A/N: An older drabble I updated a bit.
Susan didn't think she'd ever get used to not being a Queen.
America was bright and busy, filled with more people and cars and color than she was used to in war-torn England. She wanted it to remind her of Narnia, but there was a harshness there all too reminiscent of Spare Oom.
The night her parents invited her along to a black tie affair she was giddy with excitement, glad to return to the refined society she had grown used to in her adulthood, and had high hopes of finding people who lived to the more upstanding standards her court had practiced.
She worried over her dress (ill fitting) and make-up (too heavy), and found it was much more difficult to twine her hair into plaits without a willowy Dryad helping her. The automobile had bumped more than a carriage over the rocky roads of Delma, and she arrived with her hair in disarray.
The "ballroom" was smaller than her casual dining room had been, and yet managed to squeeze in more people than she had ever entertained in her throne room. The people pressed in all around her, causing unsightly wrinkles in her dress, making her dream of forest glades and fresh breezes. The garish colors of the ballgowns hurt her eyes. She longed for the simple silken greens and golds that had been so fashionable amongst the ladies Narnia.
A squinty eyed man bowed to her, and she was swept away into a complicated waltz. Her shoes were stiff and unyielding, and her perspiring partner lacked the nimble grace of a faun. Her bruised feet and clammy hands were grateful when the meal was finally served, but her tongue was disappointed. The "delicacies" lacked distinction, and the flavors all ran together in her mouth. It wasn't crisp enough, hot enough, cool enough, sweet enough. To her refined palate, it seemed to be no more than grey mush.
The talk was bawdy and cruel, hardly fit for a Queen's ears. There were belches and snorts, swearing and cracking knuckles. The host fell asleep in his mashed potatoes, and his wife stole away with a young soldier. The man next to her talked incessantly, and often caressed her face or placed a rough hand on her knee. She gripped her skirt tightly, held her shoulders back and wished with all her heart that she had never come.
Had she not been a Queen, she would have fled.