Ch 20: Night Visitors

"We've got to get to Professor Kirke," Peter said. "If the Nazis knew of us, they must know of him. The Professor knows as much of Narnia as we do, and he may be in danger as well. There wasn't any clear movement from the Nazi camp we attacked, so they must have been waiting there for someone …"

Edmund stopped listening. The empty space inside him was now an ache that forced him to strain for each breath. He had lied to Peter, said it was nothing. Perhaps the first lie he'd told Peter in years. He was certain Peter didn't buy it, but none of them could afford to dwell on the troubles of one while the safety of all was at stake.

He closed his eyes and summoned Asha's face. He wasn't dead himself, and that was the only hope he had that she wasn't, either. He focused all his energy on the curve of her cheek, the way her eyes slitted when she laughed. The way her eyes had lit when they first learned she was carrying their son.

And what of their other child? Silas would be well enough; the bond between Edmund and Asha didn't affect Silas at all. But what of the one Asha carried? If Edmund were so ill, and Asha by extension, how was it affecting their unborn child?

He forced his thoughts away from that probability at once. He needed motion, action. Something, or he'd go mad. They would get to the Professor if Edmund had to tow the lot of them in a cart the whole way.

He had spoken to Cori before he left, and made plans with her in case the four of them didn't return. He was certain Peter had had a similar talk with her, because she didn't seem startled by the notion that her husband and his siblings might not come back. Ed hadn't needed to elaborate, not with her. He simply told her he had written out a few new laws covering that possibility, and given her the names of those he thought most fit to carry out his duties. Cori had not fretted, nor burst into tears. She merely nodded and assured him she would see to it that his instructions were carried out. Peter could not have chosen a better wife.

The others were getting up. Ed followed suit, glad for the distraction.

- # -

Professor Digory Kirke should have been used to disturbances by now. When the Pevensie children stayed in his house during the War, it seemed to begin a tradition of pestering him just as soon as he sat down in his favorite chair for a pipe. Only instead of broken windows and running feet, it had become tax collectors and home visits from nurses and doctors. He'd let most of his staff go to pay expenses, but Mrs. Macready refused to leave his side, bless her irascible old heart. Nor would she let him sell the remainder of his antiques.

Well, he supposed it hadn't reached that point. Yet.

The latest of his unwanted arrivals was a tall blond man with a British accent so carefully enunciated that the Professor wondered what native language lay hidden underneath it. He had simply introduced himself as Mr. Brown, and asked for a tour.

The old place hadn't seen one of those since about mid-War. Mrs. Macready was nearly beside herself to accommodate the man, and the Professor couldn't disappoint her. He was left blessedly alone, listening to the rain pummel the windows, while she conducted their guest around the house. When Mrs. Macready returned their visitor to him in his study at the end of the tour, the man shared tea with him. Brown was polite, observant, and eager to listen—qualities the Professor dearly valued in this day and age.

But he was no fool, either.

Brown circuited the room, studying first the suits of armor flanking the fireplace, then the cupboards and shelves, and finally the figurines on the Professor's desk. His gaze particularly lingered on the silver apple in which the Professor stored his favorite tobacco. "Your collection is most impressive, Professor. I thank you for your hospitality."

"If nothing else, my dear boy, you've provided my housekeeper with a revival of her favorite pastime," said Digory. He fumbled with his pipe tobacco (it seemed that once Brown realized that was all the apple contained, he lost interest), and intentionally spilled a bit on his desk. Digory swept it up, doing his level best to seem the addlepated old man his doctors believed him to be. "Is—Is there a specific bit of, er ... history ... you're interested in, lad? I confess I have to write things down these days. I'm afraid I've forgotten more about the British Empire than is quite seemly since my retirement."

"It is all quite fascinating," the man said, and as soon as he finished his tea he politely took his leave.

Once he was gone, the Professor immediately called Mrs. Macready to his study. "What did you show him?" Digory demanded.

She gave him a look not unlike his tiresome doctors. "Only the usual, Professor."

He lowered his voice, even though the visitor was long gone. "Did he seem particularly interested in any piece?"

"Not that I saw. We had a look at each room, and then left it." Mrs. Macready looked concerned. "Did you ask him here to make a purchase?"

"No, no. Did he seem as if he expected there to be more?"

"Now you mention it, he did seem to be searching a bit. I thought he was admiring the antique furniture—"

"Wardrobes? Did you show him any?"

"You're not talking about that enormous thing in the empty room upstairs, are you? Heavens, Professor, it's not even an antique. Why would I show it to him?"

"Quite right, quite right, I've no idea what I was thinking." Blast, even with Mrs. Macready, he was reduced to playing the befuddled old man who might soon require institutional care. At least the doctor visits were good for something.

He followed her downstairs. They often dined in the kitchen together these days, being virtually the only people in such a large house. It was getting on to supper now, and he could smell the faint but tempting odor of bangers and mash. Bless her twice over, the old lady did know her cooking.

The front bell sounded out in the hall. Mrs. Macready huffed and adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, clucking irritably about more company and the late hour.

Curious—and not a little concerned that Brown had returned after all—Digory waited at the top of the hall stair to see who it was as she opened the door.

Into the doorframe crowded a rain-wet assembly that might have made a traveling circus look plain by comparison. The man in front was tall, long-haired and wild-looking. Behind him, Digory spied a woman and—he had to blink a few times to confirm it—a wolf.

Mrs. Macready squeaked and tried to close the door, but a second man stopped it with his hand. "Please. Let us in, if you'd be so kind, Mrs. Macready. It's quite urgent."

Michael Pevensie.

Digory hurried down the stairs, much faster than he was certain his doctors would have liked. "Let them in, Mrs. Macready, let them in. Do see about some coffee, and whether we have anything else to eat in the house."

She clearly didn't want to obey, but opened the door to let their arrivals in. Digory stared at the wolf, and then gaped as a giant bird flapped in, dripping water on the tiled floor. It landed on the newel post. From there, Digory looked back to the tall blond man, who was unwrapping a bundle. Digory caught the gleam of steel, and then the man revealed the object—a lion-headed sword.

Digory sputtered for a moment, then rubbed at the beard on his chin. "Oh, dear."