WHEE. Marketplaces make me happy. I don't actually much like being there, but they are pretty in fiction.


"You weren't in your bed last night," Lucy says the next morning, the words matter-of-fact and bland, and Susan turns her head in time to see Edmund look away.

In the light of day, he looks even worse than he did last night. It's the sort of thing Peter would do -- has done -- does, not like Edmund at all, but Susan can't grudge him his anger. She knows how it feels to be so achingly, burningly angry, wanting to hit something, anything, but England binds her tighter than anything in Narnia, even her crown.

Time passes.

There is no word.