XXIX
GRACE
Daylight - Cinematic – David Kushner
The air was uncomfortably hot in the kitchens that morning. As Grace kneaded the mixture between her fingers she could feel it rising between them, the bacteria producing air bubbles before it could be fully incorporated.
Amidst the bubbling of pots and the roaring of multiple fires, Mrs Badger prattled on about the Cair gossip. Her sharp and kind voice cutting through the air with ease.
"You should have seen it! Hellabora nearly spit out leaves at the sight," She chuckled, "Lady Peridian will be cleaning the mud from her skirts for a good while. Poor thing."
Grace sighed in frustration at the sticky mess in her hands, hands shaking vigorously in order to release themselves from the goop.
"More flour," she ordered towards the hare at her side.
Kit nodded dutifully, his paw dipping into the paper bag and sprinkling it atop the mass of dough.
She began kneading again in earnest, "Mrs Badger? Is there any way we could close the ovens?"
The Badger in question shuffled over from the other side of the room, her fur mussed and burnt in various places, "I'm sorry dear, but this meat needs air flow to cook correctly. It won't be much longer, however, I can see the charring on the flesh growing nicely."
Grace grunted, giving Kit a short nod to add more flour to the mixture.
"Such a strange meat they brought from Calormen," Mrs Badger murmured as she peered into the roaring fires, "The Calormene Ambassador refuses to eat anything else outside of the company of the Kings and Queens."
Grace threw the Badger an incredulous look, "Why are you cooking it if you don't know what it is?"
Mrs Badger returned her comment with a stern glare, "Because I know my place Daughter of Eve," Her experienced hands flipped the meat upon the skewer, "As should you."
Grace closed her mouth firmly, she had been significantly chastised, "I'm sorry, I'm always irritable in the heat."
Mrs Badger softened, her feet waddling her small body across the stone floor, "It's alright dear. No one likes being cooked like a roast chook. It won't be for much longer, I promise you."
At her side, Kit threw another helping of flour into the mixture. As Grace continued kneading, the mixture finally began to form. She eyed it cautiously as her fingers rounded it into a large ball.
It would have to do, there was not a better batch that could be made in this heat and she was already late. Grace turned to the hare as she began untying her apron, "Could you portion it to rise for me?"
"Certainly," Kit grinned, taking the apron from her gratefully as she hastened to the washing bowl to clean her hands.
"You have nothing to worry about here, Miss Grace," Mrs Badger called from the ovens side, "It won't be long before Kit can cover your work entirely."
It was the truth, Grace had spent many hours over the past month giving Kit pointers on how to maintain the bread quota of Cair Paravel. At first it had come from fear of leaving any matter unfinished when she eventually left Narnia. Now it come from a place of business. Between Grace's time with King Edmund and her work with the Orchestra it was become increasingly clear that she could not sustain such long days over an extended period of time.
Grace made for the exit, "I'll see you tomorrow morning!"
"Wait!" Mrs Badger called, eyes beady and discerning behind semi circled spectacles, "You haven't eaten anything this morning missy, don't think I haven't noticed!"
The Badger waddled towards her, plate of toast and marmalade in hand, "Take this to eat on the way."
Grace smiled gratefully at the Badger as she took the offered slices, her stomach grumbling as she thanked her and slid outside through the cracked doorway.
On the other side of the door, Grace moaned at the chilled air. Fresh against her red and puffy cheeks.
She ignored Casys – who was looking at her under one thick raised brow – and set off immediately in the direction of King Edmund's study.
"Aren't you supposed to wait to be summoned?" She asked after swallowing a healthy bite of toast, "I thought the point of the amended orders was to limit your time in doors?"
The Centaur kept pace with her easily, "Normally so, but you did not call for me and I grew worried."
"For my health or that I'd run away?" Grace asked.
Casys's lips lifted minimally at their corners, "Both."
Grace grimaced, "I'm sorry, it couldn't be helped. The kitchens were lowered into the fiery pits of hell today," She spared a glance over her shoulder, "The dough didn't like it."
The Centaur nodded, "Do not trouble yourself. My morning duties were complete and I had little else to attend to."
Grace's ears perked, "What is it that you do in the mornings Casys? I'm sorry, I've never asked before."
"I spend my mornings in training. Aslan's Army has no short of new recruits and there are very few who can train them."
Her feet paused mid-step, "But I thought Narnia was at peace? A Great Peace at that. Why would the Army accept recruits at such a time?"
Casys urged her forward with the flick of his tail, a serious look upon his face, "Do you believe such peace is sustained without a force behind it?"
Grace stepped unwillingly beside the Centaur, "I suppose not. But does Narnia not invite a threat by holding such a large army? Do the bordering countries not see this as a challenge?"
"Most of the countries on the Narnian border are allied."
"And those that aren't?" Grace probed.
The Centaur glared at her, "Are kept in line with the threat of our forces."
Grace shook her head disbelievingly, she wiped the errant drop of jam from the corner of her mouth, "I still don't see how that works. If someone in the house next to me started collecting weapons and amassing a threat I would immediately assume I was the target."
The Centaur returned his eyes straight forward, a barely concealed annoyance within the onyx irises, "Let us be thankful that you are not the leader of a bordering nation, then."
The thought made Grace grin; if she were the queen of a far-off nation, there would be some heavy repercussions for King Edmund's actions. The forefront of her mind practically overflowed with the very satisfying images of her slapping the Just King silly, "Yes, let us be very grateful for that."
If Casys noticed her mad grin, he did not comment.
Grace hastily covered it with the last bite of her toast, her feet skipping steps to keep up with her four-legged companion. Her mind was bursting with the questions within it, and it was very difficult to keep any from passing her lips.
"You said most of Narnia's bordering countries are allied," She began tentatively, "I take that to mean then, that there are a few that are not?"
Casys nodded. It was minimal but there, an unwilling movement.
"Which countries are they?" Grace probed, hands clasped behind her innocently. She knew there was not a name nor their whereabouts which would be known to her. However, there was something about the Centaurs shifting gaze that made her wonder… was she safe in Narnia?
She knew threats of military pursuit were common in these times. Fights over land, food and glory causing the common to fight on behalf of the noble. If Narnia was caught in such a rift there was little chance Grace would be able to leave… and if Cair Paravel was taken, what would happen to her then?
Casys's dark eyes became guarded, "The Kingdoms of Ettinsmoor and Telmar steadfastly remain detached, however, they are no immediate threat to Narnia."
His reaction only heightened her curiosity, "How come?"
The Centaur shook his head, his voice gruff and unrelenting, "I will not divulge more unless King Edmund deems the information worthy of your knowledge. If you wish to know more, perhaps you should ask his Majesty directly."
Grace scoffed, surely Casys knew such a thing was impossible. If Grace were to probe into Narnian affairs then she may as well sign a citizenship certificate.
Casys's expression turned reproachful, "Surely, you do not fear the small task of asking, Daughter of Eve?"
Something prickled Grace's skin at his tone. Was he challenging her?
"There is no fear in avoiding a question because you know the outcome," Grace sniffed in a sour tone.
"But there is fear in resigning yourself to an outcome before it is proposed," Casys countered.
In a fit of annoyance, Grace turned away. Damned Centaurs and their sense. It was as if Casys's head had been screwed especially tight upon his neck. Unyielding and unbound by emotional turmoil. She wondered if all Centaurs were this way; Stoic beings who only allowed wonder to light their eyes when mapping the skies and telling stories.
The clopping noise of Centaurian footsteps stopped, but Grace – by virtue of her stubborn nature – kept walking. Her feet trudging forwards until they tripped over a particularly large mound of fur.
Immediately the shoulders of the creature hunched and the creature let out a noise of surprise. Grace yelped as she landed on the floor the other side, her legs retracting from atop the beast.
"Watch where you are walking, Daughter of Eve," Shese snapped. The Winged Panther shuffled from underneath the masses of Grace's skirts with a deadly glare.
"I'm sorry," Grace said, voice high pitched and embarrassed as she righted herself again.
Casys watched the exchange with an unimpressed expression, "Begging your pardon, Shese. Grace was otherwise preoccupied."
Grace had the nerve to glare at him in return, dusting of her skirts with more force then necessary.
The Winged Panther watched her with a slight sneer, "As I see."
"I assume King Edmund is prepared for Grace's arrival?" Casys asked.
Shese nodded, testing and stretching the wings upon her back, "His Majesty has left the room for a brief interval and bid me send Grace in to wait."
Grace felt the eyes of the two beasts settle on her, neither look particularly friendly. Deciding not to waste time under them, Grace made for the door, opening it just enough to slip through without catching her skirts and closing it behind her.
The immediate heat was both comforting and stifling. In encircled her in dangerous waves, hotter than the breeze of a summers day. She could feel the sweat building at the temperature.
Grace turned, the sway of her skirts expelling the last of the cool air from around her as her eyes met with the sight of the fireplace, roaring and flittering almost dangerously over the threshold.
It was not unnatural, King Edmund preferred the sweltering heat to the cold, however, this fire was different. In the absence of the King it had become out of control, flames flickering well past the grated blockade and heating the iron to a bright orange glow.
She gasped, hands grasping at her skirts as she crossed the room, pausing a short distance from the overgrown flames. The heat was unbearable at this distance, she could feel it brazenly lapping at her face, the smoke making her cough into her sleeve.
How did one put out such a fire? Her knowledge was limited and – unless this was an oil fire – would be no use here. Her eyes reflected the flames like a perfect mirror as they frantically scanned the room, looking for anything that would help.
There was only books, paper and wooden furniture, all which would be no help. Surely King Edmund would not keep a fire without the proper tools to maintain it? He was not that stupid?
Then at last, like a beacon of smouldering metal, she saw it. The poker sat ramrod straight at the edge of the hearth, spots of glowing orange spattered throughout, as if the fire was hot enough to begin smelting the metal.
Grace eyed the poker worriedly, she would need to grab it with her skirts to avoid burning herself. Her hand reached under the layers of fabric – surely five would be enough to keep her safe?
A silent prayer was offered to whomever was listening. It was a really stupid idea. Grace should have just called for help as soon as she saw the fire. Surely there were people in Cair Paravel who were more equipped to handle this?
But there wasn't any time. The flames seemed to grow higher by the second, long covering the mantelpiece and the items atop it in soot and smoke.
Her eyes skittered between the fire, the fuel of burning logs at its base and the hot poker. Grace sighed, Queen Susan was going to kill her for this.
She lunged for the hot metal, hands grasping for it through the material of her dress. The heat soaked warningly through them, but did not scald or burn.
A second lunge; Grace thrust the poker forwards, carefully aiming for the topmost log. She was successful in catching it, however, unsuccessful in knocking it from the fire. She tried again, this time managing to knock the chosen log and the one it sat atop to the furthest corner of the hearth.
She breathed heavily as the flames shifted, their protruding shape slowly shifting back into the expanse of the fireplace. The poker dropped noisily at her side, leaving a singular line of scorching black amongst the smooth blue cotton.
Grace fell to her knees in relief, the exhaustion of her efforts and worry bearing heavily upon her shoulders. A silent thank you was offered to the ceiling, the motion making her laugh with incredulity.
The heat of the fire was bearable now and Grace felt it dissipate from her face as she worked to sweep the ashes on the floor with her hands.
Scolding accusations towards King Edmund surfaced in her thoughts. How could he leave the study like this? If books were such a rarity in Narnia, then how could he endanger them in such a way?
Her smoky eyes flickered to the shelves about the room, practically overflowing with knowledge and binding. If this room went up, she was certain that all of Cair Paravel would go with it.
She knew it was not her place, but then again… whose was it? His Royal Siblings could not be aware of such a thing in this room, otherwise they would have put a stop to it. It couldn't be helped, Grace would have to tell him exactly what-for when he came back.
Grace's gaze shifted towards the study door, it's smooth wood intermittently interrupted by swirling carvings. It did not open, nor did the gleaming brass handle move.
An unknown feeling crept across her skin. One which Grace steadfastly ignored, her hands returning to cleaning the stone in front of the fireplace – silently, she praised the craftsman who chose to place stone before the hearth instead of allowing the carpet to trek all the way to its door. It was a choice which saved the study that day.
Her arm knocked unexpectedly against hot metal and Grace recoiled from it, grasping her arm with an outcry. The skin of her forearm immediately blistered from the contact, leaving a small line of raised pink. She ran a finger over it testingly and hissed, eyes casting a hateful look towards the offending bucket.
It sat innocently beside the dimming fire, covered in blackened soot and radiating heat from its rim. A few errant flames had caught on to the branches within it, burning at the twigs end like a candle.
Grace looked further into the bucket, eyes tracking for any other errant flames – the last thing this study needed was a fire in a bucket. Portable and likely to be disastrous should it fall onto the carpet.
To her relief, there were no such flames. It was lucky, considering the amount of dried leaves within it. It appeared to be a bucket for kindling; full of twigs, leaves and… paper?
Her eyes squinted and Grace's hand reached for the ink-stained sheet, only causing a slight hiss when her skin brushed against the hot rim. She held the sheet aloft to read by the light of the fire, her sight tracing over the all-to-familiar words she had written but a day ago.
Confusion marred her eyes as their corners crinkled. Had King Edmund decided the letter was no good after all? Grace had hoped he might bring it up today, if only to pass on further notes.
Her hand dropped in disappointed exhaustion. Had it truly not been good after all? This was the first piece of work he'd sought to give her feedback on. The thought that King Edmund did not see it through to the end… stung a little.
An unsettled feeling began to cling to her soul and despite her better judgement, Grace looked into the kindling bucket once more.
She shouldn't have, for the moment she did it was as if the tile had been yanked from beneath her and she'd free fallen into the unknown darkness below it.
There was more than one letter shoved between the curtains of dried twigs and leaves. There was even more than two. The realisation formed in her shaking hands as they grasped around the stack of parchment nestled between the dried wildlife.
It was the size of a small manuscript, thick and heavy with the weight of its implications. Grace shuffled through it haphazardly, fingers barely gripping the sheets as they shook with anger. It was everything she'd ever wrote on his behalf.
Her brow furrowed as a familiar prickling sensation crept from her toes to the heady thoughts in her mind. Her mouth set in a firm line, unwilling to release the string of curses that had been beaded on the thread of her mind.
How dare he?
Somewhere, there was a rational side of Grace, a side that pleaded for her to stop and think. Because, truly, how had she expected anything different from King Edmund? To become angry over yet another disappointment seemed stupid.
Grace's anger pushed the thoughts aside roughly, the voice of reason ignored amongst the satisfactorily bubbling torment it offered.
The sheets dripped slowly from her hands until only one remained clenched in her creasing grasp and Grace – now unburdened by the weight of them – decided she could sit there no longer.
The cool air on the other side of the study door did little to temper the flame of irritability that warmed her from within. Her feet kept moving of their own accord in a direction she did not know or care for. As long as it found her in the furthest possible corner from that room she would follow its heed.
The smell of salt air filled her senses, the breeze wafting in tantalizingly clear waves from a secret third direction. Grace knew the scent well, knew that it was not as far as she'd hoped from her previous location… but there was something about it that enticed her.
And so Grace followed it, leaving all other senses behind her.