In which there is badness in us all, a bath is given, clan-marks are discovered, gambling is proven useful, and a dumb goat meets a swift demise.

He had been quiet, quiet for hours. Lucy, refusing to be anywhere else until she had to be, installed herself in the sickroom with a thick sheaf of drawing-paper one of the Galman engineers had given her. Tumnus spent most of his time sleeping, which Cloudstrike and Calio both said was necessary. When he was awake he was agitated, speaking quickly, sometimes in English and sometimes in the Old Language; Lucy and Siana learned that the best way to keep him calmed was to tell him stories until he relaxed and drifted back off. Tumnus slept deeply, though not quietly, and occasionally spoke in his sleep. Sometimes the sound of his voice woke him, and sometimes it did not.

Today it did.

"The Holly King," he shouted, sitting bolt upright and gasping as though he'd been underwater. "Oceanus. Father Time. I can feel them – they're everywhere. They're asleep, all asleep. Wake them up!"

Lucy dropped her pencils and ran to her friend, taking his hand. "How? I don't understand."

"See to the parents," Tumnus said. "Rest and tribute. Honored dead. I should be of them. A martyr instead of a traitor. That's what everyone would have thought."

"I don't understand," she said, frightened.

"They'd never know. You'd know, but you wouldn't tell. You think such good things. Better a dead hero."

"You're scaring me," she said quietly.

"I'm scaring myself." His voice softened as he came back to himself. He looked intently at Lucy. "I don't know what is wrong with me. You should go before – before I say anything worse."

"What can be worse?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Things you shouldn't know. I won't give that darkness to you. Things before you came – this was not such a beautiful world, then."

"You think I don't know about how war makes everything ugly? You listen to me," she said hotly. "Remember I told you about London and the war, and how we went out to the country?"

"And the wardrobe," he nodded.

"Mum didn't want us to go. She said if the city was safe for her it was safe for us. And then the bombs started. The Germans would fly over the city at night – there were alarms, to tell us. When we heard them we had to go underground, so the bombs couldn't hurt us. Peter had to go back because of Ed. Ed wanted the picture of Dad in his uniform. It was a big picture. He had it taken before he left. He said he didn't want us to forget what he looked like. I'm starting to. I can't remember if he looked more like Peter or like Ed."

"I can remember my father now," Tumnus said. "But it's all wrong, because that wasn't him."

"They went back for the picture," Lucy said. "And they got it. They barely made it back to the shelter. One of the bombs." She sniffled. "Landed."

"What happened then?" Tumnus asked.

Belatedly, Lucy remembered that she'd never quite managed to get Tumnus to understand what a bomb was – overall a good thing, but right now it complicated her story. So she skipped ahead. "Peter and Edmund were shouting all the time, and so was Susan, and so was Mum, and all I could do was cry. When Mum sent us to the country we were still horrible to each other. I would have been horrible back to them but I didn't know how. I didn't know what to say. I was too frightened." With some effort, Lucy trained her eyes on her friend's face. "I know how war can make people act bad even if they're good. It happened to us. It wasn't until we got into Narnia that things got better."

"There's no convincing you, is there?" Tumnus sighed.

"No. Because if we're still good, even after all of that, you are too. No matter what you did."

He squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Lucy Pevensie. But now I think I should rest. It comes and goes. I'm sorry for anything I've said."

"I wish I could understand it," she told him.

"Oh, that's all right," he said, sounding for one moment like his old self. "I don't understand half the things you've told me. Ask Cloudstrike about it. He knows this better than I do."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I hope so," said the Faun, letting go of Lucy's hand and turning away to burrow into the blankets. "I don't really know."

"Isn't there anything I can do?" Lucy asked, forlornly, but Tumnus did not reply.

"Come along, child," said a deeper voice, and Lucy turned to see Cloudstrike standing behind her, his gentle face solemn. "We should speak. Siana will tend to him."

"Stop," Susan said, somewhat sharply, to Ordilan. "Please. I can't – I don't want to hear any more of this. Can you tell her to be calm?"

"I think I'd frighten her if I came closer," Ordilan replied.

Susan shifted herself close to the Wer-Wolf, who stilled when the Gentle Queen embraced her. Susan noticed that the wolf-girl did not embrace her in return, but quietly allowed herself to be held. Susan smoothed the tangled hair away from the girl's face, murmuring softly. "Shh, there, shh," she said. "I can't talk to you, but he can." She looked up at Ordilan. "Will you tell her what I say?"

"Of course."

"Tell her that since I cannot speak her language, you are going to tell her what I say."

"Might need to tell her to shut up first," Ordilan said, as the wolf-girl muttered to herself.

"Oh, all right – but gently, will you?"

The Galman nodded, then moved closer to the wolf-girl. She struggled, but Susan held her still. Ordilan crouched on the floor, closer to Susan and the wolf-girl, but still a respectful distance away. Still ready to attack if needed, Susan noticed.

"Stop talking," Ordilan told her, in the Old Language. "Hold still. We have heard you. The woman does not speak your tongue. I will tell you what she wishes to say. Do you understand?"

The wolf-girl stilled and fell silent, watching Ordilan. "Yes," she whispered.

"She's listening," Ordilan said.

"Ask her name," Susan said. "Tell her mine. And yours, if it will help. Just my name, don't confuse her with titles."

Ordilan glared at his Queen in such a way that made it perfectly clear he disliked this whole business and would rather interrogate the Wer-Wolf at knifepoint, but he did as he was told. "What are you called?" he asked in the Old Language.

"I—" The wolf-girl looked away. "I do not understand."

"Your name," Ordilan tried. "She is called Susan. I am Ordilan. What are you called?"

The wolf-girl shook her head. "There is no word for me."

"She doesn't have a name, Lady," Ordilan said.

"Tell her we won't hurt her," Susan said.

"You will not come to harm here," Ordilan told the wolf-girl.

"Why?" she asked.

"Wants to know why," Ordilan grunted. "I'd like to know too."

"If you will not be helpful, you may leave," Susan snapped. The wolf-girl flinched and tried to pull away. "No, sweetheart," Susan said, holding her tighter and petting her hair again, "not you." Susan looked up at Ordilan. "She's such a wild thing, and so scared."

"And she can pull a man's leg apart," he muttered.

"And you can put a dagger in a heart at fifty paces," Susan countered. "We'll not hurt her because we do not hurt our captives. Ask her why she was fighting."

"Why did you fight in the forest?" Ordilan asked.

"My pack fought," the girl said.

"She's not one for explaining herself," Ordilan told Susan, before turning back to the girl. "When your pack fights, must you also fight?"

"If I did not they would kill me," the wolf-girl said.

"If she didn't fight with her pack, they'd kill her," Ordilan said. "Did you want to fight?" he asked the wolf-girl.

"No," she said. "I am weak. But we were called."

"Says they were called," Ordilan repeated. "Who called you?" he asked the wolf-girl.

"We were called," the wolf-girl said. "We don't see. We just know. When we are called, we must fight."

"And if you didn't fight, your pack would destroy you?" Ordilan asked. "Why?"

"We would be weak if I did not," the wolf-girl said. "They would kill me so that she would not kill them."

"Who would kill the pack?" Ordilan asked.

"She," the wolf-girl said. "She who calls us." She shook her head, agitated. "She owns us. She made us. We must do as she says."

"My Queen," said Ordilan, "were you told what the dwarf told your brother the King, when they came in from battle? The dwarf said that his people were summoned by one they called the Queen of Air and Darkness."

"The Witch," Susan said, involuntarily pulling the wolf-girl closer.

"She tells me they were called to fight by someone, and it sounds similar," Ordilan said to Susan, indicating the Wer-Wolf with a tilt of his head. "Might be the same. Nobody comes to give orders, mind. They know they have to go, and then they go. She fought because her pack would kill her if she did not. Seems her entire pack would be destroyed for her weakness if she didn't fight."

"That's horrible," Susan said. "Tell her she's safe here, now. Tell her that witch doesn't own her."

Ordilan nodded. "Susan wishes you to understand that – she who called you – cannot harm you any more. You are freed of her."

"Then who do I belong to?" the wolf-girl asked.

In another holding-room, not too far away, there was only silence. Peter stood in the doorway, with the hall-guard behind him. Edmund stood in the center of the room, stock-still, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The silent Black Dwarf, who looked much older than the shouting one, sat on the stone floor, watching Edmund. He had not been able to look away from Edmund as soon as the young King had entered the room.

Nobody spoke. They merely waited: two Human brothers and a Dwarf, each waiting for the other to do something. They had been waiting for some time.

Peter could see the tension beginning in the back of his brother's neck, the tightness in his stance. He came to a decision, considered it, approved of it. "Ed," Peter whispered, coming up to touch his brother on the shoulder. "I've an idea."

"Mmh?" Edmund asked, not taking his eyes off the Dwarf – who did not favor Peter with so much as a glance.

"You talk to him here," Peter said. "I'll go get – your idea."

"Yours," Edmund said. "Ruch?"

"Who else?" Peter replied, voice soft.

"Do it," Edmund said, still keeping his gaze fixed on the silent prisoner.

When Peter left, Edmund advanced on the silent Dwarf. Said Dwarf had also been shackled to the nearest strong object – in this case, an iron bracket mounted to the wall, for holding torches. Edmund walked around the silent Dwarf, taking in his appearance. He looked old; the black hair of his tangled hair and beard was nearly overrun by steely grey and white.

Then the thing happened: as the Dwarf gazed steadily at Edmund, his eyes widened in a flash of recognition. Edmund knew he had never seen the Dwarf before in his life. He also knew this meant he was correct, and he dearly wished he wasn't.

The Dwarf schooled his features back to placidity. Edmund squatted on his heels so that the two were at eye level. He studied the Dwarf's face intently. Thick eyebrows, a mole on the cheek, a crooked nose that looked to have been broken once or twice. Edmund counted to himself as the Dwarf breathed and blinked: both were as regular as clockwork. The Dwarf may well have been a statue.

Everyone has a tell, Edmund knew. This was the first thing he'd learned, gambling with Dwarves in the barracks – well, the second thing, after they'd cleaned his pockets and damn near taken the clothes from his back. The third, if you counted which ales were better than others. But everyone has a tell. Everyone reacts somehow.

Everyone save this silent Dwarf, who could have cleaned the entire military legion of Black Dwarfs out in two hands of cards with his stone-still face.

"I was once her creature," Edmund said, "and you know it."

Blink. Inhale.

"Jadis," said Edmund. "The White Witch. The White Queen. I ate and drank of her enchantments. I was once as much her a creature as you are."

Blink. Exhale.

"I broke her wand with my sword," he told the Dwarf. "She stabbed me, but I did not die."

Blink. Inhale.

"The Queen of Air and Darkness is dead," said King Edmund, "and I am free."

Blink. Exhale. Nothing.

Susan, from her vantage point on the floor, was aware of many things. She could feel the wolf-girl shake inside the protective circle of her arms. The wolf-girl was filthy, and frighteningly thin, and her skin felt warm to Susan's touch although she shivered. As the wolf-girl spoke, Susan saw Ordilan turn from tense to curious. She did not understand the thing Ordilan said before scrubbing a hand across his eyes, but she assumed it was a curse.

"What is it?" Susan asked.

"She wants to know who she belongs to," Ordilan said.

"Nobody can own her," Susan said. "She's a free being. She owns herself."

Ordilan shook his head. "I think this is the wolf in her, my Queen. 'Who' can be one soul or many. She was part of a pack, and now the pack is gone."

"Oh," Susan said, thinking. "We haven't any other Wer-Wolves allied with us. Do you think the Wolves here would take her in?"

"They might," Ordilan said, relaxing enough to sit cross-legged on the ground. "They might not. I don't remember hearing that Wolves and Wer-Wolves ever got on. I must apologize, my Lady. You were right about her." Ordilan smiled, or tried to – the scars pulled his mouth into a vicious smirk, but by now Susan knew the difference. "She is little more than a frightened child."

"One who can defend herself quite ably when under threat of death," Susan conceded. "Thank you for your concern."

"Please," the wolf-girl whispered, looking up at Ordilan.

"Do you have a question?" Ordilan asked her.

"Why does she restrain me?" the wolf-girl asked.

This, more than anything else she'd said, told Ordilan what the wolf-girl had experienced. "Oh, the poor child," he said. Then, to the wolf-girl, "She is not trying to restrain you. She holds you to comfort you."

"Oh," the girl said, thinking for a moment.

"Does it help?" Ordilan asked.

"I am not hurt," said the wolf-girl, laying her head on Susan's shoulder. "She is warm. She smells like a flower."

Ordilan chuckled. "She thought you were holding her down. She's never been held for comfort before, I don't think."

"I can't imagine what she's been through," Susan said, stroking the wolf-girl's matted hair again.

"I'm not sure I want to – a weakling in a camp of Wer-Wolves controlled by the Witch. She likes the way you smell. Like flowers, she said." Ordilan seemed amused.

"Do you think she would let me clean her?"

"I think she wouldn't understand why you'd want to. I don't think she's ever had a bath."

"Neither do I," said Susan, wrinkling her nose, "but we must all start sometime. Ask her, will you?"

"The lady wishes to know if you will allow her to wash you."

"She may do with me as she wants," the wolf-girl said softly. "Only – prey would smell me, if I smelled like flowers."

Ordilan barked a laugh, and the wolf-girl cringed.

"What did you tell her?" Susan asked.

"It's what she told me," he said. "Prey will smell her coming, if you perfume her."

"And they hunt, you said?" Susan asked thoughtfully.

"Are you thinking of a bribe?" Ordilan asked.

"Nay, sir. I think of a reward," Susan said, narrowing her eyes.

"Would you rather hunt or eat meat that we bring you?" Ordilan asked the girl.

"I would hunt," the wolf-girl said.

"Very well," Susan said, when Ordilan repeated this for her. "If she'll let me bathe her, we'll give her a hunt. Tell her that, and that if she agrees we'll have some other people bring things into the room."

Ordilan did this and the wolf-girl relaxed, slightly, in Susan's arms.

"She agrees," Ordilan said. "I'll call Valios." He rose to his feet, stretched, and tapped on the door to call for the chamberlain.

When Valios came in, he looked surprised, and then pleased, and then tried to cover both and look as though he wished to remind Susan that this had all been a dangerous gamble which could still go wrong.

"Enough of that, cousin," Susan said. "I'll need some warm water, sponges, and soap. And a comb."

Valios nodded. "Do you wish for clothing as well?"

"Doubt she's ever worn any," Ordilan offered, leaning against the wall.

"What of a cloak?" Susan asked. "She looks like an ordinary Human when she's in this shape. It'd be a bit of a startle to my—to others, I think." Let it be said that Susan is ever the diplomat. Let it also be said that "brothers" sounds remarkably like "others," and neither Ordilan nor Valios mistook her meaning.

Valios nodded again. "I'll see to it, Majesty," he said, then left.

"I could take her up to the bathing-room, but it might be too much for her," Susan told Ordilan. "Best to keep her here for now, I think."

"I think you're right," said Ordilan, with a note of cool approval.

Cleaning the nameless Wer-Wolf took the better part of an hour. Her hair was a hopeless wreck, so Susan clipped the mess short and combed out what was left. Susan re-appraised the wolf-girl, once she was cleaned. She was thin, with jutting ribs and hipbones, but that would be easily fixed with plenty of food and solid exercise. Her face tended to plainness rather than prettiness, and scars from old bite-marks and claw-marks marred her skin. It was enough, thought Susan, to see her clean and happy. She almost looked like a normal girl, and Susan was sure she'd never had the chance to be such a thing.

"Tell her to come with me," Susan said, holding out a hand, "and we'll get her something good to eat."

The Dwarf Ruchabrik was a Captain in the Narnian Army, the general overseer of the military company of Black Dwarfs, and, most bafflingly, one of only two Narnian subjects who would speak freely to King Edmund whenever he so desired, with whatever language he chose. (The other, of course, was Phillip.) The pair, King and Dwarf, shared a fondness for ale, gambling, and innovations in the field of profanity – which explained things perfectly well, to Peter.

Peter briefed Ruchabrik on the situation as they made their way down to the holding-room. They said hello to the Satyr guard Nolios, who knocked twice on the door. A moment later, Edmund emerged. They stepped a bit down the hall so as not to be overheard by the silent Dwarf.

"Hello there, Peter, Berk," Edmund said conversationally.

"Hello yourself, prat," Ruchabrik muttered. "How's the prisoner?"

"Captive," Peter corrected.

"Still quiet," Edmund said. "It's the damnedest thing. He knows I'm there, he watches me, but he won't respond to anything." To Peter, he nodded minutely and raised an eyebrow: I was right. Peter did not respond, save for a certain hardening about the brow.

"Captive?" Ruchabrik asked.

"We do not have a prison, or any other facility for the keeping of beings against their will for lengths of time," Peter said. Then, dropping his kingly tone, "If you don't have a prison, you can't have prisoners."

"Ehng," Edmund said, understanding Peter's sentiment but not fully believing it.

"Call it what you want, Sire," Ruchabrik agreed. "He's the one chained to the wall an' can't get out. Looks a prisoner to me."

"I've had an idea about that, actually," said Peter. "Once we've spoken to these captives – or un-magicked them, if that's what needs doing – I think the thing to do would be to return them to others of their kind."

Edmund nodded approvingly. "I like the sound of that. Ruch, what say you?" (It should also be noted here that nobody, save for Edmund himself, could ever refer to Captain Ruchabrik by such an informal name – not without severe consequences.)

"Might do," the Dwarf grunted, considering. "You'd have to find clans as would take them. The Dwarfs are behind you, Sires, but we take to changes slow, and you're still new by our reckoning. Some clans don't fully trust you yet. I can think of some that do. Whether they would take these strangers, though, that's something else."

"What if we could get them to tell us who their clans were?" Edmund asked. "Wouldn't it be good to send them home?"

"Assuming they didn't go to the Witch willingly," Peter pointed out. "Might turn from imprisonment to a death sentence, that way."

"There's a clear way to find out where they're from," Ruchabrik said. "If I can have a look at the devil, I can tell you. I was seeing to the other when your Majesties called for me – he'd nothing."

Peter nodded, then led his brother and their captain back to the guard Nolios, who opened the cell door and let them in.

The silent Dwarf sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall, his eyes steadily fixed in the middle distance.

Ruchabrik studied the prisoner for a moment, nodded to himself, then pulled a knife from his belt and strode across the room. The prisoner noticed this but did not react.

Peter, however, did. "Hold," he commanded, and Ruchabrik stopped immediately. "What are you doing?"

"I don't recognize him myself," said Ruchabrik, turning to face his Kings, "but he's old enough to remember times before the winter."

"So you're going to come at him with a knife? He's bound and unarmed."

"He is right here in the room," Edmund said uncomfortably.

"He isn't talking, so we'll just talk about him," Ruchabrik said. "I don't have a mind to hurt him, Sires."

"Then what on earth are you doing?" Peter asked.

Next to him, Edmund nodded with a sudden realization and went "Ah." Peter glared; Edmund held a hand for his brother to be quiet.

"No," Peter said. "One of you will explain this before another step is taken."

"You know how every clan has a mark, right?" Edmund asked.

"I'm well aware of that," Peter snapped. "There are little black trees on every plate in my new armor."

"It's not just the things they make, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"They mark the smiths?" Peter had never heard of this, and was wondering how his brother had. Time in the barracks, he supposed.

"My thick brother the High King," Edmund said. "Yes, they do. And the fighters, and the masons – every Dwarf of a clan. Though some use tattoos, most use brands."

"Tattooing's for cowards," Ruchabrik offered, with a toothy grin. "And Reds. Though the two ain't exclusive. A Dwarf gets a clanmark when he's proven himself in the eyes of the clan." What this involved, Ruchabrik obviously declined to say.

"What about the women?" Peter asked, still mulling this over.

"They get theirs the day their firstborn comes swearing into this fine world," Edmund said.

"Stronger'n any man, by far," Ruchabrik said respectfully.

"They always are," Peter agreed. "You want to check this one for a brand, then?"

"Aye, Sire," said Ruchabrik. "Then we'll know his clan, and can get them here to see to him. But since he won't move, I'll have to cut the clothes off him."

"Very well," said Peter. "Do this thing." He turned to his brother. "Ed, go see Nolios in the hall – see that fresh clothing is brought for this Dwarf."

"Aye, Sire," Edmund said, in a gruff imitation of Ruchabrik.

"Aye your arse," Ruchabrik snorted.

"Aye your own, Dwarf," said Edmund on his way to the door. "Still bruised, are we?"

"I'll bruise you," Ruchabrik muttered.

"'D have to catch me first, wouldn't you?" Edmund asked, exiting the room.

"Smartarse," Ruchabrik said fondly. Then, to Peter, "I doubt this one will do anything, but in case—"

"Take the chains and stand ready?" Peter asked.

"And he says ye can't learn," Ruchabrik said. Off a scowl from Peter, he quickly amended, "Not that I ever believed it my own self. Sire."

"Can we examine this Dwarf without the backtalk, sir?" Peter asked, slipping the gloves from his belt over his hands.

"Aye, Sire," Ruchabrik said. "Just hold tight to the shackles, there, and I'll see what I find." Peter did, and Ruchabrik set to cutting the silent Dwarf's sleeves away, the left arm and then the right.

"No marks there," Ruchabrik said. "Perhaps the chest?"

"Try the arse," Edmund offered, coming back in. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I've sent Nolios up to Dresthin to get new clothes for this Dwarf. I've got the key."

"Help me with this, will you?" Peter asked.

"With what? He's not moving," Edmund argued, but he donned a thick pair of gloves and did as he was told.

Under Ruchabrik's careful knife, the silent Dwarf's leather jerkin was removed. "Ah," Ruchabrik said. "On the chest here, Sires. Do you see?" Ruchabrik pointed to a mass of scar tissue on the old Dwarf's chest – the left side, above the heart.

"Looks like he tried to burn it off," Edmund said.

"Aye, he's a deserter of some kind," Ruchabrik agreed. "No mind – I can see the original mark well enough. That'd be Rockfall, it is, on the eastern side of the Shuddering Wood. They're a good enough sort – keep to themselves, but who can fault them for that? They're close to the bad woods."

"Have we any Dwarfs of Rockfall in residence?" Peter asked.

"Nay, Sire," Ruchabrik said, and then thought. "Least, I don't think we do. I'll send a runner around, find out for sure."

With that they left the silent, motionless Dwarf and exited to the hallway. Nolios had gone to find Dresthin, so Edmund locked the door, and then the two Kings and the Dwarf again moved further down the hall so as not to be heard by their silent captive.

"Ruchabrik," Peter asked, speaking softly, "do you think he understood us?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Edmund asked.

"Oh, aye," Ruchabrik said to Peter. Then, to Edmund, "When your brother the King came to get me we found a to-do over at the Wer-Wolf's chamber. Seems your royal sister has tamed it, but the thing only speaks the Old Language. This one's old enough to have known Narnia before the Winter. I'm sure he knows what we've said."

"But the Wer-Wolf didn't?" Edmund asked.

"Tis a strange thing," Ruchabrik said, "but that's the way of it. The Witch only allowed those in her service to speak the Old Language. I'm not sure why."

"It could give her claim a sense of legitimacy," Peter suggested. "The Old Language is Narnian, but English is from our world."

"Or it could divide the two sides," Ruchabrik offered. "I'd wager her goal was to separate them entirely. She didn't have time enough to complete the task."

"We should ask Cloudstrike," Edmund suggested. "He'd know."

"A solid plan," said Peter. "We should go find him. Ruchabrik, will you keep watch over this room until Nolios returns?"

"Yes, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"If I'd asked that," Edmund grumbled, handing the key over, "it'd be s'pose my lord King thinks I've nothing better to do with my time, and you know it."

"Hardly," Ruchabrik chuckled. "I do as my King bids me."

"But?" Edmund asked sharply.

"But the whole time I'd be thinking the whelp has been drunk to sickness all down my best chainmail, and I still have to take orders from him."

Peter laughed.

"That only happened once," Edmund protested.

"Or the time you gambled away everything but your crown," Ruchabrik said. "An' I do mean everything but. Not that his gear's of any use to us, but a wager's a wager."

Edmund, for his part, only growled – a very Dwarfish reaction indeed.

"My King knows my jests mean no harm," Ruchabrik said.

"Good Dwarf, you know you may speak your mind with us. I feel that you are teaching my brother something important," said Peter, chuckling.

"What's that?" Edmund asked.

"Humility," said Peter, with an almost believable look of gentle benevolence.

"Look what you've started," Edmund said to a sniggering Ruchabrik. "The oaf's mocking me."

"Welcome to my world, brother," Peter told him, clapping a hand on Edmund's shoulder and leading him down the hall. "I've been meaning to ask you – in the Old Language, does 'High King' mean 'universal butt of jokes' or is there something particular about me?"

Behind them, the belly-laugh of the good vulgar Dwarf echoed in the dark hall.

Cloudstrike took Lucy by the hand. For Lucy, hand-holding with a Centaur was funny, as her closed fist could rest in their cupped palm, and a hand held by a Centaur inevitably meant a bit of her forearm as well. He led her upstairs, away from the makeshift hospital, and out into a small walled garden, where the sick enchanted clouds polluted what should have been lovely afternoon sunlight. With a groan and a creak of old bones, the Centaur settled himself on the ground. Lucy waited politely until he was seated. He held an arm out, in invitation, and she nestled herself against his side, tucked into the space between his bent forelegs and the front of his horse-body. She leaned her head against his man-chest and looked up at his face.

Cloudstrike laughed, softly. "I can see all of your questions, little one."

"Nobody's told me anything," she said, trying as hard as she could to sound polite and not petulant. It didn't quite work.

"I know, dearest – now I will tell you. But if you will allow me," he said – not sternly, but firmly, like a teacher – "I will tell you a story first, and at the end of it we shall see what questions you have left over."

Lucy nodded. "I worry so," she admitted. "It frightens me terribly."

"I know," Cloudstrike said, smoothing a large hand over Lucy's head. "I know. But listen – in the beginning, when Aslan called the land to life, there was already evil in the land."

"The witch," said Lucy, who'd heard this story before. (One should remember that in Narnia, story-telling is more a group activity than a recitation. Lucy was in no way showing bad manners.)

"Indeed," Cloudstrike smiled. "Had she not been there, well – who knows how things would be different? But she was, and so Aslan had to protect the land."

"With the apple tree. And the first Humans."

"Yes. But he left other safeguards as well. The Sea-King, Oceanus, was one. I believe your brother has met him already. He carries his favor."

"The knife?"

"Yes," said Cloudstrike. "Another is Pan, who protects the forest-folk. Pan, in those early days, was different. He was not the spectre our friend met that night. He is both himself and the forest, as Aslan is both himself and Narnia – do you understand, little one?"

Aslan was many things: once-dead and always alive, himself and his land. Lucy nodded silently.

"Here is where the true story ends and my own ideas begin," Cloudstrike continued. "When the Witch worked her curse, Pan was hurt, because of what he is."

"The trees," Lucy murmured, as she began to understand.

"Just so. You've heard Oreius say, haven't you, that once you leave the known ends of Narnia you are in an endless wood where things go wrong. That is how she removed Narnia from the world: with the trees. Oh, she did it with the ocean as well – Oceanus has been stuck on the sea-bottom since the false winter began, I'm told – but Pan was driven mad by what was done to the forests."

"And then he put it in Tumnus. Why?"

"Who knows why? I wonder if Pan himself knows what he is doing, or why. Beforetimes, Pan could cause madness, when he wore the self called Phorbas. But then, he only did it in defense."

"So Pan made him mad," Lucy said, angrily. "That's hardly fair. Tumnus did nothing wrong. He says he did, but I know he didn't. He saved me, when it could have meant his life. It nearly did."

"That is why he is our best chance to understand how to undo the curse," Cloudstrike said. "Tumnus has told me some of what Pan said to him – that he is a child of candlelight, not bonfires."

"He's not a forest creature," Lucy offered, thinking she understood.

"Just so. He is very intelligent, your friend. And – unlike Pan, or the other enchanted beings of the deepest forests – he is not wild."

"How does that help, if he's gone mad the way they have?"

"I doubt he will stay mad. I think that he will work his way out of it and understand what's been done, in a way that the rest of us do not."

"I thought you knew already," Lucy argued. "When we saw the oldest forest, I thought everyone understood it then."

"We think we know," Cloudstrike said. "What we think may be wrong. The forest is sick with enchantment. It cannot tell us its hurts."

"But Tumnus can?"

"Yes," Cloudstrike said. "Or, that is our hope."

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "Why are you telling me this? You should tell Peter and Edmund and Susan. Or Oreius. They'll know."

"They already do, child. I asked that they wait and let me tell you myself. Why do you think these plans have been set forth? Bringing the dead from the wreck of the Witch's castle is one part. Sailing to Galma is another. We are doing all that we know to remove the curse."

"And then Tumnus will be well again?"

"I hope so."

"What if he isn't? Calio said I can't use my cordial – wouldn't that help?"

"It should remove the touch of Phorbas, yes. But it would also take the forest voice from him." Cloudstrike sighed. "You must hate that we use him in this way."

"I don't want it," said Lucy with some resignation. "He's suffered enough. But I understand. I wish I didn't, and I could just be angry."

"He is stronger than you think, little Queen," said Cloudstrike. "So are you."

They sat together in silence for some time, and Lucy accepted the offer of a handkerchief.

"Do you feel better now?" the gentle Centaur asked.

"Yes," Lucy said.

"Good," said Cloudstrike, "because I believe that your brother the King is looking for us."

"Which one?" Lucy asked, sitting up and shading her eyes.

"I know it was my idea, but it still seems cruel to do this," said Susan, looking over the balcony at the small kitchen-garden where the dumb goat nosed through the grass. At the other end of the garden, the wolf-girl crouched nude, watching the animal. (Susan had only been able to persuade her to wear the cloak indoors.)

"It is her nature," said Cloudstrike.

"Oh, I know that," Susan said. "I know the Talking Beasts eat the dumb ones. It's different to see it happen."

"Not just the Beasts, sister," Peter argued. "How do you think meat gets on your plate?"

"I don't like seeing things die," Susan said.

"She needs a name." Lucy stood watching the hunt intently, with her arms folded on the stone balustrade and her head resting atop them. "I think we should give her one. It must be awful to have no name."

The girl shifted into her wolf body, steadying her feet beneath her. She scented the air, flexed her muscles, and focused on the goat.

"Lucy, you shouldn't be here," Susan said.

"I've skinned coneys to put over the fire," Lucy said calmly. "I don't have a problem."

"When did you do that?"

The wolf readied herself to spring.

"Mr. Tumnus showed me how," Lucy said, keeping her eyes on the wolf.

"Gone native," Peter whispered to Susan over their sister's head. He offered the grin that, he knew, would made Susan roll her eyes in exasperation.

Susan glared at Peter, then rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You're all – savages, is what you are."

It was over quickly for the goat, which had just enough time to let off a kick and one startled bleat before its neck was snapped. The wolf expertly turned her prey to its side and tore into its belly. They watched for a time, while below them the wolf ripped the organs from the goat's belly with obvious delight.

"Glendon," Edmund said quietly.

Peter turned to stare, brow furrowed, at the non-sequitur. "What?"

"Remember the film about the scientist who goes to India?" Edmund explained. "We saw it twice, you should remember. That was his name."

"Glendon?" Susan echoed.

"Glendon," Edmund said firmly.

"Film?" Ordilan wondered.

"I think they prefer the deep woods to glens," Cloudstrike offered.

"It's a kind of story," Lucy told Ordilan.

"It's not particularly ladylike," Susan said.

"Neither is that," Edmund said, gesturing.

Down in the kitchen-garden, Glendon the Wer-Wolf had shifted back to human shape. She sucked the marrow out of cracked bones with a look of contentment on her bloodstained face.

"You're going to have to wash her again, Lady," Ordilan said.

"Oh, hush," Susan said.

When the wolf-girl noticed the audience lined up on the balcony, she stilled. Lucy, ever friendly, waved. Glendon raised an arm and returned the gesture – hesitantly, as though this was the first time she'd done such a thing.

Perhaps it was.

Annotations &c.

On the Naming of Wolves: Glendon's name comes from Wilfred Glendon, played by the actor Henry Hull, in the 1935 movie 'Werewolf of London.' That inspired pretty much the entire werewolf genre, including one of my favorite songs. I saw a Wer-Wolf with a Narnian menu in her hand, walking through the streets of Galma in the rain…

On the Connections between Gambling and Interrogation: it really is that simple. Everyone has a tell. You have to find it.

On the Style of Dwarfs: Much of my take of the tone and temper of a Narnian Black Dwarf is due to Elecktrum's fantastic portrayals of them. Ruchabrik owes further characterization both to Tolkien's Gimli and a certain sake-swilling friend of mine who would probably be amused at the reference – after some insults and disapproving glares.

Thanks again to rthstewart for the spot-checks, idea-throwing, and Making Me Laugh 'Til It Hurts. 'Tis much appreciated, ma'am. Boom-de-yada!