Amy (
kitchen_maid) wrote2006-01-07 01:27 am
Room 203, January 7, 4:23 AM
Room 203 is absolutely spotless.
Everything is exactly where it should be, set there just so, Amy has finished the dress she started making last week, and every bit of mending that either her own or Anne's clothes needed has been done. Anne's books are perfectly flush along the shelf, the thread in Amy's sewing box has been organized by color. There is not a bit of dust or a spec of dirt or a crumb of anything anywhere.
Amy has run out of things to do.
Amy has been out of her room only once in the past two days, and only because she ran out of tea.
Amy has a letter, that Bar gave her along with the tea leaves, and which Amy has read until she has memorized it, with its (perhaps unintentional) mute reproach in the last line.
Amy has not slept.
Amy is in the window seat, staring at the lake without really seeing it.
There is a ledger on the shelf by her bed, next to her prayer book.
There is a chair under her doorknob.
There is no sign of a cloak anywhere in the room.
Everything is exactly where it should be, set there just so, Amy has finished the dress she started making last week, and every bit of mending that either her own or Anne's clothes needed has been done. Anne's books are perfectly flush along the shelf, the thread in Amy's sewing box has been organized by color. There is not a bit of dust or a spec of dirt or a crumb of anything anywhere.
Amy has run out of things to do.
Amy has been out of her room only once in the past two days, and only because she ran out of tea.
Amy has a letter, that Bar gave her along with the tea leaves, and which Amy has read until she has memorized it, with its (perhaps unintentional) mute reproach in the last line.
Amy has not slept.
Amy is in the window seat, staring at the lake without really seeing it.
There is a ledger on the shelf by her bed, next to her prayer book.
There is a chair under her doorknob.
There is no sign of a cloak anywhere in the room.

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And they move away again.
A few minutes later, or an hour later, or a few seconds later, they come back, slowly. There is a long, long pause.
And then there is a gentle knock at the door.
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There's the sound of a chair being moved, and then a very long moment, while Amy stands with her hand on the doorknob, before the sound of a lock turning the lock, then the door opens.
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He hasn't had his sword in days, really.
And he thinks, maybe if he says the wrong thing, the door will close and even though he and Amy will speak again, and laugh again, there will always be that closed door between them.
So he says nothing, but brings his eyes up from the floor to meet Amy's, as steadily as he can.
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But she holds his gaze, and doesn't quite breathe.
And then she steps forward, and without a word, puts her arms around her brother.
In some ways, it's the most Courageous thing she's ever done.
In others, it's the most Ordinary thing she's ever done.
Either way, it's the only thing she could possibly have done.
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"I'm sorry," he says, finally, softly. So soft it could almost be the breath that he lets out, and nothing more.
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"There's nothing . . . you needn't . . . you weren't yourself."
Except, of course, that he was, there at the end.
A moment, and when she speaks again, it's so quiet that even she can barely hear it.
"I thought you were mad at me."
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"But not at you, Amy."
His arms tighten, slightly.
"Never at you."
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It's just . . .
"I didn't warn you," she says, "and I should have figured it out faster."
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"Amy," he says, "listen to me. Nothing that happened was your fault. There's no knowing what would have happened even if you had warned me. And you didn't see me for a long time--how copuld you expect to know?
"It isn't your fault, my dear. I swear it."
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She manages a half smile, and if there are tears in her eyes, well, they're staying there. Amy is not going to cry.
"How are you, Caspian? Truly?"
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It's a far better answer than he gave to the others. Caspian still almost resents the fact that he is perfectly fine, in body at least, if not in mind and spirit.
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"Is there anything I can do?"
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"I don't suppose you have any tea?"
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"I always have tea," she says, and there is just a trace of mock indignation in her tone.
And it's only the work of moments to make it, really.
"Sit down, if you like."
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He comes in, and doesn't quite look at the chair in front of the door, and goes to sit on the edge of Anne's bed.
And maybe he spies the ledger, but he does not make any move to go and get it, just yet.
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And then she fixes the tea, with thin ginger cookies on the saucers (since she doubts Caspian has been eating when he should and knows that she hasn't).
"Here you are," she says, handing him his tea, and then settling on the floor by Anne's bed, drawing up her knees and leaning her head against his knee.
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His other hand comes down to rest lightly on her hair.
After a moment, when he has drunk half his tea and eaten one or two of the cookies, he says, "Rilian came back."
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"As himself?" she asks uncertainly.
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There's pride in Caspian's eyes, and a small smile.
"As he has been, so he says, for a year now, or more. He is king now, in Narnia."
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She sips her tea and then adds, far too innocently, "Have they made him get married yet?"
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"Although not for lack of trying, from what he was telling me."
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"After all, he had to have something to do after all of you girls were married off."
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"And really, if you think about it, the principles are largely the same, after all. It's all about catching things."
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"At least, it seems so to me. There were no end of eligible young maidens in the court before I married, it seemed."
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