Room 203

[kitchen_maid]

Room 203 is clean and light and warm, and smells, as always, just slightly of lavender, and when Amy opens the door, Mr. Pemberthy and Simon Perryvall scamper over to say hello to her and to Meg.

"Make yourself at home," Amy says.

Peter Aurelious, from his perch above the window, simply says "qwa," but it's a much friendlier qwa than usual.

Or at least, less disdainful.

Comments

[balletrat]

It's a very nice room, *Meg says, politely.* I don't think I've seen it before -

*Peter Aurelious gets a slightly wary look.*

[kitchen_maid]

Peter Aurelious looks back, then gives a convincing approximation of a yawn, tucks his head under his wing, and goes back to sleep.

"Well," says Amy, with a bright grin, "it looked very different when we had the Christmas party here."

She sets the water on to boil.

"Don't worry," she says, "I won't ask you to drink tea."

The squirrels chatter at Meg excitedly. Person! New person! She might have food! Chatter! Chitter! Squee!

[balletrat]

Yeah, it was kind of buried under decorations. Also, people.

*A ghost of a smile.*

I appreciate that a lot.

*Peter Aurelious having been thoroughly eyed, she turns her attention to the squirrels.*

- sorry, Derry's not with me today.

[kitchen_maid]

"I like it better this way," says Amy.

She has a bowl of soapy water and a washcloth.

"Sit down, and let's get you cleaned up."

She waves a hand to indicate Meg should sit wherever she likes, on one of the beds, or the windowseat, or Anne's desk chair.

[balletrat]

*Meg obediently takes the closest seat to where she's standing, which happens to be on the empty bed, and then stands up again.*

- we do this here I'll get your covers all wet, *she says, apologetically, and moves over to the desk chair.*

[kitchen_maid]

"It's easy enough to change the covers," says Amy, "but this does give us a better place to set the bowl."

She dips the washrag in the bowl and very carefully begins wiping the stone dust off Meg's face.

Simon Perryvall hops onto the desk and close enough for petting, in case anyone has a free hand.

[balletrat]

Statue, *Meg explains, helpfully.

(. . . possibly not so helpfully for Amy, who is trying to clean her face, but.)*

It was hit by a bullet and shattered - I'm really all right.

[kitchen_maid]

"There are worse things a bullet can hit," says Amy. "Unless, of course, you're a sculpter with your priorities all out of order. I assume sculpters can get their priorities all out of order. I know poets can. Even bad poets."

It's prattle, more or less meaningless, but cheerful.

"And of course you're all right," she continues, though there's really no of course about it, "but sometimes you just deserve to get fussed over. It's one of the Rules. And it's your turn to get fussed over.

[balletrat]

*Meg shakes her head, a very little; probably enough to disturb poor Amy's washcloth again, though.*

I get plenty fussed over, *she protests, mildly enough; though there's something, perhaps, behind her words.*

[kitchen_maid]

Amy and her washcloth are managing just fine, thank you.

"Plenty or enough? Or too much?" asks Amy, thoughtfully. "And close your eyes for a moment so I don't accidentally get any dust in them."

[balletrat]

Sometimes, *Meg says, closing her eyes obligingly,* there's - offers of certain kindnesses a person doesn't need.

[kitchen_maid]

"There's really no good way to get dust out of eyebrows," says Amy, but she manages, and then sets the cloth down to pick up a brush and start working on the dust in Meg's hair.

"And there are. Usually they're made by someone who means well and cares about you, but sometimes that just makes it . . . more awkward."

[balletrat]

*Meg winces, a very little; Amy's caught a tangle.*

Awkward, *she says, her voice almost amused,* is - a very good word.

[kitchen_maid]

"Sorry," says Amy, working at the tangle very gently.

"'Awkward' is an excellent word, for all sorts of things. Is this awkward thing something you'd like to talk about?"

[balletrat]

Ne t'inquietes pas.

*A pause.*

It's something, *Meg says, carefully, after a moment,* that's - kind of hard to talk about.

*Which isn't an answer, exactly, one way or another.*

[kitchen_maid]

Amy doesn't say anything, just slowly continues to work at the tangles and snarls in Meg's hair. It's gentle and soothing and almost rhythmic.

[balletrat]

*Meg is silent for a long while.

Finally, she says, her tone flat,* Well.

I'm dead.

- people - around here just don't seem to understand that that's a permanent thing. That's the trouble, I guess.

[kitchen_maid]

"People who know you before you died?" asks Amy, gently. Amy isn't one of those people, after all.

[balletrat]

*A quick quirk of the mouth, in an almost-smile.*

Ouais. I guess it's a - harder concept to get used to than I thought..

[kitchen_maid]

Amy shakes the dust out of the brush, and goes back to brushing Meg's hair.

"Well, yes. I mean, I never thought I'd have friends who were dead. It's just not how things work in my world. And I do forget sometimes, that you, and Caspian, and Lilly, and Eustace are all dead. Or not so much forget as just . . . not remember?"

[balletrat]

- yeah, *Meg says; her hands wind together in her lap, and her eyes are fixed on the window.*

Before I was - I used to forget it all the time, too, with people I knew.

But there's a difference between - forgetting and pretending it isn't true, you know?

[kitchen_maid]

"Yes," says Amy, still brushing the dust and tangles out of Meg's hair. "A rather significant difference, I should think."

[balletrat]

Oui.

*Meg closes her eyes for a second.* I know I can't -

But - some people - I guess it was the only way they could deal with it.

And now I don't know if they can or not.

[kitchen_maid]

"Can't what?" asks Amy, putting down the brush, and coming to address the problem of the scratches on Meg's arms.

"Stop being dead?"

[balletrat]

*Meg shakes her head, newly-untangled hair falling in her eyes.*

Can't deal with the fact that I'll never stop being dead, *she says.*

No matter how much they wish I would.

[kitchen_maid]

"I'm sorry, my dear," says Amy. "And this may sting a little."

Soap on scratches can sting, after all.

[balletrat]

*Meg smiles at her, a little wearily.*

I can handle a little sting.

[kitchen_maid]

"I know you can," says Amy, who is probably not talking about the soap any more.

"And then we're going to have to get you some new coffee. This has gone cold."

[balletrat]

To be honest, I probably don't need any more caffeine or alcohol, really, *Meg says, eyeing the cup a little ruefully.*

[kitchen_maid]

"Tea, then?" asks Amy, with the hint of smile. "I'm told they can take the caffeine out. Or . . . well, we might have to have chocolate ice cream."

[balletrat]

*Meg is about to refuse both -

and then, sudden and determined, announces,* Chocolate ice cream would be fantastique.

*If there's one good thing about being dead, it's the chance to eat whatever she wants - and it's kind of important to remember that there is even the faintest silver lining, right now.*

[kitchen_maid]

"Then chocolate ice cream it is. Do you want to change into something less . . . dusty while I run down and get some? I can offer you a dress that will probably only be a little too big on you. Or a dressing gown, if you'd rather."

[balletrat]

*Meg glances down at her white-dusted tutu and bodice, in mild surprise.*

- yeah, I guess I'd better - a dressing gown should be fine.

*A small smile.* Merci.

[kitchen_maid]

Amy produces a soft and rather fuzzy blue dressing gown and leaves Meg with water and washrag and clean clothes, and goes off to find ice cream.

[balletrat]

*Meg changes rapidly into the fuzzy dressing gown; the sleeves hang loosely down past her wrists.

. . . yes, when in the oversized gown, she looks about ten. Shut up.*

[kitchen_maid]

Nothing with wrong with looking ten on occasion.

There's a light knock at the door and then it swings open. Amy has two enormous bowls of ice cream. With sprinkles.

Sparkly sprinkles.

"I'm back," she says, somewhat unnecessarily.

[balletrat]

*Meg's eyes widen, a little.*

. . . . I didn't know they made bowls that big, *she says, a little wryly.*

[kitchen_maid]

Amy laughs. "I thought they were very . . . festive," she says. "We don't have to finish them."

There's very little chance they'll finish them.

Unless they become sixteen year old boys.

But that seems at least improbable, though not impossible.

[balletrat]

*At the moment, turning into a sixteen-year-old boy would probably not improve Meg's week.

Maybe when she's in a better mood.*

I don't think I could finish it, *Meg says, eyes round.* Seeing as I think it's larger than my stomach -

[kitchen_maid]

Let's keep Amy and Meg on the girl side of things, shall we?

"But festive," says Amy, handing a bowl to Meg.

"And Bar put very nice sprinkles on for us."

[balletrat]

*They are probably more comfortable that way.*

They are very sparkly sprinkles, *Meg agrees, with a small smile, and takes the bowl. Also, a spoon.*

Bar knows us well.

[kitchen_maid]

"Bar is such a dear," says Amy. "And she does ice cream very well."

She settles comfortably onto her bed.

"Now," she says, "what shall we talk about?"

[balletrat]

*Meg considers, for a moment.*

Tell me, *she says, eventually,* something happy - something that doesn't have anything to do with anything serious at all.

[kitchen_maid]

Amy considers for a moment.

"Very well," she says, finally, and begins to talk about the Forest of Faraway, and running off to play when she was little, and bluebells in the spring and gold-and-crimson-and-flame-colored leaves in the fall, about learning to climb trees by watching squirrels (though not Simon Perryvall or Mr. Pemberthy) and learning to swim by watching otters, and ruining a great many pairs of shoes with water and grass stains and snags on brambles.

Like the hairbrushing, it's gentle, and soothing, and almost rhythmic. Amy is a very good storyteller, after all.

[balletrat]

*And Meg listens, her head tilted and her eyes half-closed - it has, after all, been a long day - and almost-smiles at the appropriate parts.

And nearly manages not to think about anything.*