfit isn't too dissimilar to something one might wear to ride a horse. Heeled boots, tight breeches, a turtleneck shirt. Instead of a jacket, she wore long wizarding robes, which only buttoned at the top half of her body to allow freedom of movement to her legs. The sleeves were not the wide, flappy things current wizarding fashion preferred. They instead tightly cinched at the wrists with tiny broom-shaped buttons.
Dahlia stuffs her racing goggles – not too unalike to swimming goggles, just leather instead of plastic – into a pocket, puts a furry ushanka on her head to protect her ears and pulls on fur-lined gloves.
There was a lot of fur currently in Dahlia's life. Because, again, it was just too damned freezing for anything else. Even as she was standing here in her bedroom, her breath misted white. For her own sanity, she tries not to think about how ethically sourced that fur was in a world inhabited by sentient animals.
Hefting her Siberian over one shoulder – Dahlia never went anywhere without her broom in case she'd need to get the hell out of dodge at a moment's notice – and swinging her school satchel over the other, Dahlia heads to the kitchen for breakfast.
As she walked, servants scramble out of her way with barely concealed fear. Tales of Dahlia's particular talents had spread within a fortnight across all of Narnia. She wasn't proud of it, but such was the price of her continued survival. And she did try to make up for it. For example, when the White Witch was making her question a supposed Aslan-supporter – and there was an increasing number of those lately, it seemed like – Dahlia didn't make them spill everything if they were the genuine article. Occasionally, she would even make them lie. It was another thing she's gotten very good at; giving non-verbal commands when imperiusing someone. Gave her a killer migraine, tho.
She liked to think of it as her contribution to the brewing rebellion, however seemingly paltry. All uprisings needed inside men to be successful. The White Witch has yet to hear rumors of Aslan's return. She thought this to be one of the small insurrections that rose up every couple decade. It wasn't all thanks to Dahlia, but she prefers to think she definitely played a part in keeping the Witch in the dark of the true nature of this particular rebellion. It helped with the guilt.
Dahlia doesn't know what she is going to do should she turn out to be wrong about her timeline and Aslan's rebellion being actually decades down the line. She wasn't prepared to spend an undetermined number of years in the disagreeable company of the White Witch. She was pushing it already with this half year, any longer and she was going to do something regrettable thanks to her temper exploding at the wrong moment.
"Lady Potter."
Dahlia pauses and turns to smile at Ginarrbrik. "Good morning."
Ginarrbrik warily grips the knife at his belt as he's wont to do in her presence. He's never quite gotten over their first meeting. "My lady, Her Majesty, the queen, is to leave at noon today for a short tour of her lands. You are to accompany her."
"I'll be there." Dahlia promises, her stomach sinking. She hated spending more time than necessary around the White Witch. She hated spending time with the White Witch, period. It was painful. And humiliating. Her self-confidence was in the dumps and she knew she was smart. She was stressed all the damn time. She had nightmares and she was constantly on the verge of frustrated tears. Thrice she has destroyed her room in fits of anger she couldn't express in front of the White Queen. The bitch was worse than Professor Snape was towards Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. At least he didn't believe in physical punishments.
From her school satchel, Dahlia digs out a leather-bound notebook. Loose parchment sheets stuck out and there were maybe a dozen bookmarks marking pages. Hastily reviewing her lessons, she descends further into the bowels of the castle. The White Queen tended to ask questions about very old lessons to test how well she's retained them.
The kitchen was in the basement levels, dug in the earthy surface of the island the White Witch had chosen to construct her ice castle. It was the only room to have been allowed a fireplace in the entire place so Dahlia spent a lot of time hiding in a little nook by the warmth-radiating chimney. As a consequence, the kitchen staff were nearly the only ones who weren't terrified of her.
"Good morning, my lady." Cook greets. She was a female faun of wide girth, ruby cheeks and thick curls. Unlike the top-naked male fauns – the furry bottoms didn't count as naked – Dahlia has seen running around, she was wearing a breastband and had a clean apron tied around her waist. When they first met, she'd taken a single look at Dahlia and declared she was much too skinny, already spooning a hearty serving of stew into a bowl. For a second, Dahlia had thought Molly Weasley's spirit had possessed Cook. Swallowing down a wave of overwhelming homesickness through a tight throat, Dahlia had gratefully taken the bowl. Crazy, huh? You didn't know what you had until you didn't anymore. She's never going to offer companionship to Mrs. Weasley of her own free will, but she had to admit the woman was kind and good, even if she was ignorant of some things. When she got back home, Dahlia should do something for her to thank her for letting her and Harry stay at the Burrow despite showing up uninvited. She wasn't going to accept money, but maybe a gift of some sort? Dahlia's going to have to think about this.
"Smells incredible as always, Cook." Dahlia distractedly compliments. She underlines a passage with charcoal. Nowadays, her fingers were often stained soot black. Narnia didn't have modern pencils and charcoal pencils were easier to use on the move than ink. She should invest in a clipboard with an attached inkwell.
Cook chuckles, long used to Dahlia's particularities. "How about a sandwich for breakfast today, my lady? Marigold, get the lady some of that fresh bread we just baked."
"Yes, Cook!" A large grey hare obediently hops off towards the oven. She had a cheerful golden ribbon tied around her head.
"Whatever you say, Cook." Dahlia mutters and blindly shuffles to sit in her corner.
Going by their past trips, the White Witch was going to pass her time quizzing Dahlia on their lessons and if Dahlia wasn't adequately prepared, she'll be wishing for detention with Professor Snape or worse, Filch.
"What would happen if you add fire-berry juice to a Chilling Potion?"
Dahlia rakes her brain. The Chilling Potion the White Witch referred to was technically a fever reducer. But the version the White Witch was asking her about was more accurately a poison. It gradually dropped a person's body temperature until they froze to death from the inside out. There had been a practical demonstration. The White Witch enjoyed practical demonstrations. Dahlia didn't. They were what fueled the majority of the nightmares that have taken to plaguing her nights.
"Boom?" She offers unthinkingly and immediately cringes, expecting punishment for her crude, unsophisticated answer.
"Yes, boom." The White Witch merely mocks with a cruel twist of her lips. The 'you idiot' is heavily, but silently, implied. "Do you know why, or must we repeat the lesson?"
"Because fire-berry juice counteracts pearl powder." Dahlia hurries to says with more confidence. Repeated lessons were always worse than the first one. "They are magically opposing elements."
The White Witch nods, slightly appeased. "Good. And how can that be fixed?"
Dahlia thinks for a long moment, scrawling messy and complicated mathematical equations in her notebook with the prosecutor to fountain pens; the metal nib pen. She awkwardly holds the ink pot between her thighs, opening and closing it each time she needed to use it to prevent it from spilling when the sled slides over rocks and such. Tergeo was a cleaning spell that siphoned liquids off and out of things, but Dahlia was typically careful with ink and never had a reason to practice it much. The lack of practice results in her drawing out all the ink on the paper when using the spell. She wasn't keen on restarting her lengthy calculations.
How to fix a Chilling Potion ruined by fire-berry juice hadn't been something they had gone through in their lessons, but the Witch enjoyed making Dahlia reason things out on her own. She didn't believe in spoon-feeding answers and punishing Dahlia for her inevitable mistakes brought her amusement. "By stirring counterclockwise five times and clockwise for three while feeding the potion a trickle of magic if we assume it was one drop of fire-berry juice in the next ten seconds. There's no point in trying anything if you miss that window of time. After the explosion, the potion is irrecoverably ruined."
"Continue."
Dahlia opens her mouth and forgets all about expanding on her thought process as she spots a passing figure from the corner of her eye. She cranes her neck to look back, because holy shit, that looked awfully human and Narnia didn't have humans. They all lived beyond the borders; the White Witch slaughtered any that came into her lands.
"Stop!" The White Witch commands.
Ginarrbrik pulls at the reins so hard, the pony-sized white reindeers almost sit down. Climbing off the driver's seat, he runs back in the direction they came from. There is the sound of a cracking whip and Edmund, because that could have only been Edmund, yells out.
Dahlia jumps to her feet, watching wide-eyed. Edmund was nearer to Harry's age than hers. He was dark-haired with freckles decorating his pale skin and there was a hungry thinness about him. If Dahlia remembered correctly, the Pevensies weren't rich. Wartime rationing must have hit them hard. The unmatched pajamas and bathrobe set he was wearing was certainly threadbare.
"Make him let me go!" Edmund yells at the Witch. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
"How dare you address the Queen of Narnia!" Ginarrbrik snarls, pressing his knife against the boy's throat.
"I didn't know!" Edmund whines. Either he didn't believe the dwarf would really kill him, or he was braver than Dahlia.
"Let him go." The White Witch commands and Ginarrbrik reluctantly removes his knife from Edmund's neck. She steps out of the sled. "Is that your younger brother, Dahlia?"
Dahlia startles at being addressed. "No, my lady. I don't know him." She fibs.
"How interesting." The White Witch musses to herself. "What is your name, Son of Adam?"
Edmund gets to his feet. "Edmund." He introduces himself with badly hidden suspicion.
"And how, Edmund, did you come to enter my dominion?" The White Witch asks.
"I'm not sure." Edmund says. "Please, Your Majesty, I came in through a wardrobe. I was just following my sister –"
Dahlia winces. That had been the wrong thing to say, though of course, Edmund couldn't have known that.
"Your sister?" The White Witch interrupts. "How many are you?"
Dahlia valiantly resists the urge to frantically shake her head at Edmund. If the Witch noticed… she couldn't bear thinking about it. It would be painful, and she was rubbish at healing spells.
"Four." Edmund carelessly reveals. "Lucy's the only one that's been here before. She said she meet some faun called Tumnus. Peter and Susan didn't believe her. I didn't either."
Winter meets its death,
When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone,
Sits on the throne at Cair Paravel
Or something, goes the prophesy. It's been decades since she last read the books, and she'd never had a reason to memorizes the poem, so what if she didn't remember it in full? She had the important part down, didn't she? Four thrones at Cair Paravel. Four siblings from Earth; Adam's flesh and Adam's bone. Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy Pevensie.
The White Witch's eyes gleam maliciously. "Edmund, you look so cold. Come sit with us."
Edmund climbs into the sled after the White Witch and she wraps a fold of her fur mantle around him. He peers curiously at Dahlia. "Are you also from London?" He asks. "Did you get evacuated?"
"I'm from Surrey." She tells him, sitting back down on the opposite side. "But I arrived here from Scotland. And it's 1992 for me. The war has been over for decades."
Dahlia's theory on her presence in Narnia went as such; in the first Narnia book, The Magician's Nephew, there was a place called the Wood Between the Worlds. Basically, it was a realm that allowed travel between worlds through pools of supposed water serving as portals.
Dahlia theorized the space they were traveling through when say, Apparating or using Vanishing Cabinets, was actually this Wood. Only, they were going too fast to make it out.
When Dahlia was shoved into the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts, her displacement was interrupted midway by the connected Cabinet not working properly. So really, she should currently be stuck in the Wood Between Worlds along with everyone else who disappeared in similar incidents, only something had snagged her and pulled her through the pool leading to Narnia instead. She thinks maybe the White Witch or Aslan had something to do with it.
It would make sense for a dimension that existed between all the other dimensions to not have consistent time thus allowing her to arrive in Narnia before the Pevensies.
"Did we win?" Edmund queries.
"At a great cost." Dahlia tells him seriously.
"Perhaps something hot to drink?" The White Witch asks. "What about you, Dahlia?"
Edmund emphatically nods, his teeth audibly chattering.
"Thank you, my lady, but I'm quite well." Dahlia says and tries to fade into the background.
As the White Witch had taught her over the last half a year, a good apprentice was only seen and heard when the master wished for them to be seen and heard. Dahlia has gotten good at judging when the White Witch wished her to be seen and heard.
The White Witch takes out from somewhere among her furs a very small, silver bottle. She stretches out her hand and lets one turquoise drop fall from it to the snow by the sled. There is a hissing sound when it touches the ground.
The jeweled cup doesn't so much appear, as it forms itself from nothing. It was a beautiful work of magic. Dahlia wants to know how she did it. It wasn't transfiguration, but it wasn't conjuration either because it was impossible to conjure food.
Ginarrbrik hands the cup to Edmund with a sarcastic 'ser' and bow.
"How did you do that?" Edmund exclaims astonishedly, sipping at the unknow steaming drink. It looked like hot chocolate, but didn't smell like it. Apparently, World War 2 era parents didn't teach their children about stranger danger.
Dahlia stifles an inappropriate giggle at the mental image of the White Witch standing by a white van tempting kids with candy.
The White Witch smiles at the boy. "I can make anything you like."
"Can you make me taller?"
The White Witch chuckles. Dahlia didn't think it was sincere. "Anything you'd like to drink." She clarifies. "Or eat."
"Turkish delight?" Edmund asks hopefully. His caginess was quickly slipping away and Dahlia couldn't blame him for it. If she didn't know what she did, she might have been a little more trusting too. Her in her first life and her in this life were like night and day. Her own mother wouldn't have recognized her even without the changed appearance.
Dahlia had been a Ravenclaw in those days. Fictional languages had been her passion with history closely following. She'd been studying archeology at the University of Toronto with an anthropology minor and had a job at the ROM. She'd been a cheerful, slightly spoiled brat with a bit of a temper. A straight A student with enough friends and acquaintances to be considered popular but not popular popular. Fights were rare and never devolved beyond angry yelling. She's gotten physical maybe thrice in her life, all in her early childhood and only with that one neighborhood boy who had though tugging on her metaphorical pigtails was a good way to make friends but in fact had distressed her greatly.
Funny what being constantly aware of the Damocles sword hanging over your head did to you. Dahlia suspected a psychologist would have diagnosed her with paranoia and anxiety at the very minimum. Maybe an obsessive-compulsive disorder and something trauma-related too. By all right, Dahlia should be locked up in a psychiatric hospital somewhere being spoon-fed pills.
That is of course, if she wasn't already there and all this was an extensive hallucination. Or was it called a delusion? What was the difference between the two? Her fields of expertise were languages and history, not psychology.
Dahlia had days like that, where she had difficulty accepting the world around her was real. They were more frequent in the early years, but she still got them occasionally. And that devious paranoia kept her from getting the help she desperately needed. Thankfully, she so far had managed to avoid a depressive or suicidal self-diagnosis. Knock on wood. A death wish was the last thing she needed.
The White Witch lets another drop of her magical liquid fall onto the snow. She takes the cup from Edmund and hands it over to Ginarrbrik who throws it at a tree. It explodes like a snowball at contact with the trunk. Dahlia twitches slightly, unpleasantly reminded of a training exercise the previous week. The White Witch had beat her black and blue with ice-hard snowballs. On the bright side, her Shield Charm was excellent now.
Edmund eagerly opens the round box of sweets. He reverently bites into a piece, eyes sliding shut in delight.
Dahlia is once again reminded of wartime rationing. The poor boy probably hasn't had candy in a long while. She also had a bit of a sweet tooth when it came to chocolate truffles and she hadn't had any in a couple years now. She could relate.
"Edmund." The White Witch says. "I would very much like to meet the rest of your family."
"Why?" Edmund pauses his chewing. He had powdered sugar all around his mouth. "They're nothing special."
"Oh, I'm sure they're not nearly as delightful as you are." The White Witch takes Ginarrbrik's red hat and wipes Edmund's face. Dahlia is astonished. Was she trying to play at caring mother? Well, she had acted pretty nice to her too in the beginning. Pity it hadn't lasted. "But you see Edmund, I have no children of my own, though I love Dahlia as if she was." Dahlia fights to keep her incredulously from showing. Luckily, neither the White Witch, nor Edmund, was looking at her. "I would like to give her friends of her own kind, for she is lonely all alone in my great castle. And one day, she will need a consort to rule by her side." The White Witch strokes Edmund's hair. "Perhaps you could be it? King Edmund, that sounds nice, does it not?"
Dahlia's mouth drops open. This was news to her. What the fuck. She wasn't serious, was she?
"Really?" Edmund turns to look at her and she hurries to school her face.
Over his head, the White Witch gives Dahlia a Look.
"Yes, really." Dahlia smiles stiffly. "I need someone smart to be my king and you seem to be very smart indeed." She couldn't disguise the touch of sarcasm coloring her words and she stoically bears the painful sting that temporally blooms in her chest.
The enchantment on those Turkish delight must be something for Edmund to believe this tripe.
"Of course, you'd have to bring your family." The White Witch hurries to remind.
"Oh." Edmund looks disappointed. "Do you mean, Peter would be king too?"
"No!" The White Witch exclaims. "No, no. A king needs servants."
Edmunds smiles bashfully. "Well, I guess I could bring them."
The White Witch points into the distance. "Beyond those woods, see those two hills? My house is right between them. You'd love it there, Edmund. It has whole rooms simply stuffed with Turkish delight."
Dahlia heroically doesn't roll her eyes. In all actuality, there was a food deficit in Narnia. Consequences of a hundred years of winter. Produce such as grains and fruits and vegetables had to be brought over from Archenland and the Lone Islands. There was a thriving smuggling operation going on that the White Witch had been attempting to dismantle for years now. One of Dahlia's responsibilities was figuring out how to create a series of functioning, magically-run greenhouses in this winter wonderland. The White Witch's powers were apparently too skewed towards the cold to be able to do it herself.
Dahlia has gotten as far as figuring out runes were the way to go and had gotten stuck there. She'll need several more years of studying runes to even attempt undertaking a project of such scale and by then, Aslan willing, it wouldn't be needed with such urgency, so she'd been procrastinating some on the task.
Edmund climbs out of the sled and says his goodbyes.
Dahlia watches the boy go. Would it work for her, she wonders. Could she follow him back to Earth through that doorway between world.
The White Witch grips Dahlia's shoulder. It's a hard hold. She'll bruise, but what was another? "You are of different times. His way won't lead you home."
Dahlia clenches her teeth. The White Witch didn't know that. Not for sure. In the third book, Aslan had split the doorway back into two end destinations. But… was Dahlia willing to risk it? To end up in England in the middle of the Blitz on the muggle side and Grindelwald's campaign on the wizarding side? She'd be poor and homeless. There was no guaranteed the Potters would take her in. Even magic blood testing was notoriously inconsistent and easily tricked. There was this partial Polyjuice Potion knock-off… And it would mean decades until she saw Harry and everyone else again, because Time Turners to the future didn't exist. If she even managed to live that long, which considering her luck, that dreaded Potter Luck, was highly unlikely.
Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. She turns away from Edmund's retreating back.
Aslan will help. He will. He has too.
The next several weeks are tense. The White Witch waits with impatience for Edmund to show up with the rest of his siblings, and Dahlia prepares sneakily for her escape. Her broom is always within arm's reach and her bag is stuffed with enough supplies to optimistically last to her finding Aslan's war camp should her Plan A go south.
Dahlia dearly wanted to say screw it all, and get the fuck out without waiting for Edmund's return. But that meant wandering around until she accidentally stumbled on Aslan's camp. Narnia was a big place; it could be anywhere and the White Witch would send people after her the moment she realizes Dahlia was gone. And should she accidentally stumble to the border, the patrols would definitely catch her scent, track her down and rip her to pieces. She's seen the results of attempted escapes. It was nightmare inducing.
No. It was better to wait. If it went well, Aslan's forces will lead her right to their base without her having to spend weeks wandering the forest while being hunted by the terrifyingly competent Secret Police.
Dahlia covertly eyes Maugrim as a pair of his lieutenants herded a new prisoner into the room.
Generally speaking, Dahlia was fond of wolves. They were beautiful and interesting. But the wolves of the White Witch's Secret Police were an exception. They seriously gave Dahlia the creeps. Violence just radiated from them. Often, she would come upon them tearing into each other with horrible viciousness. To her knowledge, at the minimum one had been killed over mere kitchen scraps. They weren't a pack; they were wild beasts barely kept in line with fear. However hard the inhabitants of the castle attempted to avoid Dahlia; they attempted twice as hard when it came to the wolves.
Dahlia massages the bridge of her nose, feeling her headache spiking. The Secret Police was running her ragged, bringing in increasing numbers of suspected rebels. Giving silent commands with the Imperius took a toll on her mind and more and more of the suspected rebels were rebels in truth. The word of Aslan's return was spreading. Dahlia has to give up a number of rebels to ward off suspicion from her own person. She comforts herself in the depth of the night by reminding herself they were only going to be petrified. Aslan would free them eventually, so no harms done, right?
"Finished with this one?" She asks Maugrim.
The wolf, larger than any wolf back on Earth, cocks his head. He thoughtfully observes the placidly standing centaur. Their scribe, a trembling ape, hopefully perks up.
"Send in that faun from yesterday." Maugrim rumbles to his lieutenants. The two other wolves snarl, but move to obey.
Dahlia slumps wearily. They've been at it for hours. Edmund's visit had convinced the White Witch Aslan's reappearance was also imminent. From the moment she returned to the castle, she was obsessed with routing out and executing all his supporters. All of Dahlia's previous hard work convincing her it was nothing but a small rebellion went down the drain.
The faun was a fighter. Dahlia could hear the jangling of his chains and the warning snaps of sharp teeth coming from the hallway. Most prisoners were docile, the fight driven out of them merely by being in the White Witch's castle. In a hundred years, none had managed to escape her dungeons. Stuck on an island as it was, it was basically a magical Alcatraz. She'd compare it to Azkaban, but at the very least, there weren't any soul sucking monster floating around.
Dahlia covers her surprised squeak with a cough. Her grip on her wand tightens as she watched the wolves force the faintly James McAvoyian-looking faun onto his knees. It was the red scarf that jogs Dahlia's memory.
"This one was tipped off about his arrest. Did a runner." Maugrim says grimily. "We found him hiding in the cellar of an abandoned badger den. There was evidence of someone else having been there previously to bring him food. Get me a list of everyone involved."
Dahlia looks at the cowering Mr. Tumnus and swallows painfully. The faun leans away from her, terror written stark across his face. Defeat fills her. She won't be able to mean it. Not for Mr. Tumnus. She rakes her mind for a way out. Problem was, she gets out of it now, they'll only have her return on the next day.
Discretely, Dahlia points the tip of her wand at herself. Nearly soundlessly, she whispers the incantation for a prank spell, one that was a favorite humiliation tactic of the Weasley twins. She'd been hit with it often.
The familiar churning sensation in her stomach is near instantaneous. She clamps a hand around her mouth as she turns visibly green.
"Well?" Maugrim prompts impatiently. "I don't have all day. Get on with it."
In response, Dahlia gleefully vomits her lunch all over the wolf. Sweet, sweet revenge. He didn't respect her? Then she'll make sure he wasn't respected either.
"I'm sorry." She gasps out insincerely, heaving again. "Must have eaten something bad."
Maugrim roars in outrage and disgust. The ape smartly flees through the open door and Mr. Tumnus watches with bulging eyes.
More wolves skid into the room, brought by the noise. Dahlia pretends to stumble to get nearer and vomits once again all over Maugrim.
Malicious delight spreads across the muzzles of the wolves. They were going to speak of this event in hushed whispers for ages to come. A particularly stupid one actually snickers audibly. Maugrim immediately whirls on him with a snarl. The poor idiot yelps and blood flies.
One of the wolves, smaller and younger than the rest, pads closer to Dahlia and sticks his wet nose under her hand. She obligingly pets the top of his head. "Are you alright?"
As always when interacting with Maugrim's youngest son, Dahlia just melts. "Nothing some bed rest won't fix."
Laur peers up at her with soulful eyes. "I'll come with you. Here, lean on me."
Goodness, how in the world did Maugrim ever father such a sweetheart? Together the leave the interrogation chamber.
Half an hour later, Dahlia is sitting in bed with a cup of chamomile tea for her upset stomach. Taking a sip, she congratulates herself on her quick thinking. Food poisoning should explain her absence from her duties for a few days and will give her time to think up another excuse.
Laur, lying on the bear pelt on the ground, flicks his ears and continues recounting a traditional Narnian fairy tale. Dahlia leans back on her pillows and listens sleepily to the wolf's soothing voice.
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