Disclaimer: No, I did not write either Narnia or The Scarlet Pimpernel, and expect no monetary return for playing with them.

"If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever."
~ David Ellsworth

"for he loved her! he loved her! he loved her! the thought went on hammering in her mind, for she knew of its great truth! He loved her and went away! And she, poor, puny weakling, was unable to hold him back; the tendrils which fastened his soul to hers were not so tenacious as those which made him cling to suffering humanity, over there in France, where men and women were in fear of death and torture, and looked upon the elusive and mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel as a heaven-born hero sent to save them from their doom. To them at these times his very heartstrings seemed to turn with unconquerable force, and when, with all the ardour of her own passion, she tried to play upon the cords of his love for her, he could not respond, for they—the strangers—had the stronger claim.
And yet through it all she knew that this love of humanity, this mad desire to serve and to help, in no way detracted from his love for her. Nay, it intensified it, made it purer and better [...] But now at last she felt weary of the fight: her heart was aching, bruised and sore. An infinite fatigue seemed to weigh like lead upon her very soul."
~ Baroness Orczy

"Who is there?" the woman asked sharply, rising from the bench. Susan saw the fear in her sharp glances, in the way the woman drew her white shawl close around her body and the clenched fingers.

"I'm Susan," the Queen said gently, taking one step forward so the woman could see her more clearly. But she stayed across the small circle, knowing frightened people were not reassured by someone unknown approaching them. "I'm looking for shelter. I was sent here."

"Susan," the woman said. She took a long look at her guest, and let her hands slide off of her shawl, down to her sides. "It is an English name."

The woman was French, a hint of an accent still in her words, so Susan nodded. "I am English."

Her hostess sighed. "And banished from my homeland, no doubt. Bah! They are fools. They do not see how many beautiful things are English." Susan smiled, and the woman smiled back—but Susan noticed, and knew, that smile.

The smile Robert offered Nancy and Carol and herself, the smile Susan gave when she did not feel like laughing but wanted to answer expectations, the smile they all wore to defy their own sadness and demand life be filled with laughter—this woman had that smile. She had the smile worn like a mask.

"I'm Marguerite," the woman offered. "Did my husband bring you here himself?" she asked suddenly, taking a step forward, eyes searching desperately behind Susan, and hope—that painful, painful hope, so bright and life-giving—filling her face.

"No," Susan replied as gently as she could. But she still watched that hope go dark as abruptly as turning off a light.

"Then I shall not see him for a while." The woman turned. "Come into the house. Pardieu! It is too cold to be out."

Susan followed the tall woman, noting the grace with which Marguerite moved, the fall of her curling hair, how everything about her seemed as beautiful as the gardens they walked through. She could have been a Dryad, dancing through a field, were it not for the passion that burned like fire, and for the sorrow weighing on her like a blight.

She reminded Susan of Hester, somehow.

"You have lost your home?" Marguerite asked, as if remembering her manners.

Susan thought of the parchment giving her the house, the way she owned her little place in England—was that house standing now, two hundred years before?

But it did not feel like home.

"I have lost my family," Susan said instead, pain keeping her voice quiet. "Without them, no place feels like home."

The woman laughed, short and brittle. "Oh, how English! To say it with such peace, such resignment! Me, I have a home. You can share it with me for now." She turned, indicating the white mansion before them with a sweeping gesture of her hand. "Because it also does not feel like home, when Percy is gone." She smiled, and this smile was worse than the mask, it was a wounded soul drinking the irony of life and finding it bitter.

"When will he be back?"

Marguerite shrugged. "I do not know. You know what he does, over there." She turned away from the house, looking into the forest—and past it, Susan would guess. "He sends messages," she added, her tone a little softer. "It has not come today."

"Then let us go and ask if it arrived," Susan said, suddenly impulsive. Memories of actions like this, swooping in to help, made her walk forward and put her arm through this stranger's, but Marguerite did not seem to notice anything amiss. Perhaps the French do this more often than the English, Susan thought.

"We shall find Frank in the study," Marguerite said, walking a little faster. Susan struggled to keep up, for Marguerite's legs were taller than hers. "It is a good thought! It had not come by dinner, and I did not want to eat. The food tastes as if the garden mud still clings to it, when I am lonely. My little Suzanne came for lunch—you must meet little Suzanne, if you stay! She will laugh because your names are alike. I ate at lunch because she was here. But when she left," and they walked through a small door in the side of the house, entering a long hallway, far larger than the professor's had been, with portraits all on one side, doors on the other, and a rich dark carpet on the floor, "I was lonely, and then I did not want dinner."

Marguerite led the way, still arm in arm, and Susan tried to keep track of things. It had taken a few days at the Professor's, and a couple of weeks at Cair Paravel, to place everything in her head. She could remember, suddenly, vividly, walking through a hallway at Cair, somewhat shorter than she stood now, the stones cold under her feet, wondering if she was in the hallway by the tea room or the one several stories above that led to the tower entrance. She was recalled to herself by a sudden question from her hostess.

"Do you want supper? The kitchens, they always have something ready."

Susan shook her head. She wasn't, but…how much of why could she tell? "Everything is too new."

Marguerite patted her hand, suddenly comforting. "The English food, it is bland and heavy, but bah! It fills my stomach. Tomorrow you and I will eat together, and I will not be lonely, and I will tell you which foods are most like those in France."

Oh, how Edmund would laugh at this! Peter and Lucy would smile. Narnian food I liked, but French?

Still, it was kindly meant.

"Thank you." They'd left the hall and were walking down another one, one that opened onto a large room with two double doors that led outside. Marguerite ignored those doors, climbing down one staircase and heading towards another, talking all the while.

"You are my guest, and I will be a good hostess. You will see. I will introduce you to Suzanne, and I will not be so lonely, while you are here. I had Juliet once, but she is married, and soon will have another in their household, and it is inconvenient to visit. Are you married?"

Susan shook her head. "I lost my parents, my brothers, and my sister." Even now she could not mention it without her voice breaking, but this woman with the white face, who had lips that trembled when she was alone, would understand that better than Carol or even Nancy would.

"I have a brother." Marguerite drew Susan closer. "He and I, I was his little mother, he my little father. We were all we had."

"Where is he now?" Susan asked, letting herself be drawn closer partly for comfort but also partly to avoid the door frame that was not made for two people to walk abreast. I wonder what he is like.

"He is with my husband, Percy." She said the words shortly, and Susan saw her fingers were clenched again.

He risks his life, the Doorkeeper said. Her brother must be doing the same.

"Frank!" Marguerite called suddenly, opening a sturdy door made with dark, polished wood. "Frank, where are you? Pardieu, I did not see you," she added, as a tall, bald man in a servant's livery slipped from behind another door and bowed. "Has a message arrived?"

"It arrived a few minutes ago, my lady. I sent a servant to the garden to bring it to you."

"And I was not in the garden to receive it. I will go find it at once. Frank, she is my guest, she is Susan. Take care of her, and she does not want dinner, but might want sleep very much." Marguerite patted her arm one more time, kindly but a little absently, and turned and left in a swirl of skirts, not even noticing Frank reaching over to open the door for her.

"She loves him," Susan said out loud, before she thought. Frank, still holding the door, bowed again. But he did not comment, and Susan, flashing back to Cair Paravel once again, realised how carefully he must guard their secrets, to not say a single word. She smiled at him; she'd known such protective loyalty once.

"Would you care to retire to your room, Lady Susan?"

That, too, I knew; though "Lady Susan" is not what I was called.

"I would, thank you."

Frank let her pass through first, shutting the door firmly behind them. He showed her up three other staircases and down four halls, to a pretty room with windows on two sides. It had a white bed, a large mirror, three comfortable looking chairs set by the windows, and a wardrobe that looked nothing like the one that had once led to Narnia.

Frank did not enter the room. "A maid will be in shortly to attend you," he informed her quietly, before bowing and closing the bedroom door.

Susan went to one of the chairs and sat down.

A maid.

I have not had a maid—since Narnia. Peter and Edmund—I miss you all—you used to open doors for us, and others would, but this—

This hurts in a way I almost welcome. It's a small hurt, and it distracts from the greater.

A quiet knock on the door announced the maid. She introduced herself as Sarah, and did not say much after that. She helped Susan into an odd night garment, almost a dress, and Susan went to sleep.

Marguerite was not an early riser, Susan discovered the next morning. But Frank, who appeared to run things as efficiently as any Narnian chatelain, appeared in the same hallway right after Susan's breakfast, and informed her that if she wished for any entertainment, the library was extensive, the stable had several gentle mares, and the day appeared to be dry enough the gardens could also be explored. Music, he added with a glance to a doorway, would be welcome after lunch if she played.

"When will her ladyship come down?" Susan asked, glancing around.

"Her ladyship keeps hours similar to those of the Prince of Wales, when his lordship is absent from home," Frank rebuked. Susan looked at him, and shook her head, though she did so with all the regal grace she remembered having.

"That does not tell me much, Frank."

"Ah. You are perhaps from the continent? Her ladyship may be down an hour or so before lunch."

Susan looked towards the library, but…that had been Edmund's domain. She had spent much of her time helping the castle staff, or sewing, or teaching dancing. Only sewing felt feasible in this house. But the idea of sitting still for a few hours with nothing to do but think, did not appeal to her. "I think I will ride, Frank."

"Very good, Lady Susan. The stable is just outside these doors. The grooms will assist you."

The grooms, springing out from the corners of the enormous, very well-kept stable, were mostly French. Not all of them could speak English, but they were more than happy to show the pretty lady around the horses. They were, Susan realised as they spoke broken phrases about each horse, the keepers of the horses, not the ones who rode with the carriage or oversaw the stable.

They are probably refugees, given work by Lord…Percy, I think Marguerite said his name was. It appears he's sensible as well as heroic.

Peter, I really miss that in you.

They passed by a horse that made Susan stop for a moment, a soft exclamation on her lips. It was as fine as anything in the stables of Cair Paravel.

"Sultan," one of the boys told her proudly. "Lord horse," he added.

Lord Sultan?

Oh, no, I think he means it's Lord Percy's horse.

She smiled and nodded, and they went on. She chose a tame, gentle mare for herself to ride; she had no wish for adventures without her brothers or guard beside her.

Riding, though—Susan of London had no real opportunity to ride. Susan of Narnia had loved it. She rode through the forest and found a large stream, rode through the larger gardens and felt the jostling of the horse under her and missed her life in Narnia.

Few of the parties, she had to admit, had quite matched this.

But this doesn't feel like it's teaching me to wait, she admitted to herself, drawing back her reins and turning back to look at the house, large against the blue sky. I can't wait for Narnia, for I will not return there. She sighed and turned the horse around as well, setting him on his way at a slow walk. The Narnian memories—they're enjoyable, but not what I'm here for.

I still do not know how to help Marguerite. She is passionate, she must hate waiting in any circumstance. To wait for her beloved—and Lord Percy has so far seemed quite impressive, worth her loving—and not know if he will return…

What could the present moment hold, to teach a passionate spirit to wait?

She had no answer for that. At least—not an answer she could put into words.

But Lucy had not always found waiting easy. Nor had Lord Peridan, or Glimlet the Eagle, or…or so many others.

Susan herself had not always found it easy to wait.

But waiting was easier when we could look forward to the end of it; when we were certain of the end. Marguerite is not certain.

What makes waiting worth it?

She did not have an answer, not even by the time she dismounted and went inside.

Marguerite, Frank informed her, was in the study. When Susan opened the door, she paused. Marguerite sat behind a large desk with little on the top, running her fingers over the grain of the wood, back and forth, back and forth. A few drops of water lay on the top, and one more ran down her cheek.

Susan came inside and shut the door, pulling up a chair beside Marguerite. The beautiful woman wiped her cheeks and smiled at Susan.

"You got up early, my English chicken. No, no, that is not the right word. A gentle bird, a pretty one, not a dull sparrow—I do not know my English birds that well," she finished impatiently, wiping away the tears on the top of the desk as well.

"I went riding."

"Ah, you have some of the English adventure in you? I did not think it, from your face."

Susan could not help smiling, though in an English mouth that would not have been a compliment. "Can you read people that well?"

"I grew up in the theatre. To read the audience, to know when to act more, when one has gone too far, to hold them in the palm of my hand—Mon Dieu! It was work and I must do it well, or we would not eat."

"I don't particularly like adventures," Susan admitted.

Marguerite grew still. "My husband lives for them." She said it like a bitter confession, as if each word cost her much to say.

"I know."

"I cannot make him stay!" Marguerite burst out. "I tell him it is madness to leave me, madness to risk his life for others, others, always others! But each time he goes away." Her hands, gesturing wildly, fell into her lap and stayed still at the last sentence. "I cannot do anything but wait."

"Can you do nothing else while you wait?" Susan asked softly.

"Like what? To go to a ball, a play, a dinner without him is to wear a mask all the time, and it makes me tired. It is acting, all over again, with his life what I will lose if I fail. I will not fail! I am still an actress. But my mind and heart are full of him. What can I do, when all of me is elsewhere?"

Susan did have to answer, for at that moment Frank knocked and announced lunch. Marguerite rose, calling Susan to come with her, saying she would eat since she had company, and Frank gave Susan a grateful glance when she passed. Susan almost didn't see it, however, for most of her mind was occupied with Marguerite's question.

What can I do, when all of me is elsewhere?

What can I do, when all of me is buried in a graveyard?

She had no answer to that. Her love had not stopped with their deaths, Marguerite's had not stopped with her husband's absence, their love would continue through forever—but this love made it harder to live.

A/N: Hey, everyone. I had a really difficult situation resurface in my immediate family, and it might drag on for months. I'm going to write when I can, but honestly, I'm mainly writing to process things (and stay as sane as possible), and fanfiction might be pretty neglected for a while. I'm sorry.