I am sorry. It is, indeed, over. I thought it should have been quite obvious. I was wrong.
Evidently some of you didn't pick up on the symbol of the lamppost going out as an end to several things- childhood( and along with that, Narnia), as well as the story. So here's the epilogue, a few bits and pieces of what may have happened afterwards.
now, who can spot the three jokes in here?three things that might be references to something else...
Margaret let her bags down in a huff, watching five year old Jack sprint past her up the stairs.
"Mind that statue, Jack!" She shouted up to him, but the little tyke was so engrossed in relishing his freedom after a five hour train ride he paid her no heed, hurtling up to explore three floors of rooms. Margaret wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, all too conscious of the sweat stains that must be showing through her cotton summer dress already. Peter came in with the last set of suitcases, setting them beside hers and looping his hands around her waist, resting his head on hers.
"Happy to be on vacation yet, dear?" he asked, swaying back and forth in a little dance.
"I don't know how it'll be a vacation, watching Jack all the time and making sure he doesn't break everything. How did you find this place, anyway?" she asked, looking around at the dark wood and vaulted, vaguely gothic ceilings of the Bed and Breakfast Peter had found for their summer vacation.
"Family friend. We spent a summer down here as kids." Peter said mysteriously, still rocking back and forth. "The owner turned it into a B and B a while back when he couldn't keep the place up- it's brought back so many memories." He kissed Margaret's hair. "I'll take the bags up- the bath is that way, if you want to get ready for lunch." He pointed up the stairs, and Margaret followed the path her son had taken, trying every door to find the bath room.
Eventually, she found it, washing her hands and splashing water on her face- it had to be one of the hottest summers on record, she thought to herself, studying her face in the mirror.
She looked good, for thirty years and one child- still slim, still unlined around her lips and eyes. Her hair wasn't showing signs of gray, still thick, and brown as well-baked bread. Had it really been ten years since she'd met Peter? She could see herself then- she hadn't changed much, grown taller, perhaps, and a little thicker around the waist, but she was still the same Margaret. But she was Margaret Pevensie now.
"If you've finished powdering your nose, Queen Peg, I'll show you where we're sleeping." Peter said, poking his nose through the not-all-the-way-closed door.
"I wish you'd stop calling me that." Margaret said, letting herself be girlishly dragged by the wrist down the hall. Peter opened the door before bodily picking her up and carrying her though the door. "Mrs. Pevensie, welcome to your new home for the next two weeks." He said, dropping her on the bed and falling in next to her. "Where's the little devil got off to?" he asked, kissing the side of Margaret's neck. "Because after five hours on a train and no sleep …"
"Peter, I don't know!" his wife exclaimed. "No, no…not now…not in the middle of the day…Jack might come in."
Peter sighed and shook his head. "But you owe me, remember that." He said, getting up and pointing his finger at her. "Lunch is almost ready, so come down when you've changed."
"I'm not hungry…I may just take a nap." Margaret confessed, and her husband shrugged.
"Suit yourself. But if you get hungry later, don't blame me." He added, leaving the room and closing the door almost all the way.
Margaret processed this lazily, lying back and staring at the patterns the sun was making on the ceiling. Her rest, however, was disturbed by the patter of little shoes on the hard wood floor outside, the creak of the door opening and banging against the wall, and little sticky hands pulling at her wrist.
"Mama, mama, come and see!" Little Jack shouted into her ear. Sighing, Margaret got up and smiled for her son.
"What did you find, Jack?" she asked brightly, getting up. Jack pulled her out of the room, up a flight of stairs and around a corner, up another flight of stairs to an open door.
"Look, Mama, a BOX." Jack said, pointing. At the grand old age of five, the great world of boxes and their contents fascinated Jack, and it was all Margaret could do to keep him from voiding all boxes of their loads so he could crawl in them. But the great grand object in front of Jack was no box at all.
"Silly Jack, that's not a box." Margaret said, taking his hand. "That's a wardrobe. Like your closet at home, where you put clothes. See?" She opened it up, and Jack crinkled his nose.
"It smells funny." He said, smiling at his mother. Margaret nodded.
"Those are mothballs, Jack. To keep the moths from…" She paused, remembering something, "Eating the coats." She pointed to the ratty fur coats hanging there. "And speaking of eating, if you want any lunch you'll want to get down to the kitchen, before Daddy eats it all. He told me he was really hungry." She confided to her son, who zoomed out of the room and down the stairs before she could mention that there might be the possibility of sardines with his crackers if he was a good boy and behaved himself.
But she did not stir to go downstairs- she stood there, staring into the wardrobe, her brow creased, reminiscing with a faint smile. She reached in a hand, to brush the coat again, and a cool breeze passed like a feather over the back of her hand. She retracted it, as though she might have accidentally touched something wholly untouchable.
"There's a lot of different ways you can be a queen, Peg." Peter had told her once, a long time ago in a far away place where there were talking lions and fauns and mermaids, in a fairy tale land where she'd sworn to herself never to let this man walk out of her life. She'd never forgotten that, really- every time he called her Queen Peg she remembered it, though she supposed that it was long gone from his mind. She remembered it the day they were married, and his younger sister said that she looked like a queen in her white dress with pearls at her throat. "You should know!" she told Lucy, who chuckled and shushed her. She remembered it the day Jack was born, and Peter had said she looked like she could conquer the world, sitting in that hospital bed with her face as red as autumn leaves and her entire body covered in sweat.
She looked thoughtfully at the fur coats, hanging in their neat rows, and closed the wardrobe with a click.
Yes, she could always be a queen, she reminded herself with a secretive little smile, replacing the sheet over the wardrobe. And closing the door to the little room as tightly as she could, she went back down the stairs to join her family for lunch.
finis