A/N: Of course I don't own it! If I owned it, I would be rich! But I don't. And I'm not. Oh well.

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Susan laid the gown out on the counter carefully, looking out of the corner of her eye to make sure that Lucy was still looking at skirts in the farthest corner of the shop where Susan had told her to wait. She was, and was currently examining a black school-style skirt with her back to the sales counter. Satisfied, Susan turned her attention back to the clerk, a faintly bored looking girl tallying up the cost indifferently. She set down her pencil and read off the price.

Susan took it in stride - the dress was well-made; she hadn't expected it to be cheap - but she winced at the sound of Lucy's shocked gasp and purposeful footsteps. She had underestimated her sister's hearing in the silence of the shop. Nevertheless, she took out her wallet as if she hadn't noticed.

"Su, wait," came Lucy's voice in her ear as she handed several largish bills to the clerk. "Wait!"

Susan turned to her sister, smiling and determined. Lucy looked back at her, equally stubborn. "You don't have to buy this for me. I saw how it was made, and Mum and I could make something like it. You shouldn't spend this much on me!"

Susan listened politely, with just a hint of victorious glee. "And when will you or Mum find the time to work on it?"

The clerk broke in while Lucy was stumbling for words. "D'you want this wrapped, ma'am?"

"Yes, please," replied Susan.

"You can't afford this!" hissed Lucy.

"Nonsense," said Susan calmly. "That money has been saved for this purpose for a year now. You wouldn't deprive me of the pleasure of spending it, would you?"

Lucy could only gape.

Susan smiled again reassuringly. "My mind is quite made up, sister," she said, taking the expertly wrapped brown parcel from the clerk and placing it in Lucy's arms with a quick kiss to the cheek. "Happy birthday."

The remainder of the evening passed in a delightful blur for Lucy. They spent a considerable amount of time in the bookshop, revelling in the age-old scent of ink and paper. Lucy pointed out several titles that she thought Susan might enjoy, and ran a finger over the spines of one or two that the local library didn't stock with almost reverent longing. They perused some of the newer titles discreetly until the store clerk discovered them and asked sternly if she might be of assistance.

They discovered upon leaving that they were both ravenous, neither having supped before leaving. It was by then long after dinnertime, so the tiny restaurant that Susan selected was nearly empty. The sisters gave their order to the garçon and settled in to wait.

"Thank you," said Lucy with uncharacteristic shyness. "For the dress, and everything."

"You're welcome," Susan smiled. "We ought to do this more often, you and I. I'll take a day off work and come kidnap you from home."

"It's on the other side of London!" Lucy protested, laughing.

Susan grinned wickedly. "Distance shall not save you!" she proclaimed. "If I take it into my head to kidnap my sister, nothing will stop me!"

Lucy giggled midsip and nearly dropped her glass, coughing as water sloshed onto her sleeve and the worn wooden table. "Look what you've made me do!" she accused as soon as she was able to speak coherently, fixing Susan with a mock glare.

"Dreadfully sorry," Susan said meekly, handing Lucy her napkin to sop up the mess. "And how was your last term? You haven't said a word about it all evening."

Lucy shrugged noncommitally. "It was school," she said. "I thought that maths would be the death of me for the last few weeks."

Susan raised an eyebrow at the unusual exaggeration. "Really?"

Her sister smiled wryly. "It wasn't that bad, really. It's just that I didn't always understand Professor Cooper's explanations, and trying to read the book is like trying to listen to Edmund when he's on a rant about Parliament."

Susan half-smiled in sympathy. The seventh-year math books were indeed difficult reading. "It's finished now," she said comfortingly. "What about your other classes?"

"I loved Literature," said Lucy thoughtfully. "Have you read Beowulf?"

"I read it in my seventh year," Susan said.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Lucy asked, dark eyes sparkling. "You can almost see the great hall!"

"I..." Susan responded lamely, startled by Lucy's sudden enthusiasm. Beowulf had been far too violent for her taste, stirring memories of screams and terror, though she hadn't been sure if they had arisen from her own world or from...elsewhere. "I liked the Shakespearean sonnets better," she said carefully.

Lucy made a face. "Yes, we have been reading those as well." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Don't you think he's saying the same thing over and over?"

Susan laughed. "Maybe..."

Their soup came, then, and the conversation slowed. Dinner passed quickly, over all too soon, and Lucy insisted on paying for her portion. Susan's protests were quelled by an almost ferocious scowl from her sister, and she accepted her defeat without rancor.

The scene outside could have been taken straight from one of the more sentimental modern paintings of London. The afternoon's sleet had been replaced by delicate snowflakes, fluttering down like so many butterflies and scudding merrily along the pavement. People hustled along, bundled in knee-length coats and carrying umbrellas. Some, too, bore packages of varying shapes and sizes - last-minute Christmas gifts, perhaps, or groceries. Lucy caught her breath at the sight of a man with an odd, goat-like beard and a red woolen scarf: only her home-lonely heart, searching in vain for pieces of Narnia, as usual.

Susan stepped to the curb, hand raised for a taxi. "I don't like you riding all the way back to Finchely in this," she said, catching Lucy's elbow as her sister nearly slipped on the treacherous ice. "Do you need to be anywhere important tomorrow?"

Lucy's heart leapt in earnest. Narnia! But she kept her expression carefully blank as she considered the question. "N-no," she said slowly. "But I need to catch the 10:00 train out of Frognal tomorrow."

Susan gave her sister a sharp sideways glance. "Really? Where are you going?"

"Me? Nowhere." Lucy sounded a little startled and . . . disappointed? "Jill and Eustace are taking a . . . a trip, and I'm going along on the first leg of the journey."

"Just you, hmm?"

Lucy flushed. "Well, no. Peter and Ed are going too. And Aunt Polly and the Professor." She said the words unwillingly, as if each syllable held the promise of pain.

Susan understood. Such a grouping meant only one thing. Her lips compressed forbiddingly, ice beginning to form in her warm grey gaze. "I see."

"Susan-" began Lucy, almost imploring, but her older sister cut her off abruptly.

"I'd rather not discuss it."

A taxi pulled up to the curb, and Susan stepped in with her customary aloof grace. Lucy clambered in behind her, miserable.

The cabbie twisted around in his seat to face them: "Where to, then?"

Susan hesitated and glanced at Lucy. "You'll be staying with me tonight?"

Lucy looked up, relief at the change of subject evident in her face. "Yes, please. That would be lovely."

Susan gave her address to the driver and settled in. "You can phone Mum when we get there," she told Lucy.

The ride passed in silence. Lucy, who knew from experience that she was still in disgrace, leaned against the door and drew a finger through the tiny droplets of condensation on the window absently. Susan would begin the conversation again when she was ready, she knew. It just might take a while.

She let her mind drift to other matters. She had been to Susan's flat before, of course, when her sister was moving in, but it had been filled with boxes then. If she knew Susan at all, the boxes would have been unpacked and discarded within a week of the move, and the flat would have been decorated according to Susan's own elegant taste. Lucy had yet to see it fully furnished.

The building in which Susan's flat was located was the result of a post-war building project that spanned most of London, and as such was remarkably new for its area of town. Faded scorch marks remaining on the brick walls of the older surrounding buildings left no doubt as to the reason for the placement of this particular apartment building. It appeared out-of-place to Lucy, a hastily-sewn patch on beautiful, though damaged, cloth. Still, she reflected as she followed Susan up the stairs, the patch had a certain beauty of its own.

Susan unlocked the door and allowed her sister to enter first. She flicked on the lights, enjoying the moment despite herself as Lucy rotated slowly to view the living room, an appreciative smile on her face. "It's perfect!"

Susan had chosen pale blue as her base color, accented here and there with white and splashes of yellow. A small couch faced the window, with two chairs placed to the side. The radio sat proudly in its place of honor on the finely carved table in the corner next to a vase of daisies.

"And who are these from?" Lucy teased, touching the petals.

"Never you mind," replied Susan mysteriously as she bent to remove her heels. She rubbed her feet ruefully and straightened. "May I take your coat?"

Lucy handed over the garment in question, still intent on absorbing every detail of the apartment's decor. "It really is perfect, Susan."

Susan accepted the compliment with a gracious smile and entered her spotless -though small- kitchen. "Tea?" she called over her shoulder, taking the kettle from its place on the back of the stove to fill it with water.

"Yes, please," Lucy replied. She didn't really want tea, not this late, but Susan was in her notorious Hospitable-Hostess mode, and it wouldn't do to disappoint her. She followed her sister into the kitchen.

Susan was busily setting out saucers and cups, spoons, the silver tea-cannister, the milk pitcher and sugar, all the little niceties that made tea an event, not just a beverage. A plate of fresh sugar cookies found their way onto the table, and a hot-pad in preparation for the teapot. Lucy stood in the doorway self-consciously, wishing to help but knowing it would not be permitted. Susan was happiest when serving others, and would defend her right as hostess fiercely.

"Turn on Auntie, would you, Lu?"

Grateful for something to do, Lucy hurried back to the living room to do battle with the ancient radio. A few moments of fiddling with flimsy antennas and turning of stubborn dials, and the voice of a BBC announcer, scratchy with static, issued forth. Satisfied with her success, she re-entered the kitchen.

Susan, having completed her labor of love, sat at one of the two chairs, waiting for the water to boil. Lucy plopped down into the other, just as the beginnings of an all-too-familiar song drifted in. She giggled suddenly. "Do you remember, at the Professor's, how the Macready would play this over and over again?"

"And poor Ed got so tired of it," Susan added, laughing. "Of course I remember. How can I forget, when it nearly cost us all our suppers?"

"Traumatic experience, that," Lucy agreed. "Especially with Edmund's dancing." She snickered at the memory. Ed, fed up with the constant repitition of the Macready's battered record of Canon in D, had begun an overdramatic dance (if it could be called such) involving many extravagent spins and flourishes and uncoordinated leaps into the air, complete with convulsive twitches every time the needle skipped. He'd had his siblings in tears of laughter, until the Macready entered unobserved and put two and two together. It had taken a good fifteen minutes of apologizing and the Professor's influence to pacify her.

Susan rose as the tea-kettle hissed insistantly from the stove. Measuring precisely the right amount of tea-leaves into the pot, she turned down the heat and left it to simmer. The scent of good, black tea filtered through the room, familiar and vaguely evocative of other times.

"So," Susan said as she sat back down. "Frognal at 10:00. Any other plans for the day?"

Lucy smiled and shook her head. "I'm on holiday, Su. I think a good book is probably in order, or maybe a walk. Or maybe something completely different that I haven't thought of yet. I'm sure I'll think of something." She paused. "What about you?"

"Working from 3:00 to 8:00 tomorrow," Susan said, looking at her hands. "And there's a party at David's that I may visit afterwards."

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. It was a risk, but it was hardly fair to Susan for her not to take it. "Would. . . would you come with us tomorrow?" The words rushed out, tumbling over themselves in an effort to reach her sister. "It won't take long - we're only going as far as Paddington. You could be back by noon." Susan still said nothing. "Please, Su? For old time's sake?"

Those were the wrong words. Susan stood up a trifle too quickly and crossed to the stove. She took her time about turning off the heat and taking the potholder and tea-cozy out of the drawer.

Lucy watched with diminishing hope. "Su, we. . ." her voice broke. "We've had word from Narnia." Of all the reactions she had thought to recieve, the one she got was the most unexpected.

Susan turned around, an expression in her eyes that Lucy was hesitant to define. The despair lurking beneath Susan's normally composed features sent a shiver up Lucy's spine. It was the expression of someone who wants something more than anything else in the world, and knows she shall never have it. Susan's gaze was hollow, but something else sparked there. A fierce hunger, the slightest glimmer of hope. "When?" she whispered.

Lucy moistened her suddenly-dry lips. "Last week," she answered. "At the Professor's."

"What happened?"

"There was. . ." Lucy considered her words, "a man. He appeared out of thin air, just as we were finishing dessert."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing," answered Lucy truthfully. "He just stood there and looked at us. I don't think he could have said anything if he'd tried." She paused. "He was Narnian, you could tell that at a glance. His clothing gave it away. He was a king, too, or maybe a prince. . .there was something regal about the way he stood. I can't quite put my finger on it." She swallowed. "And he was bound."

"Bound?"

Lucy nodded. "With rope." She reconsidered. "A lot of rope. Peter and the Professor think that there was some sort of uprising, and they need help reinstating the rightful monarch." She cracked a smile. "Edmund started on about balance of power and foreign aid, of course."

Susan did not smile. She set the teapot down on the waiting hot-pad and sank into her chair. Without the teapot to hold onto, Lucy noticed that her sister's hands were shaking slightly. "What are we going to do?" Susan asked finally.

Lucy's heart jerked at the use of 'we.' "Jill and Eustace are going to use the Rings to get to Narnia. Peter and Edmund are going to the Professor's old house to get them early tomorrow morning, we'll all meet on the train, and Jill and Eustace will use the Rings sometime before they get to their school."

"There are a lot of ways that that plan could go wrong," murmured Susan, rubbing her hands distractedly.

"Yes," Lucy agreed softly. "But they'll get there with or without the Rings, if Aslan wants them there."

"How many Rings are there?" Susan asked abruptly.

A bit nonplussed at the question, Lucy frowned. "I don't know. Why?"

Susan's eyes flicked up to hers and away, and Lucy understood.

"No," she said gently. "We won't be going with them to Narnia."

"Why not? We could, if we wanted to. The door is open before us; it would be foolishness not to walk through!"

"The door is open, but not to us," said Lucy, her eyes flashing briefly. "Oh, Susan," she said. "We're too old. Don't you remember? This world is also our home, here, with Mum and Dad. I miss Narnia too - part of me will always be there - but he's sent us back for a reason."

"What reason?" The words were laced with venom, though Susan did not raise her voice. "'To know him better here?' We knew him there! We talked with him face to face! How could we possibly know him better?"

Lucy started to answer, but Susan wasn't finished.

"And if it's really all that much better here, why did he take us there in the first place? Why did he have to show us such wonderful things, give us such wonderful friends, if he meant all along to take it all back without warning, just when we were happiest?" She was crying now, though her voice was as level as it had ever been. She swiped the tears away and took a deep breath. "We were better off without him," she said dully.

Lucy's mind was swirling with outrage and indignant retorts. Her own vision was blurry with tears that she absolutely would not shed. How could she? With an effort, she pushed aside all the things she was aching to say. "So you won't be coming with us?"

"No."

And even as Lucy watched, the mask slipped back into place. She nodded once, slowly, as coolly formal as her sister. "Very well."

Susan raised the kettle, still steaming amiably. "Tea?"

Hours later, Lucy stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. They'd sipped their tea in silence before Susan had departed wordlessly to find some extra nightclothes and a change of clothes for the next day for Lucy, had readied herself for bed and disappeared into her room without so much as a 'goodnight.' She had also left the dishes unwashed: yet another sign that she was still upset. Lucy could see them from her bed on the couch, gleaming reproachfully at her in the moonlight. She'd toyed with the idea of washing them herself, but felt vindictive enough towards her sister to turn her back to them.

And now she couldn't sleep. She stared out the window over London, myriad tiny lights flickering in the darkness. Susan's words echoed in her thoughts, repeating endlessly like a scratched record. Does she really believe that? Or is it just her way of dealing with the homesickness? Then, more disturbingly, Could she be right?

"No!" she spoke the thought aloud, jerking upright. "No." She leaned forward, drawing her knees up under the coverlet and resting her forehead on her hands. It was worth every second of homesickness.

Her hair fell forward around her face as she dropped her hands and bent her head forward. Oh, Aslan, she thought desperately. Please forgive her. She doesn't mean it; she's just tired and confused and lonely. She wouldn't say any of this if she could really remember what it was like. What you were like.

Silence followed, along with the terrible realization that Susan did, indeed, mean every word of what she had said. Susan had left Narnia behind, and Lucy could do nothing about it on her own.

But I have redeemed traitors before.

"Then you'll help her?" whispered Lucy to the silence.

Nothing. Then, If she will accept it, I will redeem her.

"She'll never accept it. She's already rejected you."

She could almost feel the low growl. That is part of her story, not yours.

She nodded slightly in acceptance, raising her head. She laid back down on the couch, finally closing her eyes. The last thing she was aware of before sleep's oblivion was a flash of muted gold, and a wild, sweet fragrance. . .

The next morning dawned icy-cold and clear, and Lucy awoke before Susan. She stayed beneath the blankets for as long as she deemed reasonable, given the chill of the room and the earliness of the hour - the clock on the wall said 6:15. Last night's dishes still sat dirty on the counter, painfully out-of-place in Susan's spartan kitchen. "All right, all right," she grumbled at them, and rolled off the couch. Taking up the quilted bathrobe and slippers that Susan had left for her, she tied her hair back and padded into the kitchen.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, she eased on the tap for the hot water. Any hopes of secrecy were then shattered: the pipes had evidently partially frozen and were making that fact known to the world with a cacophony of squeals, shrieks, and ominous clunks from somewhere in the plumbing. The faucet spluttered briefly, then gave up the battle. Lucy had her hot water, but it would be nothing short of a miracle if Susan had slept through all that.

She filled the sink, and after adding soap, began to wash the teapot and cups - a matching set, painted with stylized sunflowers and blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds. There weren't many dishes, but it was nice to have them done.

Just as she finished the drying, Susan emerged, rubbing at her eyes blearily. She stared at Lucy for a moment, dazed. Lucy smiled back cheekily. "Good morning, sunshine!"

Susan groaned and sat down at the table. "Stars above, Lu, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"6:30," offered Lucy helpfully.

Susan blinked up at her like a baleful owl. "What are you doing up? You're on holiday, remember?"

"I was seized by a sudden desire to do the dishes."

Susan grimaced. "Well, kindly restrain yourself next time."

"Wish I heard that more often," Lucy remarked dryly.

"Believe me, you will, if you keep getting these urges at dawn," returned Susan, settling into the familiar routine of their early-morning banter. "How's toast sound for breakfast?"

"Fine. Where do these go?"

Susan gestured towards a cupboard and Lucy put away the cups. The next few minutes were spent in silence as the two girls worked side-by-side to prepare their morning meal. Neither spoke until both were seated at the table, eating toast browned [ijust[/i right with [ijust[/i the right amount of margarine and jam spread on top.

"Listen, Lucy. . .about last night. . . I'm sorry."

Lucy chewed slowly and swallowed, setting the remainer of her toast down on her plate so as to give Susan her undivided attention.

Susan sighed and looked down. "I said a lot of things that I shouldn't have, and I apologize."

"You mean. . .you'll come with us?" Lucy asked, not daring to hope.

"No," said Susan carefully. "And I haven't changed my mind, either. But. . . I still shouldn't have said those things, and I'm sorry. I know what Narnia means to you."

Lucy smiled immediately. Not what she had hoped for, but still a step in the right diretion. "You are forgiven, Su. I'm sorry, too."

"You didn't do anything!" said Susan, surprised.

"Maybe not, but I thought it," said Lucy wryly. "I apologize as well."

Susan raised an eyebrow. "Well, then. You are forgiven for whatever it was you managed not to do."

Lucy snorted with laughter, and the remaining tension disappeared.

They cleared up, this time not even trying to be quiet. They talked, sang snatches of random songs at the top of their lungs, and shrieked with laughter as a few well-aimed soap-suds morphed into a full-fledged waterfight. And then they had to clean up again.

"Well," Susan sighed once they could both talk again. "Do you think we should start getting presentable?"

"I suppose so," replied Lucy without much motivation. They had two hours in which to get ready to leave, and she was in no hurry. She took a handful of her bathrobe and squeezed it out - soapy water dripped onto the floor without much coaxing. She flicked the excess at Susan.

"Let's not start that again," objected Susan, raising her hands to defend herself.

Lucy looked around at the kitchen, back to its naturally pristine state and agreed reluctantly. They had just cleaned up, after all.

"I'll tell you what," said Susan. "Go put on your gown. I thought I saw a couple of things that needed to be altered last night. And thanks to someone's early morning tendencies-" Lucy bobbed a curtsey "-we have time to take care of them."

Lucy, who hadn't noticed anything but trusted Susan's judgement in these matters, grinned, thanked Susan, and darted off to do just that.

Susan, meanwhile, changed out of her own soaking robe and pyjamas into her everyday clothes, and set up the sewing machine in the living room. When Lucy emerged - the dress even more beautiful in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows than the previous night in the dim, wan light of the shop - Susan saw immediately that both the skirt and the sleeves needed to be shortened. Once they had marked where they should end to fit Lucy, she changed into a clean outfit borrowed from Susan, and an hour and a half or so passed in companionable silence.

They finished at precisely 9:15, about twenty minutes before Lucy had to leave to get to Frognal station to meet Peter and Edmund. Susan maintained a sort of fixed cheerfulness when the meeting was mentioned, grimly determined not to sour a good time spent with her sister.

The cab was called duly, and Lucy picked up the brown package that once again held her precious gown. "Well, 'bye," she said as the cab pulled up to the curb in front of them. "And thank you!"

Susan then did something almost unheard of: she made a decision on impulse. "I think I'll go with you," she said. Then, seeing the expression on Lucy's face, quickly amended. "As far as the station, anyway."

The cabbie honked impatiently, and they slid into the back seat. "Frognal, please," said Lucy, and the taxi swung away from the curb. The drive was short, but interesting. The heaps of perfect white snow on every corner and in front of every window were nothing short of picturesque, even if the gritty grey slush around the tires wasn't. The snowclouds of the previous day were quite gone, and the sky was startlingly blue. The ride was over almost too soon.

The driver named the fare, and Lucy paid him before opening the door a crack. "You're sure you won't come?"

Susan almost said yes. The station was just there, and so were her brothers and cousin and friends. Lucy was begging with her eyes. She hesitated just a moment. . .

And the cabbie leaned over the seat. "'Ere, now, miss, if you two want to chat, that's fine with me, but do it with the door closed, see?"

"I'm very sorry," Susan said quickly. "Not this time, Lu."

Her sister was crestfallen, but she nodded crisply and climbed out. "'Bye, Susan! Love you!" The door closed.

Susan watched her go, waving out the window until the bright shock of golden hair was quite out of sight. But she could not completely suppress the twing of regret as the taxi drove her back home. Maybe next time. . .

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A/N: So I meant to have this done by May at the very latest. What can I say? I'm a world-class procrastinator.

Just a quick note or two...

First- I know next to nothing about post-war culture in England, and Google wasn't much help in the matter. If anyone knows of any sites with information on this topic, I'd be very grateful for a link.

Second- Auntie was a nickname for the BBC. Maybe still is. Couldn't tell you. It morphed into Auntie Beeb later, and then just Beeb, but this is before Queen, so I'm sticking with Auntie. And I didn't get that from Google. I got it from Wikipedia. (Why can't I make smileys work on here? Sigh...)

Reviews make me very happy! Thankee!