Sleeping Arrangements, chapter 1
Title: Sleeping Arrangements
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: N/A, just general family love
Rating: PG, for Mrs. Macready's implications
Summary: Helen Pevensie visits her children after the events of LWW. She is amazed to see how they have changed, specifically in their bonds with one another.
A/N: Originally, this was slated to be a one-shot, but there's no way that's going to work. This will be seven chapters long - the first one details Mrs. Pevensie's arrival to the Professor's house, and the subsequent chapters will focus on the kid's bonds with each other.
Day One - Letters
Helen Pevensie exhales slowly as she wraps her fingers around the brass doorknocker. Then, she raps it hard against the door, and drops her hand to her side. In her other hand is a letter, crinkled from her repeated readings. Nearly a month ago she had received it, and now she was finally here, able to see why it had been sent.
She waits patiently for someone to answer the door, and stifles a yawn. Her days have been filled with factory work, worry, and not much else. A fierce, pounding ache has taken permanent residence in her right temple, and her feet are sore with blisters from standing all day in worn, too-small shoes. On top of everything, or perhaps because of it, sleep has been foreign.
A bird flies over Helen’s head, sounding a chirp that echoes in her ears, drawing her attention to her surroundings. The Professor’s land is vast and green; his house magnificent even from the outside, and it seems like the perfect place for a holiday. Out here in the country, ten miles away from the railway station, with nothing but fresh air for company, one might even forget there was a War going on.
Suddenly, the door swings open - for a brief second Helen’s heart skips a beat - and she is disappointed. A maid stands before her, not one of her dear children.
“Hello, ma’m, you must be Mrs. Pevensie,” says the maid. “Mrs. Macready has been expecting you.”
“Yes,” nods Helen, her hand tightening on the letter. “But I was wondering, are my children here? I haven’t seen them in a month’s time…”
The maid shuts the door and turns to her, green eyes apologetic. “I know it must be very difficult for you, ma’m, but Mrs. Macready insists you speak with her directly. Please wait here.”
The maid leaves, and Helen can hardly believe she is in a house of such grandeur. To think of the amount of rooms and all of the hidden nooks and crannies is too much - her children must have had many adventures in discovering the house. “Little explorers,” Frank had always called them.
Her lips quirk into a smirk as she recalls her husband’s bright face, but that smirk is soon replaced by a frown. She can’t help but feel awkward in a house like this, and the desire to make a good impression comes upon her. Her eyes search out a mirror - she needs to check her makeup, smooth her hair - but they land on something else entirely.
Near the staircase is a marble statue of some kind, and it looks so unique that curiosity takes over. But just as her fingers creep toward it, an echoing voice makes her think differently - it is shrill, and Irish. “No touchin’ of the historical artifacts!”
“Are you Mrs. Macready? I’m Helen - the children’s mother. I’m here about your letter.” Mrs. Macready’s narrowed eyes dart to the letter she’s holding. “Please, are my children all right?”
Mrs. Macready takes a step toward her, her wrinkled hands held behind her back. “Mrs. Pevensie,” she says, “your children are fine, in a matter of speaking, but something is… off. They’ve been acting,” and here she juts her pointy chin in the air, “a bit mad.”
“Mad, you say?” says Helen, alarmed.
“They speak to each other of an imaginary land, of imaginary creatures, using made-up words. They seem to think themselves Kings and Queens.”
A surge of relief goes through Helen, and she chuckles. “Is that all? Dear, Mrs. Macready, my children have always been dreamers. They have always played games of this kind.”
At Mrs. Macready’s unchanging expression, she feels the need to elaborate.
“When they were very small, they’d play all sorts of things - Pirates, Cowboys and Indians, Mothers and Fathers… but their favorite was Kings and Queens, though they didn’t always call it that. When they were very little, it was just Knights and Princesses, but I suppose they’ve promoted themselves, haven’t they?” She punctuates this last line with a chuckle.
“I am afraid I do not find this humorous,” says Mrs. Macready. “And it’s more than that. Your children do not engage in these games happily… they are dispirited. Sad.”
Helen’s smile fades and she unnecessarily smoothes her dress. “Yes, well, there is a War on. They must miss home very much.”
“Yes,” says Mrs. Macready, “which is why I did not write you earlier. But now I’m afraid their behavior has escalated into something more worrying. They look at their food with disdain, it’s a miracle if they travel out of doors, and they won’t leave each other’s sight, even for an instant.”
“Why wasn’t I made aware of this sooner?”
“The Professor,” says Mrs. Macready, beginning an ascent up the staircase, “seems to think they will be fine. I disagree.”
“Oh, may I please see them? Where are they?”
They reach the top of the stairs when Mrs. Macready turns sharply to her, frowning so severely that tiny dimples form at the creases of her mouth. “I will not stand this cryin’,” she says, shoving a handkerchief at her.
Helen takes the offered cloth and dabs at her eyes, knowing that her mascara is now ruined; it matters little to her at this point. Her children are upset, depressed, and she wants nothing more than to hold them and kiss their cheeks, run her fingers through their hair.
As she sniffles, Mrs. Macready leads her down a hallway, lit only by the morning sun. She treads lightly, though Mrs. Macready walks oppositely, her feet heavy against the creaky floorboards.
“This,” says Mrs. Macready, stopping abruptly to push open a door, “is where your sons share a room. Two boys, two beds. As you can see, they are not in them.”
Helen sighs. “Well, where are they?”
Mrs. Macready has already walked away, continuing down the hall. Helen catches up just as the housekeeper stops in front of another door. “This is where your daughters sleep. Two girls, two beds.”
When Mrs. Macready makes no move open the door, Helen steps forward and twists the doorknob.
Inside, her four children are cuddled on one bed, clad in their day clothes. She presses a hand over her mouth - oh, how wonderful they look! - and then places it over her heart, so overcome with joy at the sight of them. Her eldest, Peter, lies in the middle of the bed. Her youngest, Lucy, seems to have made a place for herself at the head of the bed, lying horizontally across the pillows, her hand close to Peter’s hair. The sunlight that comes through the window hits the face of her sweet Edmund, who is to the left of Peter; he shifts, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s shoulder. Susan is to Peter’s right, half between sleep and consciousness, her fingers playing with his suspender straps.
Mrs. Macready shuts the door, and Helen jumps.
“This is how I have found them every morning for a month. Sometimes it’s all four of them, sometimes they sleep in twos. Surely,” says the housekeeper, her voice pinched, “these sleeping patterns are not normal?”
--
Helen is later escorted to the dining room by another maid (and she wonders how many maids this Professor actually has), and settles herself into a high-backed chair, sighing.
The tinkling sound of silverware causes her to look up. Seated at the far end of the table is a man with white hair all about his face, but he has kind eyes that shine at her even from such a distance. She reckons that this must be the Professor.
“You are Helen Pevensie, I gather,” he says, pointing his fork at her.
“How do you know who I am?”
“You look so like your daughter, Susan, the dear girl - a striking resemblance, I must say.”
“I was to believe you didn’t know I was coming.”
The Professor chuckles. “This is my house, madam, I know everything that happens within these walls.”
“Very well, then,” says Helen, “you know why I am here. I am concerned for my children.”
“Mrs. Macready sent you a letter.”
“Yes.”
“I asked her not to. Your children are just adjusting.”
Yet another maid shows herself, and sets a cup of tea in front of Helen. She nods her thanks and requests sugar, which is quickly brought to her. As she stirs the sugar into her tea, she feels the Professor’s eyes regarding her. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she explains.
“A trait that you share with Edmund, I see,” remarks the Professor with a small smile.
“Yes, well Edmund is quite like me in several ways. Susan, as well. Peter and Lucy are more like Frank, my husband.”
Shakily, she brings the teacup to her lips.
“Helen,” says the Professor, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “your children are fine.”
“Mrs. Macready says - ”
“Mrs. Macready is rather out of touch with children, you should know. She doesn’t like them, finds them a nuisance. I do not think she remembers what it was like to be a child.”
“And you do?”
“Yes, I do. My heart is like that of a child.”
A roguish voice interrupts, “I have just spoken to the children.”
“About what, Mrs. Macready?” inquires the Professor through a bite of egg.
Mrs. Macready looks at Helen, then back at the Professor. “I understand the children are troubled by something, which is why I invited Mrs. Pevensie for a visit, but their sleeping patterns are not something I will tolerate. Under no circumstances should they be sleeping in the same bed. It is improper, shameful! I have just made known to the four of them that they are not to sleep in the same bed.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Macready,” says the Professor, not sounding appreciative at all, “but it was not your place to tell them such a thing. I believe I am the head of this household.”
“Proper or not,” says Helen, “my darlings have not slept in the same bed since they were very young. I wonder if it is healthy, normal - I never slept in the same bed as my brothers.”
“Your children are closer than most siblings,” says the Professor. “The bond they share is not normal at all, but I can assure you it is not improper. The four of them are stronger together than they are apart… for several years, they have done everything together, made every decision as a unit, grown up together… what do you expect of them? What they have is very special and should be treasured, not taken away.”
“Mark my words, Professor, Mrs. Pevensie,” says Mrs. Macready, inclining her head at them in turn, “something’s off with those children. They’re not well.”
The Professor waves a dismissive hand at her. “Oh, would you hush? These children are perfectly well. There is nothing to fuss about.”
Helen sips her tea, not sure who to believe.
--
When the children see her, she does not understand their reactions. She holds out her arms, but they look at her with confused eyes. It is as if they are unable to see that she is real, that she is right before them, and she can see a struggle in their faces.
“Mother,” says Susan, oddly, as if she’s forgotten what it sounds like on her tongue.
“Yes, dear, it’s me.”
When Susan makes no move toward her, she lowers her arms. Perhaps Susan is worried about mussing her shirt and skirt. She looks to her other daughter, who cared not for such things, and was always the first to offer a hug. But Lucy only clings tighter to Susan, as if afraid of an embrace. Next, Helen looks to Peter, hoping that he is willing to be hugged, to have his hair ruffled, that he is not too old. But he, too, stands away from her, stiff and detached.
Helen’s arms twitch at her sides and with much composure, she straightens her shoulders. “Well, my darlings, it’s okay, you don’t have to - ”
“Mum,” comes a strangled voice, and Helen opens her arms again, tears streaking down her face as Edmund seizes her around the middle. He wraps his arms around her tight, and she is on her knees, pressing kisses against his pale face, his messy dark hair.
“Oh, Edmund,” she cries. “How I’ve missed you.” She can feel his small shoulders shake, his heart beating fast against her bosom, his tears on her neck.
“I missed you, too, Mum,” he says, voice muffled against her dress, and she smiles.
“We missed you, too,” says another voice, and then Helen can feel Lucy’s arms around her neck, Susan’s choked laugh next to her ear, Peter’s hand gripping her shoulder as if he never wants to let go.
--
She spends a whole day with her children, smiling so much that the muscles of her cheeks hurt. Helen can’t remember a time when she smiled this much, and indeed, can’t even remember the last time she really smiled. Frank’s departure had robbed her of her smiles, along with her spirit; now, for the first time since her beloved left, she can feel that spirit again.
“So your headaches are gone, Mother?” asks Susan, pressing a hand to Helen’s head. It is a gesture so grown-up that one might think Susan was a mother herself.
“No,” Helen relays, “but they are not as painful. Right now I can barely feel it.”
“How long are you going to be staying with us, Mum?” is Peter’s question, and then he whispers, “You might not want to put your Bishop there. Ed will crush you.”
“I plan to stay for the rest of the week, if I can,” she says. “I wish I could stay longer, but that’s nigh impossible. But I shall relish the next six days, love.”
“Is father all right?” asks Edmund, not looking up from the chessboard.
“He’s fine. The post service is dreadful, but I have received a few letters.”
“What did they say?” puts in Lucy.
Helen’s cheeks flush. They are letters written mainly for her, declaring his love, detailing how he thinks of her and their children every night before he goes to sleep, how he thinks often of their wedding day (and of their wedding night). She cannot think of a decent explanation for Lucy, for she is too young to hear such things.
“Oh, well…” she struggles, “nothing of importance, dear.” But her cheeks remain flushed anyway.
Helen watches as Susan exchanges an embarrassed look with Peter, for they know exactly what ‘nothing of importance’ means. Peter flushes as well, his cheeks nearly as red as Helen’s, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
But Helen is most surprised when Lucy grins widely, says, “Oh, I see,” in a knowing voice, and proceeds to let out a most girlish giggle.
Wide-eyed, she looks to Edmund to see if he, too, understands the meaning behind her words, but her boy is staring at the chess pieces before him. His expression is serious and thoughtful, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and he quickly moves a piece forward.
“Checkmate,” he declares, but there is not a note of pride in his voice, nor the desire to gloat in his eyes. Helen marvels at him, and wonders how he could have changed in such a short amount of time.
--
Helen can remember Lucy’s first birthday. The baby girl started crying a few minutes before midnight, rousing Helen from her slumber. Frank turned to her in the darkness, pressing a finger to his lips, excusing himself from their bed. Helen went to Lucy, holding her, wrapping a blonde curl around her finger, stroking her daughter’s cheeks.
A few seconds later, Frank returned, but with a half asleep Edmund in his arms. Susan was holding his hand, her white nightdress creating a milky glow in the room. A five-year-old Peter held a tiny, round cake in his hands.
They all climbed into bed, whispered the crying Lucy a happy birthday, and ate the cake silently.
They fell asleep in a big, contented heap. It was quite a delightful sleeping arrangement.
--
A/N: Up next - Susan and Lucy's chapter! :)
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Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: N/A, just general family love
Rating: PG, for Mrs. Macready's implications
Summary: Helen Pevensie visits her children after the events of LWW. She is amazed to see how they have changed, specifically in their bonds with one another.
A/N: Originally, this was slated to be a one-shot, but there's no way that's going to work. This will be seven chapters long - the first one details Mrs. Pevensie's arrival to the Professor's house, and the subsequent chapters will focus on the kid's bonds with each other.
Day One - Letters
Helen Pevensie exhales slowly as she wraps her fingers around the brass doorknocker. Then, she raps it hard against the door, and drops her hand to her side. In her other hand is a letter, crinkled from her repeated readings. Nearly a month ago she had received it, and now she was finally here, able to see why it had been sent.
She waits patiently for someone to answer the door, and stifles a yawn. Her days have been filled with factory work, worry, and not much else. A fierce, pounding ache has taken permanent residence in her right temple, and her feet are sore with blisters from standing all day in worn, too-small shoes. On top of everything, or perhaps because of it, sleep has been foreign.
A bird flies over Helen’s head, sounding a chirp that echoes in her ears, drawing her attention to her surroundings. The Professor’s land is vast and green; his house magnificent even from the outside, and it seems like the perfect place for a holiday. Out here in the country, ten miles away from the railway station, with nothing but fresh air for company, one might even forget there was a War going on.
Suddenly, the door swings open - for a brief second Helen’s heart skips a beat - and she is disappointed. A maid stands before her, not one of her dear children.
“Hello, ma’m, you must be Mrs. Pevensie,” says the maid. “Mrs. Macready has been expecting you.”
“Yes,” nods Helen, her hand tightening on the letter. “But I was wondering, are my children here? I haven’t seen them in a month’s time…”
The maid shuts the door and turns to her, green eyes apologetic. “I know it must be very difficult for you, ma’m, but Mrs. Macready insists you speak with her directly. Please wait here.”
The maid leaves, and Helen can hardly believe she is in a house of such grandeur. To think of the amount of rooms and all of the hidden nooks and crannies is too much - her children must have had many adventures in discovering the house. “Little explorers,” Frank had always called them.
Her lips quirk into a smirk as she recalls her husband’s bright face, but that smirk is soon replaced by a frown. She can’t help but feel awkward in a house like this, and the desire to make a good impression comes upon her. Her eyes search out a mirror - she needs to check her makeup, smooth her hair - but they land on something else entirely.
Near the staircase is a marble statue of some kind, and it looks so unique that curiosity takes over. But just as her fingers creep toward it, an echoing voice makes her think differently - it is shrill, and Irish. “No touchin’ of the historical artifacts!”
“Are you Mrs. Macready? I’m Helen - the children’s mother. I’m here about your letter.” Mrs. Macready’s narrowed eyes dart to the letter she’s holding. “Please, are my children all right?”
Mrs. Macready takes a step toward her, her wrinkled hands held behind her back. “Mrs. Pevensie,” she says, “your children are fine, in a matter of speaking, but something is… off. They’ve been acting,” and here she juts her pointy chin in the air, “a bit mad.”
“Mad, you say?” says Helen, alarmed.
“They speak to each other of an imaginary land, of imaginary creatures, using made-up words. They seem to think themselves Kings and Queens.”
A surge of relief goes through Helen, and she chuckles. “Is that all? Dear, Mrs. Macready, my children have always been dreamers. They have always played games of this kind.”
At Mrs. Macready’s unchanging expression, she feels the need to elaborate.
“When they were very small, they’d play all sorts of things - Pirates, Cowboys and Indians, Mothers and Fathers… but their favorite was Kings and Queens, though they didn’t always call it that. When they were very little, it was just Knights and Princesses, but I suppose they’ve promoted themselves, haven’t they?” She punctuates this last line with a chuckle.
“I am afraid I do not find this humorous,” says Mrs. Macready. “And it’s more than that. Your children do not engage in these games happily… they are dispirited. Sad.”
Helen’s smile fades and she unnecessarily smoothes her dress. “Yes, well, there is a War on. They must miss home very much.”
“Yes,” says Mrs. Macready, “which is why I did not write you earlier. But now I’m afraid their behavior has escalated into something more worrying. They look at their food with disdain, it’s a miracle if they travel out of doors, and they won’t leave each other’s sight, even for an instant.”
“Why wasn’t I made aware of this sooner?”
“The Professor,” says Mrs. Macready, beginning an ascent up the staircase, “seems to think they will be fine. I disagree.”
“Oh, may I please see them? Where are they?”
They reach the top of the stairs when Mrs. Macready turns sharply to her, frowning so severely that tiny dimples form at the creases of her mouth. “I will not stand this cryin’,” she says, shoving a handkerchief at her.
Helen takes the offered cloth and dabs at her eyes, knowing that her mascara is now ruined; it matters little to her at this point. Her children are upset, depressed, and she wants nothing more than to hold them and kiss their cheeks, run her fingers through their hair.
As she sniffles, Mrs. Macready leads her down a hallway, lit only by the morning sun. She treads lightly, though Mrs. Macready walks oppositely, her feet heavy against the creaky floorboards.
“This,” says Mrs. Macready, stopping abruptly to push open a door, “is where your sons share a room. Two boys, two beds. As you can see, they are not in them.”
Helen sighs. “Well, where are they?”
Mrs. Macready has already walked away, continuing down the hall. Helen catches up just as the housekeeper stops in front of another door. “This is where your daughters sleep. Two girls, two beds.”
When Mrs. Macready makes no move open the door, Helen steps forward and twists the doorknob.
Inside, her four children are cuddled on one bed, clad in their day clothes. She presses a hand over her mouth - oh, how wonderful they look! - and then places it over her heart, so overcome with joy at the sight of them. Her eldest, Peter, lies in the middle of the bed. Her youngest, Lucy, seems to have made a place for herself at the head of the bed, lying horizontally across the pillows, her hand close to Peter’s hair. The sunlight that comes through the window hits the face of her sweet Edmund, who is to the left of Peter; he shifts, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s shoulder. Susan is to Peter’s right, half between sleep and consciousness, her fingers playing with his suspender straps.
Mrs. Macready shuts the door, and Helen jumps.
“This is how I have found them every morning for a month. Sometimes it’s all four of them, sometimes they sleep in twos. Surely,” says the housekeeper, her voice pinched, “these sleeping patterns are not normal?”
--
Helen is later escorted to the dining room by another maid (and she wonders how many maids this Professor actually has), and settles herself into a high-backed chair, sighing.
The tinkling sound of silverware causes her to look up. Seated at the far end of the table is a man with white hair all about his face, but he has kind eyes that shine at her even from such a distance. She reckons that this must be the Professor.
“You are Helen Pevensie, I gather,” he says, pointing his fork at her.
“How do you know who I am?”
“You look so like your daughter, Susan, the dear girl - a striking resemblance, I must say.”
“I was to believe you didn’t know I was coming.”
The Professor chuckles. “This is my house, madam, I know everything that happens within these walls.”
“Very well, then,” says Helen, “you know why I am here. I am concerned for my children.”
“Mrs. Macready sent you a letter.”
“Yes.”
“I asked her not to. Your children are just adjusting.”
Yet another maid shows herself, and sets a cup of tea in front of Helen. She nods her thanks and requests sugar, which is quickly brought to her. As she stirs the sugar into her tea, she feels the Professor’s eyes regarding her. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she explains.
“A trait that you share with Edmund, I see,” remarks the Professor with a small smile.
“Yes, well Edmund is quite like me in several ways. Susan, as well. Peter and Lucy are more like Frank, my husband.”
Shakily, she brings the teacup to her lips.
“Helen,” says the Professor, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “your children are fine.”
“Mrs. Macready says - ”
“Mrs. Macready is rather out of touch with children, you should know. She doesn’t like them, finds them a nuisance. I do not think she remembers what it was like to be a child.”
“And you do?”
“Yes, I do. My heart is like that of a child.”
A roguish voice interrupts, “I have just spoken to the children.”
“About what, Mrs. Macready?” inquires the Professor through a bite of egg.
Mrs. Macready looks at Helen, then back at the Professor. “I understand the children are troubled by something, which is why I invited Mrs. Pevensie for a visit, but their sleeping patterns are not something I will tolerate. Under no circumstances should they be sleeping in the same bed. It is improper, shameful! I have just made known to the four of them that they are not to sleep in the same bed.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Macready,” says the Professor, not sounding appreciative at all, “but it was not your place to tell them such a thing. I believe I am the head of this household.”
“Proper or not,” says Helen, “my darlings have not slept in the same bed since they were very young. I wonder if it is healthy, normal - I never slept in the same bed as my brothers.”
“Your children are closer than most siblings,” says the Professor. “The bond they share is not normal at all, but I can assure you it is not improper. The four of them are stronger together than they are apart… for several years, they have done everything together, made every decision as a unit, grown up together… what do you expect of them? What they have is very special and should be treasured, not taken away.”
“Mark my words, Professor, Mrs. Pevensie,” says Mrs. Macready, inclining her head at them in turn, “something’s off with those children. They’re not well.”
The Professor waves a dismissive hand at her. “Oh, would you hush? These children are perfectly well. There is nothing to fuss about.”
Helen sips her tea, not sure who to believe.
--
When the children see her, she does not understand their reactions. She holds out her arms, but they look at her with confused eyes. It is as if they are unable to see that she is real, that she is right before them, and she can see a struggle in their faces.
“Mother,” says Susan, oddly, as if she’s forgotten what it sounds like on her tongue.
“Yes, dear, it’s me.”
When Susan makes no move toward her, she lowers her arms. Perhaps Susan is worried about mussing her shirt and skirt. She looks to her other daughter, who cared not for such things, and was always the first to offer a hug. But Lucy only clings tighter to Susan, as if afraid of an embrace. Next, Helen looks to Peter, hoping that he is willing to be hugged, to have his hair ruffled, that he is not too old. But he, too, stands away from her, stiff and detached.
Helen’s arms twitch at her sides and with much composure, she straightens her shoulders. “Well, my darlings, it’s okay, you don’t have to - ”
“Mum,” comes a strangled voice, and Helen opens her arms again, tears streaking down her face as Edmund seizes her around the middle. He wraps his arms around her tight, and she is on her knees, pressing kisses against his pale face, his messy dark hair.
“Oh, Edmund,” she cries. “How I’ve missed you.” She can feel his small shoulders shake, his heart beating fast against her bosom, his tears on her neck.
“I missed you, too, Mum,” he says, voice muffled against her dress, and she smiles.
“We missed you, too,” says another voice, and then Helen can feel Lucy’s arms around her neck, Susan’s choked laugh next to her ear, Peter’s hand gripping her shoulder as if he never wants to let go.
--
She spends a whole day with her children, smiling so much that the muscles of her cheeks hurt. Helen can’t remember a time when she smiled this much, and indeed, can’t even remember the last time she really smiled. Frank’s departure had robbed her of her smiles, along with her spirit; now, for the first time since her beloved left, she can feel that spirit again.
“So your headaches are gone, Mother?” asks Susan, pressing a hand to Helen’s head. It is a gesture so grown-up that one might think Susan was a mother herself.
“No,” Helen relays, “but they are not as painful. Right now I can barely feel it.”
“How long are you going to be staying with us, Mum?” is Peter’s question, and then he whispers, “You might not want to put your Bishop there. Ed will crush you.”
“I plan to stay for the rest of the week, if I can,” she says. “I wish I could stay longer, but that’s nigh impossible. But I shall relish the next six days, love.”
“Is father all right?” asks Edmund, not looking up from the chessboard.
“He’s fine. The post service is dreadful, but I have received a few letters.”
“What did they say?” puts in Lucy.
Helen’s cheeks flush. They are letters written mainly for her, declaring his love, detailing how he thinks of her and their children every night before he goes to sleep, how he thinks often of their wedding day (and of their wedding night). She cannot think of a decent explanation for Lucy, for she is too young to hear such things.
“Oh, well…” she struggles, “nothing of importance, dear.” But her cheeks remain flushed anyway.
Helen watches as Susan exchanges an embarrassed look with Peter, for they know exactly what ‘nothing of importance’ means. Peter flushes as well, his cheeks nearly as red as Helen’s, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
But Helen is most surprised when Lucy grins widely, says, “Oh, I see,” in a knowing voice, and proceeds to let out a most girlish giggle.
Wide-eyed, she looks to Edmund to see if he, too, understands the meaning behind her words, but her boy is staring at the chess pieces before him. His expression is serious and thoughtful, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and he quickly moves a piece forward.
“Checkmate,” he declares, but there is not a note of pride in his voice, nor the desire to gloat in his eyes. Helen marvels at him, and wonders how he could have changed in such a short amount of time.
--
Helen can remember Lucy’s first birthday. The baby girl started crying a few minutes before midnight, rousing Helen from her slumber. Frank turned to her in the darkness, pressing a finger to his lips, excusing himself from their bed. Helen went to Lucy, holding her, wrapping a blonde curl around her finger, stroking her daughter’s cheeks.
A few seconds later, Frank returned, but with a half asleep Edmund in his arms. Susan was holding his hand, her white nightdress creating a milky glow in the room. A five-year-old Peter held a tiny, round cake in his hands.
They all climbed into bed, whispered the crying Lucy a happy birthday, and ate the cake silently.
They fell asleep in a big, contented heap. It was quite a delightful sleeping arrangement.
--
A/N: Up next - Susan and Lucy's chapter! :)
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