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Reader Warning: Brutally graphic and intimate details of suffering from cancer and the effects of cancer treatments. May be difficult to read if you are sensitive to topics of death, fear, bodily fluids, grief, etc.

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Chapter Seven

From Beyond the Grave

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The latch to the flat was stiff, and the door scraped and whined across the wooden floor like the strains of a violin. It was dark, and dusty. Susan flicked the light switch on with a heavy click and watched the lamp flicker to life.

She was standing in the cramped but comfortable sitting room, looking at two armchairs facing the fireplace on the left. On her right, a tiny hall that went towards two bedrooms and a loo. Straight ahead was what could not truly count as a kitchen, but a wide alcove with no door.

There was a sink, an ice box half the usual size, and two cupboards above them both. They had a small hot-plate sitting on the counter for meal preparation. Susan guessed that the boys warmed plenty and cooked less. There was a basket of shriveled apples crawling with ants. She opened the ice-box momentarily and instantly regretted it for the sour smell that escaped from a half-drunk bottle of milk. How could she have put off coming for so long?

First, she clutched at a sweater that smelled like Peter, tucked herself into an armchair, and sat quietly. She knew the onslaught was coming, and waited it out. Soon the sobs overtook her, the hard kinds that shook bones. She briefly glanced at the clock hung over the mantle... she would give herself ten minutes. Ten minutes to let the grief of being without her siblings soak her to the core. And then she would get to business.

She took shuddering breaths to test the sense of purpose - was it still there? Could she truly do this?

She had to, after all. The men she hired would be here in the morning to take the boxes she intended to keep back to the boarding house. The St. Peter charity board would be here to salvage what she wanted to donate.

Unfortunately, there would be more to donate than keep. Her parents' home in Finchley was protected by a trust, and she did not have to touch it until she was ready. Her parents didn't leave her any money to speak of, and at first she resented this. In fact it was the only thing she thought worth mentioning; that there wasn't any money. How cruel she had been!

Susan realized what a gift it was to receive the house and what was in it. Someday when she was ready, she could go home and prepare the home to be sold. She could personally pull Lucy's drawings off the old bedroom wall and press them into an album. She could make sure nothing had been left behind in Edmund and Peter's rooms when they moved to this flat; the sort of things boys always left behind when they went to college... like childhood toys and keepsakes. A trusted neighbor boy already went to the house with a spare key weekly to check in on things.

These sorts of things were taken care of through the instructions laid out in their will, and Susan wasn't forced to endure any auctions. The only thing her parents couldn't possibly prepare for was the death of both of their sons and one daughter. And Peter and Edmund, as bright and kingly as they were, certainly didn't expect to think they must prepare for an early death. They didn't leaves wills or trusts behind.

All that was left for the boys was a short contract signed by the two of them to lease this flat, a tiny place near enough to Oxford in a jumble of flats boxed closely together that many young men rented for university purposes. The nearby neighbors had begun to call the building Squall Hall, as the typical occupants of squalor housing were replaced by students better suited to dorm halls than real city life, but kept coming anyway.

There was a receipt from their first month's rent, which Susan had helped pay to welcome them to the city and congratulate them on moving away from their parents. So when it came time to empty the flat after their untimely deaths, and unusually thoughtful landlord called her up at the boarding house and asked if she would be paying the rent again. And Susan had said yes, yes she would. Until fall at least.

And now it was nearly autumn and the milk had spoiled badly.

She was at the eight minute mark when she felt her chest deflating, and the sense of grief subsiding. Not leaving entirely, but giving up on the tidal wave, at least.

And then, to work.

The pain - both physical and emotional, radiated through her heart and lungs while she packed. She only needed to take what she wanted to keep, and had arranged for the charity board to collect the rest. The furniture went with the flat.

Susan tied her hair back in a gray scarf, rolled up her sleeve. It felt good to work. She hadn't worked for so long, but she'd been doing a lot of walking lately, and the physical activity felt good. It felt good beneath the skin of her arms, loosened her chest, stretched her legs.

She glanced at the small table between the two armchairs. The post was sitting in a neat stack, covered with a layer of gray dust. No - not the arriving post. Outgoing.

Her flat address was on the top; and her name, written in Edmund's scrawling penmanship. There was no stamps yet.

He'd never had a chance to send it to her.

She felt her heart beat quickly as she took up the envelope, this precious thing, brushing off the dust and sliding her finger beneath the flap. It wasn't sealed yet, either. He'd placed it her, probably thinking to himself, Why yes, I'll send this when I get back.

How precious our time on earth is, she thought. How fleeting and short.

Susan pressed the back of her fist into her eyes to wipe away the tears, and then slid the rest of the letter out of the envelope.

She unfolded it like a scroll sent from the heavens, taking great care to read. To absorb the words there.

And then reread, confusion etching in her features.

Confusion gave way to concern.

And it felt like a small light turned on inside her heart. She understood, now, something she could not put her finger on. She felt it before, and hadn't known.

Edmund did, too.

Dear Susan,

We're going to have a dinner tonight. Peter, Professor Kirk, Aunt Polly, Scrubb, Jill Pole, Lucy, and me... I think they just want to have a jaw about Narnia. Nostalgia, you know? Like the T club. Surely Lucy has mentioned them to you. A motley assortment of oddities that have all traveled to different realms. Not Narnia, of course. But Other Places.

Maybe they mean to have a good time and only remember the happy memories, but I mean to bring up a new acquaintance that's been bothering me greatly. Her name is Dorothy Gale. I need to see if we can't do something about her. She's far too keen on Lucy... living so vicariously through her stories of Narnia that it gives me a cold shiver in my bones. She's fixated on her.

Sometimes I get the terrible suspicion that Dorothy is just out to collect people like us. People that wear the Travelers Mark (surely you've seen your mark by now? At least noticed it?)

She desires the powers to come and go from any world AT WILL. That's what she always wants. To get back. You would understand that feeling, wouldn't you? Longing to go back so badly that it blurs everything else? We do. Pete, Lucy, and I.

These are ridiculous ruminations of mine coming from a sleepless mind (hello, calculus exams) and I'm sorry I'm subjecting you to this. It's hardly just of me to even pen wild accusations. But if Dorothy isn't simply just a lady with bad intentions, she certainly has dangerous intentions. Lucy's still just a young girl, you know? If it's not a magical fixation, then what 'kind' of fixation is it? I am ashamed to even mention it, it's so embarrassing, but I hate how it makes me feel, and I am worried about it, Su...

Peter thinks she's harmless. She misses her own magical world, somewhere different, and wants friends who understands her. That would go for most of the T club. They're not a bad sort, really, just odd... I don't fancy sitting around in a circle and lamenting over the have-beens. Dinner with Kirk every so often is all right, we're all Narnian somehow.

I'm sure most of these people just want friends who understand magic. That's the reason for the tea-club. Solidarity. But I think Dorothy's purpose is different. She'll use them in the long run, I'll warrant. Perhaps cruelly. It reminds me of the wolf and the hag trying to convince Caspian to bring back the witch.

I can't shake the feeling. She'll be the death of us, maybe she wants to use us for some black sorcery, and get into Narnia herself. I'm worried, Susan, I am. Come home. Please. Even if you just want to tell me I'm mad. I'd relish some conversation with your logical mind and you'll soon set me to rights.

Lovingly,

Ed

"You're not mad," Susan whispered to the letter. "Oh, Ed. You're not mad at all."

The telephone on the table by the front door was ringing.

For some reason, Susan rushed to answer, clutching the letter in one hand and tripping over the chair leg. "Yes?" she shouted into the receiver, forgetting any usual telephone greetings, such as a hello or introducing herself. Somehow she knew someone would be trying to reach her here, and they already knew she would answer.

"Susan, darling," Albert greeted grandly. "Your voice is like a nightingale."

"You're an old flirt," Susan let out an unexpected sob.

"I daresay. A very sad nightingale."

"I am just so relieved to hear the voice of a friend," Susan explained. "This place… it's so…"

"I know," Albert saved her the trouble of trying to finish the thought. "I know."

"How can I ever choose what to keep? What to let go?"

"I couldn't possibly guess what would matter most to you, my dear. I should think that items occupying bathroom cupboards are easy to rid yourself of. Start with the easiest things."

"Yes, yes of course," Susan nodded. "You're right. Thank you for calling me. What can I do for you?"

"Nay, it is what I can do for you," he coughed away from the telephone briefly. "I can't come there myself - I thought - well, I thought it might be best for you to do this alone, grief is such a private thing. And then I thought, damn, that's not right at all. Friends should help friends. So I thought I'd come myself, but then I was feeling so ill, I couldn't make it after all."

"Albert, I am so sorry you're unwell."

"Oh, I'm always unwell. But I couldn't let you alone in that drafty old place, facing your memories all alone. I've sent help."

"Oh you have, have you? Please don't say Dorothy."

"I said HELP, not hell."

Susan laughed outright, but sobered quickly enough. "Oh Albert, I'm afraid I cannot like Dorothy now. How I've tried. But I've been reading - my brother's correspondence…"

"Oh, secret letters? Will you share them?"

"I'm afraid I must. I'll have to bring them over and read them to you."

"I love dramatic readings. How thrilling."

"It's not thrilling, Albert, it's terrible! Dorothy plagued my brother's mind like a nightmare."

"Ah, well, at least she is consistent," Albert sighed. "You may tell me all about it when you return. Your help should be there soon."

"Who did you send?"

"Cheshire!"

"Oh." Susan played with the cord. "I see."

Albert fell silent too. "That was not a good idea, was it? I'm sorry. I realize now how foolish that was. He's practically a stranger. You ought to be with a friend. I should have asked Hank Jr." He paused. "All right, I'm not being entirely truthful. I expressed that you may need some assistance, and Cheshire absolutely leapt at the chance to be at your service. He's a very helpful little bloke."

"It's all right…" Susan sighed.

"You two could be very great friends."

"I'm prickly, you see. It's been a long time since I've had to open my heart to anyone."

"What about us?"

"I mean it took a supreme amount of effort to even be on speaking terms with the Tea Club. A young boy from Wonderland of all places is the last person I know how to talk to."

"That's a false statement and I reject it," Albert replied. "You know how to talk to lads from a magical land because you are from a magical land."

"I'm from Finchley."

"You're a Narnian, like your brothers and sister."

"I don't know about that, Albert."

"Just try it on for size, won't you? Cheshire and you are much alike, you know."

"Not you, too."

"I don't mean like that - but of course, if you did find him attractive…"

"Albert, I daresay, I would slap you if you were here."

"An unfair fight, madam! Absolutely unfair. I'm just an old romantic, you see. And sickly too. You are a warrior in your own right."

"But I don't really remember any of that," Susan confessed. "It's like seeing a photograph of yourself as a child. You were too young to remember it being taken, even if you see yourself in the image as proof."

"You do believe in Narnia though, don't you?"

"I'm choosing to try my best." Susan whispered. "I thought the color of the fall leaves looked very Narnian. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Beaver. Or at least, I remember my memories of them."

"What about Aslan?"

"Maybe I would if I thought about it long enough. I can't bear thinking of him. "

"Ah," Albert smiled into the phone when the bell at the door rung, shrilly and brassy tones like a school teacher's alarm. "That would be Cheshire."

"That was fast."

"I sent him ages ago."

"Very well. I'll talk to you soon."

"Yes, Queen. Never soon enough."

Before Susan could protest the use of the word Queen, he hung up the line too quickly and the bell clamored again.

She folded the letter carefully and put it into her handbag, and then pressed the lines out of her skirt and straightened her shoulders. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Opened the door, briskly. "Hello," she greeted.

Cheshire was walking away, having given up. "Ah," he answered. "I thought you were not home."

"This isn't my - never mind. Please, come in."

Cheshire ripped his battered hat from his head. Like Dorothy, he looked like he was from a few decades prior, trousers patched and suspenders striped. He stepped over the threshold uncomfortably. "Albert said you may need help," he said. "I came over as quickly as I could."

Susan looked around the flat. "Truthfully, it's just a few things left."

"A few is a shoe, we're fleet on our feet, but one-one makes two and a job well done," Cheshire replied rapidly, as if reciting a nursery rhyme. He ducked his head with embarrassment and walked right past Susan into the sitting room. "Shall I put this box on the stoop?"

She followed him in, eyes wide. "Yes, thank you."

Cheshire lifted the box and marched past her again, cheeks bright pink.

Susan smiled a little, and returned to the boxes she left out the bedroom doors. From Peter's room, she boxed the school papers and textbooks to sort through in the comfort of her own flat. The books for reading pleasure were boxed and kept, along with some personal correspondence. Letters from her parents, from the old Professor Kirk. There was a note from Jane, too. Perhaps Jane would like to keep it.

Cheshire followed her in, silently waiting instructions. She liked the way he didn't prattle on, or try to push her into saying what she was thinking. So many did so, with good intentions, but how it hurt her heart.

Susan stripped the bed of sheets and Cheshire rushed to assist, tugging at the corners and sliding pillow cases off the pillows. He took the piles and folded them in the funniest way she had ever seen. Instead of matching corner to corner, he grabbed a handful with his right fist and wound the sheet around his elbow, like the way a sailor might coil a rope. When finished he slid the loop off and left it in a donut-shape at the end of the bed, and with it the top sheet and the cases in smaller loops.

A stickler for propriety, Susan would usually chastise and show him the proper way, but today she did not seem to care about such things. It was endearing, not aggravating.

She checked beneath the mattress for any hidden letters or keepsakes, and did so in Edmund's room, too. Edmund's room had a few drawings pinned to the wall, a dead plant in the windowsill, and an overly large book about English law.

There was a pair of worn slippers that fit her. She kept those, and a sweater that still smelled like him. After checking the pockets of the rest, they went into the basket for charity. Cheshire went right to work on the bed without being asked. He found a pocket-book of Psalms beneath the pillow, as well as a small, bejeweled dagger. Nothing Narnian, but it was not just a keepsake. It was a small, elegant weapon, Eastern in its design. She wondered if the letters were Hebrew. Susan wondered if Anthea, Albert's mother, could help her identify the script curving along the sheath. She, after all, was a Traveller to ancient civilizations, wasn't she?

At last everything was boxed, and Cheshire obeyed Susan's directions for which boxes to stack at the door to return to her flat, and which went to charity. In the end, there was a box from each bedroom - one for Ed, one for Peter - and a few items she placed in her handbag. And then, of course, the sweater she had put on.

All the other boxes for donation went into the sitting room.

"You are giving many things away," Cheshire observed, the first personal comment he'd made since arriving. "I'm sad for you."

She blinked with some surprise at him. "Thank you."

"Shall we each take a box?" he pointed at the ones by the door.

"I have men coming by in the morning." She sighed a little. "I… thought I would be keeping more, somehow. But these… things… they are not as sentimental as I expected."

"Do the men cost a lot of money? To collect them?" Cheshire asked.

"A little."

"I know I am thin and ugly," Cheshire said, "But I am quite strong. And so are you. Strong, that is. Not ugly. Far from it. Erm… If I carry one and you carry one, we can order the magical horseless cart, and save your gold coins for another disaster on another day. You can cancel the men."

So much information in so little time. For a moment, she didn't know how to react, but a startled laugh crept out of her mouth. "You're absolutely right, Cheshire." She paused, and sobered. "Oh, dear me, no, I mean, you are right about saving my - gold - and the boxes. You're not ugly," she added hastily, "I wouldn't dream of being so rude."

Cheshire nodded and looked away, tugging on his hands shyly.

Susan wanted to thank him for calling her strong, and far from ugly, but didn't know how to phrase it. "I'll call the horseless cart now," she said instead, and she smiled. It felt so genuine, she felt as if her face pulled tautly at muscles across her cheekbones that she had not used in far too long. She dialed for information and held the receiver to her ear. "Hello, yes, operator, please send a cab for number 4, Pound Hall. Locksley Street. Thank you."

They waited outside together in silence. For a horseless carriage, Susan thought, with a small half-smile tugging in one cheek. How endearing the Cheshire was today. Not annoying at all. He fit into her queer little life like a missing cog, whilst she had fretted and feared that he was a wrench - bound to disrupt.

They'd be expecting rain, soon. The brittle kind with tiny droplets of ice. Teasing a winter. Always winter, thought Susan vaguely. Never Christmas.

Jane was due any day now. An autumn baby - Peter would have loved that. Susan could hardly believe it was only just the beginning of summer when she met them all. She couldn't imagine life without them now.

"I've been a fool for a long time, Cheshire," Susan said presently, her voice warm on the chilling air.

Cheshire turned towards her, innocent brows arched high over dark eyes. "How so?"

"Magic - other lands. The lot of it. I haven't believed any of it was real until recently." Her eyes widened in realization. "I think I finally gave in fully when I met you."

"I was the cherry on top of the walrus," Cheshire nodded. "Do you resent me for it?"

Susan was startled by his question. "No. No. I think I'm grateful."

"Ah," said Cheshire. "You shouldn't judge yourself so harshly. You've been nothing but kind to me since I've arrived. That must count for something?"

"I don't know," Susan replied.

"Please call me Chess," Cheshire added. "It's an endearment. For those I trust."

"I'm honored, Chess," Susan smiled at him again. God, the muscles in her jaw were practically sore from all the times she did so. He made her smile more than anyone. More than once in a day.

"Ah, the carriage is here!" Cheshire immediately rushed to the cab, bent down, and looked through the window. He frowned, and turned back to Susan. "This cab is not driven by a fish," he whispered urgently. "Are you quite sure you can trust it?"

Susan blinked. "Positively."

"Are you sure?" Cheshire looked through the window again, his mouth pressed in a flummoxed line. "He doesn't even have gills."

The cabbie stared back at him, confused. "Sir? Are you lookin' to get a ride, or not?"

"Yes, please," Susan called over Cheshire's shoulder. "Please open the boot, we have boxes."

The cabbie nodded surly, sending worried expressions in Cheshire's direction. As he departed the cab and began to load their boxes for them, Cheshire stared at him with nothing but crazed suspicion.

Susan touched his shoulder lightly, startling him.

"Sorry," she said quickly, "Chess - no driver here is fish-like in any way. And no caucus races, either," she remembered his first protest on the day he arrived. "I can assure you he's quite trustworthy."

"Only if you're sure," Cheshire looked relieved.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Susan promised. "I assure you. It's quite safe."

"Well," Cheshire nodded nervously back at the cabbie when he slammed the compartment with a particularly loud thump. "If you say so, I believe you."

The cabbie opened the rear door for them.

"Come on," Susan took Cheshire's hand, "Into the back we go."

Cheshire's hand was cold, and he squeezed her fingers as if they were precious jewels, and he wanted his palm to be cut by their bedazzling edges.

When the cab jolted into the busier streets, Cheshire watched out the window like a dog on a long ride to the country, all eagerness and nervous.

Susan kept a tight hold on his hand. She found herself completely unwilling to let go - but it did not matter whether she could let go or not. Cheshire clung to her just as desperately.

Twas as if two hands had never been clasped before, and they were discovering the pleasure of it for the first time on behalf of the whole mankind.

They did not speak.

They stopped at Andrew Jr.'s flat first, the brownstone cottage, tall and thin between many buildings exactly like it, all lined up like dominos. Cheshire did not let go of Susan's hand, but slipped out, and felt the tug.

He looked down with some surprise at her, and twirled his fingers through hers, as if trying to learn to dance between her knuckles. "This is quite lovely," he said, finally, and looked up at Susan, and she was surprised to see that he seemed incredibly moved - as if he might cry. "I suppose this is just something that all Narnians do," he sighed. At Susan's start at being called Narnian, especially with such ease from his lips, he hastened to add, "Jane filled me in, a little. About who is who and where is where." He played with her hand again, his caresses soft.

The cabbie looked back in the mirror with utter perplexity.

"No," Susan managed, "This isn't something Narnians just do."

Speak truth, daughter, she heard in her mind, in a voice not quite like her own. Almost as if she received encouragement from something or someone else. She blinked at herself, and willed herself to speak.

"This is something a human does when they like someone very much," Susan felt a little turn in her stomach, old fears and old habits trying to rise above the good, the real, the pure. "I don't do this with anyone else."

Not even old lovers, she thought with some bitterness. Not one of them would have wanted to hold her hand just for the joy of it. All they wanted was a satisfactory shag.

Cheshire's smile broke out from the dark, blustering clouds of confusion and doubt. "We only just met," he said secretively, too low for the cabbie to judge. "But I feel it is nothing if not serendipitous. I look forward to seeing you again with all my heart and stockings."

He finally had to let go of her hand. She smiled through the window at him when he shut the door and proceeded up the landing.

"I'll call you," Susan said.

"I shan't hear you from here, unless you use Andrew's magic wall ornament," Cheshire suggested confusedly, but there was no time to explain, for the cabbie decided he had waited quite long enough.

"Are you trying to... recreate her shipwreck to get back?"

"It's worth a try."

"To kill yourself?"

"That's how it always happens."

"How what happens?"

"Getting to Oz. I got swept up in a tornado. I was washed overboard on my way to Australia. Betsy was shipwrecked. I got stuck in a terrible earthquake. Those are the methods by which I've been pushed into the realm of Oz, and the nearby land of Ev, and so it seems my life must be in ultimate peril in order to trigger the magic."

"So why don't you become a test pilot?"

"Unexpected dangers to my life are the portal, not just being stupid. I think it has to be a natural disaster or a tragic accident."

"Your brother used to give me the same look you're giving me now."

"Peter doesn't approve of reckless endangerment. He believed in... sacrifice. Danger as a last resort."

"Not Peter - Edmund."

When she returned home and deposited the boxes to her bedroom, Susan phoned the police station.

"Can you please put me through to Detective Inspector Hargreaves, please?" she asked, twirling the wire too hard around one finger. She stood at the wall in her flat, the doors to her flatmates rooms shut firmly.

"Who's calling?"

"Susan Pevensie."

"What for?"

"He handled the matter of my family's death," Susan replied crisply. "Please. He knows who I am. I must speak with him."

"One moment, please."

The moment was all too agonizing, and while having breached the subject casually at first, Susan suddenly felt as if she were in a great hurry. Time was wasting away, and she had to have answers before… before what?

Urgency beat beneath her chest and in the swelling of the finger that the cord was twisted about. She stared at the empty hall, the closed doors. She heard light music from a gramophone coming from Molly's room.

Mary Ann had moved out long, long ago. After the death of her brother from some terrible illness, she appeared less and less in public areas, and Molly finally told Susan in the washroom that she'd gone home to live with her parents again.

Susan had thought it was silly Mary-Ann was giving up her independence just because she was grieving. Susan didn't sacrifice her adulthood for her grief. She managed to work and live on her own.

Until now, she'd forgotten all about it. Once she met the Tea Club - distractions faded away. There was nothing she could do about that now except try to make amends. If only there was a way to go back and undo her cruel words to Mary Ann.

If only she could make things right, exactly when it mattered, instead of discovering how to do it when it was too late…

"DI Hargreaves," the man's voice came gruff and tired, but not unkind. His accent Estuary and faded since the last time they spoke - his time in London wearing it away.

"This is Susan Pevensie."

"Ah, Ms. Pevensie. How are ya?"

"I am well, thank you. And you?"

"Well off, Mrs. and I expectin'. Four months along, she is."

"Oh, please let me offer my congratulations. How wonderful."

"It is, it is. Now, how can I be of assistance to ya?"

"I have, perhaps, an odd question for you," Susan hesitated now, with nerves. "Would you perhaps have a list of names from the train wreck…"

Before she could finish her question, he interrupted with a tone of concern. "Now, Miss, what you be wantin' to talk about that? You ain't in trouble, are ya?"

"Oh, no, nothing of the kind," Susan thought of Dorothy's sweet smile, her Kansas manners. Her words felt a little sick, as if she were lying. "It's for my - my memoir. Yes, I am writing my memoirs and collecting information, you see. It's cathartic."

"It's what?" DI Hargreaves repeated with some confusion, not knowing the word.

"Please, Inspector. Would you happen to have a list of survivors? I should very much like to speak to them."

"Oh, yes, I understand now, rightly so. Hold on a minit, I can fetch it. I keep the file close, see. I'll never forget it." He paused, shuffling papers. "It's not an incident one should forget. Terrible tragedy for our history."

Susan remained silent, waiting patiently.

"Ah, 'ere it is," DI Hargreaves paused. "I can read 'em off 'ee to ya if you like."

"Please, thank you."

"Lessee - alphabetical, it is. Aldridge, Nathaniel. Alsford, Trent. Boxwood, Victoria. Bufford, Jane. Cobblewood, James. Collins, Frank. Danton, Polly. Danton, Peter. Danton, Charlie. Danton, Catherine. Oof - lucky blokes. Hmph. Edwards, Emily. Evans, Henry. Franklin, Thomasina. Gale, Dorothy. Gregory, Matthew…"

Susan's world stopped.

It stopped, the axis ceased, gravity a myth, the sun - the moon - the stars - all halted inside her heart at this moment, this name, and all matter of the universe held its breath to see what curious atoms may brush each other next.

Susan could hardly form words, but in the shock, forced herself - camly, and quickly, to speak as if nothing was wrong. And yet everything was.

"Sir," Susan interrupted, "Please - you said, Dorothy Gale?"

"Yes, Miss. Shall I spell it?"

"No, no thank you, and I've - I've just realized I've plenty of names to get started, anyhow, I must - I must - I must thank you - for your time - and I… I have to…"

"You sure you're all-right, Miss?"

"Quite all right, only I realize, I must go, I must go quickly, but I thank you. For everything, as usual…" Susan's hearing seemed to throw the hallway off kilter, a high-pitched ringing one moment, and silence the next. She had hung up the phone on his last farewells, not even hearing them.

A shadow of darkness - of death - seemed to creep by, brushing against her shoulder. No, not death. Dorothy.

Just as deadly. Maybe more so than she had given her credit for.

This time, she took a cab to Albert's flat. She had never been inside before, but she saw it when he allowed her to attend his radiation appointment. Afterwards, he was limping properly, and leaned on Susan's arm as she helped him to the curb for pick up. He had made silly jokes during the entire ride, trying to coax out a smile. She'd scolded him for terrible timing, and urged him to tell her if he needed help.

When they stopped outside the boarding house, very small and cramped flats for men only, Albert assured her that he would be overly communicative. She'd soon grow tired of hearing from him.

But that was just the trouble, wasn't it? She'd never grow tired of hearing from a friend. She worried the day she didn't hear from him would be the day she lost him.

She hesitated on the stoop, feeling cold in the night. She saw her breath in clouds against the small glass window, and didn't even have to ring the bell awaiting her hand.

The door was already opening.

"Hello," said an older man, jowls trying to escape a tight Episcopalian collar and an umbrella hooked on one elbow. "Going inside, my child?"

"Yes, please," Susan said, sliding around him as he held the door open wide for her, but not quite wide enough as he took up a little more space than he knew.

"It's nearly cut off hour," warned the Father with an informative nod. "Young ladies not permitted past…" he checked his watch. "My apologies. You have about an hour and a half."

"Thank you - that's - very helpful."

"Are you quite all right, my child?"

"I am, thank you," Susan felt the urgency again, her heart whispering hurry, hurry. "I just need to see my cousin."

A cousin is family, her mind chided. You have no family.

She lied so easily, old habits. But she meant it. While not factual, it felt truthful.

"I'm family," she added. I do have family, her mind argued, a new voice overriding the old one. I have Albert. Jane. Peter and Jane's child. Wendy, Alice…

She remembered Alice was no longer bound by Earth, and frowned with the pain of her leaving them all behind.

"I am sorry, I don't mean to keep you," the Father looked relieved she was here to visit family, and not seeing a young man - unaccompanied - for anything untoward. "God bless you."

"Thank you, Father," Susan nodded politely.

She hurried inside, and checked the names at the door. Third floor, room eight.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! the voice pounded in her lungs. She didn't know why. She didn't understand. It wasn't about sharing her fears with Dorothy. No, this was something else. This was something terribly wrong.

The door knocker on Albert's door was a lion's head, a small ring in its mouth.

Susan stared at the lion for a half-moment. "Help me," she whispered, and rapped her knuckles smartly against the wood thrice. No answer.

"Albert!" she called. "Albert, answer the door!"

Nothing.

She curled her fist around the knob and it turned in her hand. Unlocked. She went inside his flat and shut the door behind her.

"Albert?" she called out. "I'm coming in!" She looked around the apartment, noticing the tidiness first. A cheap pair of wooden chairs and a small table, the kitchenette, a small armchair beside the woodstoves. Magazines and books tastefully spilling out of a small bookshelf and records spread across the table's surface. She liked his taste in music - plenty of Glenn Miller.

She made her way around the table, looking to the door in the back between the bookshelf and the chair. There were sounds of the sink running in the loo, the squeak of the tap, and the water fell silent.

Then a horrible sound, a sort of groan and a shout all at once.

"Albert?" Susan called again.

There was a short gasp. A sound like something struggling, and a thump on the floor.

She raised a hand and gently rapped at the bathroom door. "Albert, it's me."

"My nightingale," Albert's voice wheezed out, a gurgling undertone. "I'm afraid I'm… indisposed."

"Your door was unlocked."

"I always leave it unlocked now," Albert replied. "In case I… in case I die in my sleep, see. They won't have to break down the…"

The sound of vomiting profusely cut his words short.

Susan froze in place. She should leave, it was terribly impolite to impose on him like this. While he was feeling so poorly.

"I'm sorry," she called through the door, "I should not have barged in like this."

"Susan? Susan? SUSAN. Don't leave." Albert's voice suddenly shrieked out, the childlike tones of pleading stopping her heart in a ice-grip of fear. "Susan, please, I'm…"

"I'm coming in," Susan announced loudly, taking charge of the situation. Priority could hang itself for all she could care.

She opened the door, immediately overwhelmed by the hot smell of sickness, the toilet bowl full of vomit. Albert was curled up on the floor, a frightening stick-thin skeleton in nothing but his beige trousers and a white under-shirt plastered on his body with sweat.

His body was a flushed sheen alternating between red, feverish goosebumps and the gray, corpse pallor of illness. He hugged one knee to his chest, the other knee curled up under him, and one arm cranked at a horrible angle to brace himself above the toilet.

"Albert, darling," Susan tossed her handbag behind her into the hall, knelt on the tile beside him, and pressed a hand to his forehead. She reached over his head and cranked the rusty handle of the toilet to flush what was there, trying not to look at it as it whirled down. Was there blood in it, too? She couldn't tell.

Albert began to heave into the toilet, but he wasn't vomiting. It was something almost worse than that. Sobbing without crying, only his lungs working like an army truck engine that couldn't quite start. He squeeze his eyes shut, his face red, hot tears of shame and pain coursing down both cheeks.

"You'll be alright, dear, you're alright, let it all out," Susan soothed, "Sweet Albert. I'm right here."

Albert still couldn't quite seem to catch his breath, the sobs growing more pronounced, his whole body shaking. "It hurts," he managed to coax out.

"What hurts, my dear?"

"Everything," he cried, his voice cracking and shifting into something high pitched and animal. A quantum of unbridled fear that even Susan had never seen before. "M-m'my skin," he sobbed. "My leg. My-my-my head."

She reached up to the sink, found a towel, and pushed it beneath the faucet and turned on the water. Then she brought it back and pressed it over the back of his neck.

He shuddered with relief, his shoulder tensions and bulging veins in his forearms relaxing almost immediately.

"There, there," Susan whispered. "Don't be afraid. I'm right here."

He sighed into the toilet and tried to breathe. "W-wh-what are you doing here?" he asked, not accusatory. Astonished.

"I felt like coming to see you," Susan avoided telling why, exactly.

"Well, th-th-thank-G-G-G-God," Albert laughed painfully. "I don't want to die alone."

"You're not going to die, Albert," Susan snapped firmly. "Not if I have anything to say about it. Not today."

Albert laughed, and then vomited again. Inhaling raggedly and screaming out whatever he ate last, along with the yellow bile when there was nothing more to release. His whole body shook and twitched, his fingers curling and uncurling in horrible little scarecrow movements. When the vomit stopped, long globules of drool stretched from his tired lips.

Susan supported his shoulders with one arm, soothing with nonsensical words. She used her other hand with the cloth and wiped his mouth clean. Sweat continued to pour off his body, the stink of it palpable. She wet the cloth again and dabbed it on the back of his neck, his shoulders.

He finally pulled away from the toilet, leaning back on the wall, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling, his dark hair slicked back and chest looking so, so thin in that ragged sleeveless shirt. He drew his knees up to his chest, and then pushed his feet to the opposite wall, and then pulled his knees up again. Almost as if he was in too much pain, too much savage horror, to find a position comfortable enough to rest in.

Susan sat across from him, leaning on the cupboard beneath the sink. She reached over and put her hand tentatively on his knee.

"Shhhh," she whispered. "Shhhh. It's okay. You're all right. I'm right here."

His face crumpled, each eye turning into a wrinkled mesh. He cried as a little boy cries, the unknown - the unfairness - turning each sob inward and stretching his mouth into a wriggling, trembling shape. He dropped his chin to his chest and wept, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if to punish them. Kicking his legs against the wall, pulling them in, and kicking them out again.

Susan had never seen a person break down before. She used to tease Lucy about being a liar - used to say her siblings could even be mad for believing in Narnia. She was beastly to them, questioning their presence of mind, their ability to function. As if that was some sort of break-down. When it was nothing of the kind.

It was so wrong, she realized. So incredibly wrong.

Susan found one of his shaking hands, clutching it tightly. "Aslan," she whispered out loud. "Hear me. Help Albert. Please."

He squeezed her hand too tightly, and it hurt. She let him. He wept so hard that the panic made him think he couldn't breathe - and for a moment, Susan thought he couldn't, either. He writhed on the floor before he could catch air in his working lungs again.

The madness - here - was Albert's complete and utter distress. He lost some capability to think, he was blacking out. He was falling into a darkness that she couldn't pull him from.

Susan thought it would be so different if he were a drunk, an addict. Choosing this darkness and jumping in, not caring for the consequences or collateral damage. But this was a hell on earth that was thrust upon him, and he could do nothing but let the waves crash on him. Over and over again.

Susan rode the wave with him, sometimes clinging his hand, sometimes holding his upper body in a tight embrace, letting him sweat and cry on her. Somewhere inside the exhaustion finally broke through, the tide went out. Albert could rest for a moment - not crying, not hyperventilating, only trembling with chills.

She found a glass where he kept his toothbrush, dumped it out onto the counter, and filled it with water.

"Drink," she commanded.

"Don't wan' throw it up 'agin," Albert whispered hoarsely, his voice raw.

"Just a few sips. You're dehydrated. Then we can wait, and then you can have a few more."

He wouldn't look at her. Carefree Albert - funny, flirty Albert - the facade was checked at the door. That was the Albert who put on a face for everyone. And now, Susan knew the painful truth. Her friend Albert was dying, and frightened, and in the meantime, he'd suffer. Such is the way of illnesses with short expiration dates.

Susan held the glass to his lips and tipped it forward, satisfied after he took two careful gulps, his throat bobbing with the effort of it. Then she set the glass aside and cranked the faucet handle of the bathtub, keeping her hand beneath the stream till she was satisfied it wasn't scalding, nor too cold.

"I should call your doctor," she said, more to herself than him.

"His number is in my little black book," Albert said in a monotone. "Coat pocket hanging by the front door."

She pulled off his shoes and socks, coaxed him to his feet, and helped him into the tub, despite still wearing trousers and a shirt. He did not protest, or even try to make jokes about Susan making an honest man of him, which was the scariest part. Old Albert would be wild about this.

Once he was settled, his breathing eased. More relaxed, less frightening.

"I'm going to put on the kettle," Susan said gently. "You just lay there and take deep, deep breaths. I'm going to find you fresh clothes, too."

Albert did not protest. He only nodded tiredly, his leaking eyes finding Susan's in an innocent, searching expression for answers, for comfort. She brushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead in a motherly gesture.

"It's all right," she repeated simply. "I'll be right back."

She went first to the kitchen, not having to search long for the tea, putting the kettle on the stove and assuring there was plenty of water in it. Then she paused at the bathroom door.

"Albert?" she called in. "Are you washing up?"

"Yes'm," came a mumbled response.

"Good." She turned and briskly walked into his bedroom, searching a set of drawers till she found pants, blue silk pyjama trousers, and a white army-cut short-sleeved shirt. Then she took the small pile and went to the bathroom door again. "I'm going to slide these in for you," she called, pressing the pile in through the door ajar and letting them drop onto the counter.

"Thank you."

"Of course. Take your time." Susan went back to the kitchen and tapped her foot agitatedly, waiting for the kettle to scream. She remembered the black book, found his coat hanging on a peg by the front door, and searched for the book in the breast pocket.

There were plenty of numbers - her own being one of them - and found Dr. Hansen. Doctor Handsome, she remembered Albert calling him, with a faltering smile.

She wound the numbers into the phone with a trembling finger, smiling at the ease of it. Her own boarding house still had the old telephone, holding a bell-shaped piece to one ear and telling the operator where to direct the call. She suspected the matron of the house did that on purpose to curb the freedoms of the girls living there. Less likely to sin if they have to name every call they make beforehand.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Hansen, my name is Susan Pevensie. I am a friend of Albert Nelson, one of your patients. I wanted to call on his behalf. He's not… he's not well."

"What are the symptoms?"

"He's in a terrible state, I can hardly describe…" Susan felt tears well up in her own eyes, and her voice caught in her throat. "My apologies," she added hoarsely, "It was very terrible. He couldn't stop vomiting for a very long time. He was hardly present in his own mind. Sometimes it seemed like… like he couldn't breathe, but he was."

The doctor sighed deeply. "He is not well, and it sounds to me like he's finally realized it."

Susan swallowed a lump in her throat. "You mean he is dying?"

"Short answer, Miss? Yes. Radiation treatments can help for a while - maybe even a long time. Give someone a few extra years, it's been known to do. But you're telling me of panic."

"I would call it despair," Susan whispered into the phone. "Of the darkest kind."

"Feeling sick is a normal thing," said the doctor, "But despair? It's a terrible combination. Especially if it hits the happy one all at once."

"That much I know," Susan tried not to snap, "I assume there is some recommendation to ease this at all."

"Nothing the English do not already know," Dr. Hansen replied. "Make him comfortable. See if he can keep down some tea and toast. We… we rarely expect anyone to outlive their illness, Miss. The best thing to do is try to keep out the despair. No medicine I can give you would do such a thing."

"Perhaps something that relieves fevers," Susan acted as if she didn't hear him. "Surely you understand the chills and pains that come with the vomiting. Perhaps something you'd recommend to relieve those symptoms?"

"Dry clothes," replied the doctor, "Sleep. Tea."

"That can't be all," Susan whispered.

He did not reply at first. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I had better advice." He sighed, again. "I am truly grateful he has a friend with him. I worry about all my patients, but I worry for the ones who live alone the most. Albert is a cavalier fop to anyone in public, but these are the ones to look out for. They put on a good show only as long as their energies are high."

Susan cleared her throat. "The show is over. That's for certain. I must go back to him, the tea is ready."

It wasn't ready, not yet.

"Thank you for calling, Miss. Albert's lucky to have a friend like you."

Susan slowly lowered the receiver into the cradle without saying goodbye. Then she was winding in a new number written in the book.

The phone was answered before the first ring was over.

"Susan," Cheshire said. "You used the magic. Thank you."

"Chess," Susan replied, "I'm afraid Albert is very - very ill. Someone will need to stay with him tonight - and it can't be me, he lives in a boarding house. Women aren't permitted after-hours. Would you come?And tell Andrew Jr.?"

"I can, I can," Cheshire said quickly. "I'll hail the fish."

Susan could hear a voice not some too far from Chess. "I'll drive you," said Andrew Jr. "No fish to be found in London, my shifty friend. Tell Susan we're coming."

"We're coming!" repeated Cheshire, and the line clicked over.

She set the phone back and pushed the cord onto the table to keep from tripping over it (it was quite long) and returned to the kettle, lifting the wailing, steaming pot from the stovetop and pouring it into the waiting teacup. She added no sugar cubes, though they were clearly marked in a crock on the countertop. She didn't want to aggravate his sickness in any way.

She carried the steaming teacup with care back down the hall, pausing outside the bathroom door again.

"Decent?" she called in lightly.

"Partially," Albert's voice sounded broken. She could hear the tub draining with eager gurgles, so, at least he finished his bath. She pushed the door open slightly, made sure he was wearing the pyjama trousers at least, and stepped in the rest of the way.

"I have some hot tea," she said, setting it aside on the counter. "Where's your shirt?"

He lifted one elbow, and it hung there, only making it through one sleeve. "I'm having a hard time lifting my arm over my head," he said quietly, looking at the floor. "It's got my shoulder and arm too, you know. Spread since we last looked. Eating away."

Susan swallowed a reviled reaction, his guttural fears pouring off of him like shadows. She stretched the shirt out, slid his other wrist through the opposite sleeve, and then overly stretched the neck of the shirt to fit over his head so he wouldn't have to really move his arms upwards at all. Now, the neck of the shirt was loose and silly-looking.

She tugged the edges down and made sure it looked alright.

"Come on, to bed," she helped him to his feet, one hand guiding his elbow, the other taking up the tea cup again. She thought she was supporting his weight at this point, but no, he was so light and wraith-like that she hardly had to support anything at all.

"Susan Pevensie," Albert attempted to joke in a tired whisper. "Trying to take me to bed."

"Not trying," Susan scolded. "Succeeding. You are going to bed and drinking this tea if it's the last thing I do." She led him to the bed, drew back the covers, and saw there were bloodstains on the pillow case. "Sit."

Albert obeyed, lifting his legs to the mattress, and letting her throw the coverlet back over him. She handed him the teacup, and she moved the pillow, gesturing for him to lean back against the headboard.

"I'm going to find you fresh linen," she said crisply, holding the pillow out for his inspection. "Are you coughing up blood? At night?"

Albert sipped his tea, looking down into the dark chestnut-colored liquid still steaming. "Bloody noses, as a matter of fact."

Susan leaned into the wardrobe, checking the drawers beneath, lifting a neatly folded pillowcase out and fluffing his pillow.

Albert raked his knuckles beneath his nose, looked at the red blotches there, and then caught a heavy drip of scarlet in his palm with a grunt of surprise. He looked around for a hanky. There was one on his nightstand, with something wrapped inside of it. He struggled for a moment with his bloody fingers to untangle the amulet from inside the folds, picking it up and gently setting it aside. Then he took up the hanky and curled the fistful of it beneath his nose.

Susan returned to his side, her face troubled.

"Don't you look at me like that," Albert whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm going to die."

"Well, Albert," Susan gently pulled his shoulders forward, lowered the pillow behind him, and let him settle back comfortably. "I'm not going to look at you with anything other than the face I possess, so I'm afraid the interpretation is up to you." She looked at the teacup. "Finished?"

"Just for now."

She took the teacup and put it beside the amulet, the small stone figure like a faceless head and a crossbeam, with Albert's bloody fingerprints maring the monotone gray. She sat gingerly at the side of the bed and looked at Albert over his bloodied hanky.

"Like this," he said, voice muffled. "All the time."

Susan brushed his hair back from his forehead again, pressing the backs of her fingertips to his flushed forehead. "Oh my dear," she said, "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

Alberts eyes filled a little, and he dropped the bloodied hanky to his lap. But his mouth worked over an exhausted smile. "Do with me?" he repeated. "Whatever am I going to do with you, Susan? Susan the Gentle," he spoke her old title like one respectfully addresses a member of the church or a noble. Not an endearment, more of a compliment. "Whatever made you decide to just barge into my water closet like you owned the place?"

"I don't know," she replied with bewildered honesty. "I knew you needed me. Somehow."

He chewed his lower lip. "Thank you," he said. "I must have… I'm afraid I made a right fool of myself, didn't I?"

"No, Albert," Susan said quickly. "No. Don't think it. Not for a minute. You can't help this. Any of it."

"I suppose you're right." Albert yawned discreetly. "But I still feel greatly ashamed."

"I don't have much experience with illness such as this," Susan ventured, "But I should think the feeling is - while normal - not to be entertained."

"Did you get everything you needed?" Albert asked abruptly. "From the flat?"

"I did."

"And the secret letter? I've been simply dying to hear of its contents." He winced. "Poor choice of words. I'm quite curious. Alice would be frothing over it."

"As a strange coincidence, I have it with me," Susan left his side briefly to retrieve her handbag from the corridor carpet. She removed the letter and unfolded it, handing it across with a soft crinkle of aging paper. Albert's eyes began to slide back and forth as he rapidly drank in every word.

Susan wondered how differently things may have turned out if Ed had ever had a chance to send it. He probably planned to pop it into the post the day after the train came in. Would she have even read it? Or worse - read it, and ignored it?

"This is a strange perspective," Albert said when he finished, refolding with care. Susan took it back and held it in her hands like a baby bird - tentative and delicate.

"What do you think?" Susan asked.

"I say it rings true any way you look at it. Dorothy's always been a bit of a loose canon, we've all known that."

"But this letter seeks to make her some sort of mad villain."

"Aren't we all the mad villains of someone else's story?" Albert asked.

"There's one last thing," Susan had nearly forgotten, and felt a quiver in her heart as she prepared to voice the fact out loud for the first time. "I spoke with the detective inspector that handled the affairs of speaking to surviving kin. We kept in touch, oddly, he remembered that I lost my entire family. I called him tonight."

"What for?"

"I asked him to name the survivors of the train crash," Susan whispered hoarsely. "He named Dorothy Gale as one of them."

"Horse shit," Albert whispered, eyes huge. "She was not."

"She was."

"She was there," Albert asked, "On the train?"

"Or on the platform," Susan suggested. "It's difficult for them to tell in any derailing…"

"You don't think she possibly had anything to do with it? With the accident?"

"I can't fathom the thought…"

"But she said she wanted to be in an accident," Albert reminded her. "She said so. But…"

"I can't think of it," Susan repeated. "I can't suspect her. I don't even know what I would be suspicious of. She's a friend. It's terrible to ruminate like so, but I must tell someone."

"She should have told you," Albert said stoutly. "Why lie by omission? And Edmund's letter - well, I always liked the chap, thought him to be the smartest of the bunch, really. And they called him King Edmund the Just - not for only being just but for his judgements being right. He thought something was wrong - suspected it. I daresay we need an emergency club meeting to discuss immediately. And confront Dorothy."

"Oh dear, but I shouldn't want to disrupt… it seems so wrong pounce on her. "

"If you won't, I will. At least she has a chance to explain herself!" Albert's eyes were fever-bright, his skin flushed. "And it's high time she stopped playing games. I do love a good drama."

"Albert, do calm yourself. You've been very sick. Please. Please," Susan repeated and touched his arm. "The club can certainly wait. I've already asked Andrew and Chess to come stay - I should have left long ago, it's past the floor-hours, you know. The most important thing to do now is get you feeling fit again. Then we can speak to Dorothy together."

Albert sighed childishly and looked up at the ceiling. "Don't you pity me, Su."

"I don't," Susan replied crisply. "You and I would have a good row if I did. You don't want pity, so I shan't give it. I pity myself, instead. I pity what I am without you. Without the Tea Club. Never thought I'd make a friend like you."

"Or meet someone like Cheshire?" Albert asked, his lips widening into a cheeky smile.

"You're insufferable."

"I'm an old romantic, you know that."

"This is about you, Albert, silly. I don't want to talk about Chess and I."

"So it's Chess now, is it? You and Chess? Chess and I? Quite a pair you make."

Susan shook her head. "Maybe - in time. I hardly know him."

"You've spent the last few weeks together! He's attended every meeting and made his attentions obvious in every way!"

"He's hardly spoken to me."

"But he can't take his eyes off you, and leaps at every chance to help you."

"He is kind."

"He's in love with you."

"I've no time for romance," Susan protested. "Not when my family needs me."

Albert tried to argue, but processed the word family, and he smiled sadly. "Don't sacrifice a chance at happiness just because Jane and I are very needy," Albert chuckled. "We'll get along. She and her child, and I with my cancer. That's life, don't you see. If you balk at what-could-be simply because of what is, nothing should ever happen."

"Why Albert, you're a poet."

"I've been spending too much time with Cheshire. That was very Wonderlandian of me."

The amulet rattled, stone knocking on the wood surface of the nightstand.

Albert and Susan slowly looked down.

Without anyone touching it - without a rumbling train nearby to cause tremors - without a slamming door downstairs, or even an earthquake - with no logical explanation to be found - the amulet rattled in place again. As if a bomb had landed silently nearby, only affecting the amulet. Nothing else shook - not the lamp, the alarm clock. The pictures on the wall. Nothing.

Just the amulet.

"Did that just…" Albert trailed off.

"It… it moved," Susan whispered hoarsely. "All alone."

The amulet began to glow.

...

Dearest readers,

My apologies for the long wait. I promise to you this story will be finished, it just takes a long time to do the research necessary for each chapter AND being in the right mindset to dive into 1940s England. Lately I've been all about Marvel fanfic so it was a weird transition! Either way if you are here thank you for sticking around, and I thank all of your for your reviews over the last year. You are all truly so gracious. Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed, please leave a review.

Love, Pip