... [interlude]

A letter, tucked between the pages of Baum's Sky Island, wrinkled at the edges and faded in spots, like it got damp and was lain flat to dry

Dear sweet Lucy,

To-day I have been learning about the treatment of burns. The textbooks say that burns ought to be regarded as seriously as any other injury - as likely to cause shock, infection, and the like as breaks or lacerations. It seems there has been an evolution in the categorization and treatment of burns since our time in Britain. Chemical, electrical, radiation...

I haven't got the stomach for the pictures, even in the first-aid books. You were always better in the hospital tents than I. When creatures cried out in pain, I wanted to cry out as well, and flee the stench and the anguish of those spaces. When Reepicheep cried for his lost tail, I wanted to cry, too. I had no designs toward becoming a doctor or a nurse or anything of that sort. I've always been far too soft and squeamish for that sort of thing. But I imagine now that you've forgotten that you used to want to heal people, and so I am remembering for you. So I make myself look at the pictures, and learn about cleaning and dressing; about debridement and excising; about what might be attempted on one's own, and for what one must rely on a trained doctor.

(The doctor here is a cat, named Mothwing. She's one of the most delightful residents of this place; I imagine your delight with her would come largely from the novelty of a cat tending your wounds.)

You'll think that I'm chiding you, the way I used to always do. 'Oh, Susan, you needn't fuss so, I've got it' - I can still hear those words in your voice at nearly any age I can remember you. But I'm not chiding you, I'm mourning you. There's a difference, you see. I've given up on trying to nudge you into changing your mind. You've always been committed to your convictions, and I imagine that being in Aslan's country has only intensified that.

Let me tell you about the Lucy Pevensie I remember: You were only seventeen, Lu, and you had the world at your feet and an entire life in front of you. I know you're happy where you are now - I'm ever so grateful that you're happy - but I think it's a massive waste for a life to snuff so soon. Couldn't Aslan have waited to call you back when you were seventy, instead? You were just getting started.

I can see the look on your face. 'Su, you just promised you wouldn't lecture!' You always did get so indignant when you thought I broke a promise. The big ones (loving and remembering Narnia), yes, but the small ones, too. Like the time I said I'd lend you my locket for your party and then changed my mind. You always did live up to your own standards for behavior. I suppose that's what set you apart from the rest of us. You were ever so good at keeping the faith, and at finding beauty even in the smallest, hardest places. When I close my eyes, I see you in the depths of winter, gasping at the first peep of green through the slush and the mud. I see you curled up on the window-seat with Pollyanna, or the Wizard of Oz, or Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, or Nancy Drew, or any other of those books with good girl characters who still weren't as good as you.

I suppose you'll think me jealous, saying that. I'm not, for what it's worth. I don't mind that I, like all the girls from those stories you loved, will never be as purely good as you were. I rather think I would hate it. I'm glad you love it. I truly mean that. I've worked very hard at being able to write you that sentence, and mean it.

Oh, Lucy. Do you remember our ninth year on the throne? You were seventeen then, too. Those centaurs from near the border with Harfang were at Cair Paravel, and they were being such dreadful chores about trade treaties. And then that young filly hurt her leg playing with the dryads - Edmund was off in Beruna sorting out some trouble there, and so we hadn't our usual diplomatic edge. Peter said you jolly well shouldn't waste any of your cordial drops on something so minor, and that we could get some of the willow-dryads to share their bark to help treat it. You put your hands on your hips and glared down your nose at him even though he was a head taller and fetched the vial anyway. It wasn't a bad injury. It barely took a drop. The next day, you went to the dwarfs and asked their matriarch - oh, what was her name! - to teach you about field medicine. The setting of bones, the treating of wounds. She was surprised a Queen would ask her for that sort of information rather than just hiring her to serve as a doctor, but you were so adamant, so focused. You had the same look in your eyes when you were learning, an apprentice at her side, that you did when Aslan breathed on all those statues and brought them back to life.

You shall never have that keen look in your eye again, I think. You didn't have it at all, not even for a moment, the entire day Aslan granted you leave to visit me. You were so caught up in the wonderfulness of his country, and how you want for nothing, and how you needn't strive or change at all. I'm afraid to say I was sorry to hear it. I think that sort of structure in his land smoothed away everything that makes you intere really set you apart when you were still trying to love the worlds we lived in with open arms and your joy in life and beautiful things clutched tight in your fists. You clearly don't mind, and so I try not to, too. But then, you've always had the greatest faith in his decisions.

I want to be clear: I don't begrudge you your time in Aslan's country. Of all people in all the world, you deserve to be there the most. I mean that genuinely - I'm happy for you. I only wish you might have waited a few more decades, so that we all could have seen what sort of woman you'd become. (By the calendar here, I'm once again older, now, than you'd ever had the chance to become. By five days, it's true, but still. I'm older than you were when we left Narnia the first time. You'll never have been as old as I am any other day in my life. The thought of it makes me want to scream   It's unfair is what it is   I could kill A) Now you shan't become anything. As you said, you don't need that sort of thing once you're dead and in Aslan's country. I'm glad you're pleased about it. I shall retain my horror for the foreseeable future.

I won't promise you that I'll come around to the idea of it all. I would hate to disappoint you again. I always did hate the look on your face whenever I broke another one.

Perhaps I wasn't ready to write you after all.

I do love you, my sweet Lucy. I love every single speck of you, even though you'll never again be the Lucy I remember. I wake every day wishing for even just another hour with you in the orchard here.
Your sister,
Susan