The next morning, two of the owls did not return from scouting. The others had nothing to report, but the absence of the two in and of itself was enough to send anxious murmurs through the castle. Drystan was allowed to sit in the meeting as he had requested, but he had nothing to report to his siblings except that they would certainly not be leaving the safety of Cair Paravel.

For what it was worth, Peter was doing a fantastic job at keeping calm appearances. To see him in the dining room, one would assume him thoughtful but not as mentally tormented as he actually was. Attacks on his kingdom by an invisible foe . . . he hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle such a thing. Sending scouts did no good if the scouts either brought nothing back or didn’t make it back at all. He didn’t feel comfortable putting together an army and running blindly out into the forest, though he knew the suggestion would be made eventually. For now, the eagles insisted on going out during the day. They would fly in pairs and higher than the owls and maybe find something. After all, there had to be something to find if the owls had disappeared.

As soon as the morning meeting ended, Edmund found Caedmon and suggested, “I’ve been thinking, and maybe we should start trying to build that catapult. Just in case, you know.”

“I’ve already begun gathering things,” Caedmon admitted sheepishly, motioning for Edmund to follow him to his room. “It’s no offense to you and your brother but . . . I thought this is maybe the only way I can try and help. I’m not much good with a sword but if this catapult works . . .”

Knowing this was going on, and with the poor report from Drystan, Cordelia was distracted and restless. Moira appealed to Lucy and Susan for any sort of entertainment. Cordelia didn’t know how to play chess and didn’t care to learn, and she didn’t feel like drawing or singing or dancing. Finally Susan asked if she had ever worked in the garden before and instantly her ears perked up. So Moira left them to it, and while she and Lucy drew silly pictures of each other, Susan and Cordelia situated themselves in the garden that wound its way around the stairwells and courtyards of the palace. They talked about flowers and the seasons and the various plants and animals of Narnia and Alsatchia. Elinor read in the library; Drystan wandered around the armory looking for the perfect fit and Peter watched the skies for his scouts.

In this way, the day passed with everyone in their own little world, and the sun set without enough of a change in either direction, for better or for worse, to ease anyone’s discomfort. Cordelia packed her things, then unpacked them knowing she wouldn’t actually venture from the palace without her brothers and sister. She felt trapped, cornered, confined, sitting here like a bug on the water knowing full well there were hungry fish lurking below, even if they couldn’t see them. The handmaiden saw her unpacking and mentioned it to the other servants and in that way Peter heard only that Cordelia had packed in preparation to leave.

All the eagles returned but with nothing to report, and Cair Paravel settled into an uneasy sleep.

It was late at night and Peter, unable to sleep, was pacing the castle. Cordelia, also unable to sleep, was also pacing the castle, and so it was unavoidable that the two should meet. It occurred on one of the many verandas overlooking the sea. Peter, his hands gripping the railing, was staring out at the black waves, blinking as the slight breeze blew hair into his eyes. Cordelia, with a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders against the slight chill riding in from the north, saw his back and could quite easily have kept walking. She planned on it, in fact, but then thought of what Elinor had said. Instead she quietly joined him, standing beside him and letting her emerald eyes follow his blue gaze out into the night.

“I love the forests dearly, but I think I am beginning to prefer Cair Paravel’s view to that of Alsatchia,” she commented after some time. It was partially true. “The forests make you feel safe, but the sea lets you feel free. Cair Paravel certainly has the better view.”

“But not the better king,” he quipped quickly, and Cordelia’s eyes snapped to him in shock. He ignored her gaze and continued to look outwards, his jaw hardened. She hadn’t realized he was angry, or she wouldn’t have stopped. But perhaps he hadn’t been until just this very second.

With a frown, she returned calmly, “I think my father is the best king the world over.”

“Yes, and because he is great, no one else can even be good. Or perhaps Ed could, but certainly not me.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Cordelia demanded, turning to face him fully. Her own eyes were narrowing in annoyance at his moodiness which this time was undeniably directed towards her.

Instead of answering, he returned another question, also facing her, “Why don’t you respect me?”

“Pardon?”

“Why don’t you respect me? Why don’t you trust me to protect you and your family? Why do you judge me to be a terrible king when—you don’t even know—“

“I assure you, High King Peter, that I don’t know at all what you’re talking about or where this little temper tantrum is coming from, but I—“

“It’s not a temper tantrum,” he insisted, though even he heard the little boy talking. Pausing to lower his voice and stand taller, he assured her, “I have led Narnia to victory in more battles than your kingdom has seen under the reign of your father. Narnia has endured more peaceful years than ever before—“

“That’s rather contradictory, isn’t it?” Cordelia quipped, and Peter hated her in that moment for her snobbery. She looked just like the prissy little school girls that sat in the front row back in England and answered all the questions and left apples on the teacher’s desk every morning.

“I am a good and capable king!”

“You shouldn’t feel the need to tell me so.”

“But you are the one that doubts me – the only one, might I add! Your father trusts me; your brother and sister trust me; the whole of Narnia trusts me. Everyone except you.”

“I’m afraid you know less about the feelings of people than you assume,” she snorted. Then, realizing how awful that sounded, she quickly added, “I only mean that you have not quite your siblings’ gift with people—“

“You mean Ed’s. You think he’s the people person?” Peter scoffed at the idea, thinking back to England where Edmund spent his days locked up in the house, building model airplanes, while he Peter was frequently off charming the girls and wrestling the boys.

“I think he actually talks to his people instead of spending his days distracted with exaggerated kingdom affairs.”

“I have more things to attend to.”

Cordelia shrugged, “I’m not arguing that. I never said that in your position, King Edmund would do better. I avoid what if scenarios. I don’t know where you’ve heard all this nonsense I’ve supposedly said, but you’d best ask me if you care to know how I feel about things. There’s not a thought or feeling in my body I won’t fess up to; I don’t see the point of denial and avoidance.”

“Just ask you anything and you’ll answer honestly.” He seemed to doubt this very much.

“Yes.” Cordelia watched as he went back to gripping the railing, went back to gazing out at the sea. He let out a deep sigh to lower his temper and Cordelia realized her own cheeks had flushed with annoyance and frustration. Imagine, the most words she and the High King had ever exchanged, and it was for him to throw a fit like a spoiled baby.

“Why do you think I’m a bad king?” he asked at last. He had hoped to sound casual and even-tempered, but Cordelia thought he sounded defensive and injured. He sounded like a bullied child, and that made her feel a tad guilty. He was under a lot of stress right now. But it also reaffirmed her opinions.

Cordelia shook her head, “I don’t think you’re a bad king, I think you’re a young king.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-one,” he answered, looking at her with a heavy brow, as though the question offended him. “How old are you?”

“That’s improper to ask a lady, but I’m twenty, at any rate.”

“And not married yet? Isn’t that a sin in your country?”

“That was ignorant and immature,” she retorted; the words stung Peter’s cheek. “But anyways, what I mean is that you’re young. You’re constantly telling people what a great king you are and what a great leader you are and you demand to be called High king. “

“What’s your point?”

“I think you realize your own weaknesses and, in order to hide them from everyone else, you put on airs that made you seem even more incapable.”

“Incapable! And this from . . . from the opinion of a spoiled little princess!”

Cordelia rolled her eyes, “You can call me what you want; you’re the one that asked my opinion.” He had turned his back to her, and for some reason, this was the strongest thing she had ever seen him do. “And I never said I wasn’t a spoiled little princess.” He kept his back to her but turned his face to the sea; the moon illuminated his profile and in that moment he looked truly lovely, like the marble statues tucked among the trees in Alsatchia. Gently now, she offered, “For what it’s worth, I do think you’re harder on yourself than you need be. No one expects a king to be flawless.”

“Oh, you’re saying that to me?” he accused, turning quickly on her. “You stand there and tell me I’m incapable and weak, and then tell me that I’m too hard on myself?”

“Yes, I do. I think that’s your biggest weakness. You try too hard to be legendary. You want everyone to see every wonderful thing you do because you constantly worry that you won’t live up to your own expectations. I’m sure you wouldn’t be so stressed if--”

“Apparently I don’t live up to yours,” he snorted.

“First of all, my expectations of you shouldn’t matter at any rate, and I didn’t realize that they did. But furthermore, I don’t have expectations of you. You’re young. Kings aren’t great at twenty-one. They’re great at fifty. But you won’t reach fifty if you’re too headstrong and arrogant and secretly ridiculously critical of yourself to admit when you don’t know, or when you can’t do something, or to . . . to let others have some glory. You shouldn’t have gone to look at that field without full guard because what if you got attacked? You shouldn’t recklessly put yourself in danger. The guards could have gone without you and Pilmer still would have found my necklace.”

“I let others get the glory.”

“All right.”

“I do!”

“All right!”

Peter glared at her.

“And I do listen to people. I’m not so arrogant that I don’t.”

“All right.”

“And your opinions don’t matter. The criticism of the spoiled little daughter of a wealthy king is hardly worth a second thought.”

“All right.”

“I mean, what do you know of battles or war or kingdom affairs?” he demanded, turning from the ocean and leaning against the rail as he waved his hands angrily in the air. “You sit around on pillows all day, stitching, or riding around picking flowers. I bet you don’t even know how to use a sword.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Susan does. Well, but she shoots better . . . but she’s still a good warrior.”

“I was never allowed to learn.”

“To shoot?” Peter asked, looking at her for the first time in a long while.

Cordelia shrugged, explaining, “Father always made a big fuss that Moira and I weren’t to learn, but particularly me. Moira learned to shoot somehow anyways, I think . . . but as has been proven, I can’t defend myself to save my life.”

“That seems foolish to me.”

“How so?”

“Well it forces you to rely completely on others to defend you. What if there is no one?”

“Really, would I be much use, even trained? I’m not a warrior,” she laughed, shaking her head at the idea of her frail hands wielding a sword. “Maybe when my brother and I got captured it . . . but Caedmon can fight and even that did us no good. Anyways, as you said, I’m the spoiled little daughter of a wealthy king. I have never been alone a day in my life. There will always be someone there to defend me. Even as a hostage, I had Caedmon. When you have as many brothers as I, you are never alone, even if you wish to be.” She saw what she thought was the faintest hint of a smile on Peter’s face.

“Even with only one brother, you aren’t ever alone,” he mused. Then, shaking his head, he pointed out, “But your brothers are not with you right now. It’s night and you should not be out wandering on the verandas alone.”

“Aye, that’s true. I suppose then I would have to rely on your protection at the moment.”

“That’s a faulty place to put yourself in.”

“What, you would not protect me?” she teased, giving him a sideways look.

He shrugged, “Apparently I am not capable of it.”

“I should not know. I’ve never seen you fight.”

“And you never will.”

“And why is that?” she inquired, turning to mimic his stance, resting on the railing with her arms crossed.

He smiled, she was sure of it even in the dark, and explained, “It would be awfully hard to fight with you around.”

“Because of my captivating beauty?” It was clear from her tone that she was joking, but Peter still rolled his eyes.

“And so humble. But no. Simply because you are as capable of defending yourself as a baby goat.”

“A baby goat!” she laughed, throwing her head back so that her hair danced in the moonlight. “You call me a baby goat! You’re such a charmer.” Peter bit his lip, hoping she wouldn’t notice his smile. But even touching his lips hurt right now, and then he realized he was joking with her and that annoyed him, and he frowned again.

“No, for everyone’s sake, you will be kept as far from any battle that takes place as is physically possible. Your father would have all our heads if anything happens to you – I’m scared if he finds out you even skinned your knee.”

Cordelia nodded, “That’s the truth. I hope he didn’t threaten you too severely in his letter.” Peter recalled the letter. The gemstones of King Lir’s life had been entrusted to his care. That carried with it a pretty hefty unspoken threat. “He means well, you know. He’s just very protective, especially since Mother died. Anyways, my brothers are here and he trusts them to look out for me. –And you too! I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Right.”

“He does. He has good things to say about you. But he understands that the welfare of another kingdom’s princess is lower on the priority list of a king than his own family or subjects.”

“That’s true.”

“Hey! That’s not the right answer. You’re supposed to reassure me that I’m of the highest priority and I’m perfectly safe here and need not worry.”

“And you’re supposed to swoon and tell me how admirable and handsome I am, but you don’t seem too keen on doing that—“

“Why is that what I’m supposed to do?”

“Because you’re a princess, and that’s really all princesses are good for.” Cordelia wasn’t sure whether he was being serious or not, but it made her frown. He sounded like Drystan. Peter recognized this too, actually; Drystan’s comments still hung in his mind, and it tugged at his heart a bit. She really wasn’t so bad. She was interesting and clearly had a brain in her head, which was certainly more than he had expected. Spoiled, but at least she recognized she was spoiled. Not many people could and even admit their own flaws. To glaze things over as smoothly as possible, he shrugged, “But then, you aren’t a very good princess.”

“What?” she gasped. But then she saw it, the sideways look that gave away the joke. He was teasing her! She wasn’t even aware the high king was capable of teasing. Pursing her lips, she inquired skeptically, “Well? How am I not a good princess?”

“You’re far too opinionated and honest and blunt. A good princess isn’t supposed to criticize, much less think for herself on anything except fashions and good looking men. You pay too much attention; you’re too clever and observant and simply not stupid enough to be a great princess.”

“Well, blame my father. He humored me too much as a child.”

“You’re still very much a child,” he retorted, shaking his head. “Here you are insisting I’m not a man, then you most certainly are not an adult woman.”

She frowned in thought and agreed quite seriously, “No, and I don’t know that I ever shall be.”

“Do you plan on dying young then?”

It wasn’t what she had meant at all, but she shrugged, “Maybe. Or perhaps I choose not to be a woman. I want to stay a spoiled little princess forever. I’ll marry some great lord eventually who’ll continue to spoil me to keep in my father’s good graces and so that I’ll bake pies at least once a month.”

“Pies?”

“Oh, I’m an excellent baker.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think a princess could cook.”

“Well, I won’t say I can cook, but I can make the best pies and cakes you ever had. My brothers weren’t allowed in the kitchens, so that’s where I would go as a little girl when they were bullying me.”

“I wish you would teach Lucy. She would really like to learn to bake pies, you know, but Su really can’t do a thing for herself in the kitchen,” Peter laughed. It was a different laughter, lighter than she had heard before, probably because of the subject. Cordelia had never doubted how much he cared for his siblings.

“Well perhaps that’s what Lucy and I will do when you leave us behind to go gallivanting off to battle.”

“I hardly gallivant.”

“Hardly? But you do a little.”

“Perhaps a little.”

“See? Was that so hard to admit?”

“I think, Princess Cordelia, that you are a bit of a bully.”

“And I think, High King Peter, that you are a bit of a baby.” He glared at her; she glared at him. Both thought the other really wasn’t as bad as they had assumed.

Then suddenly there was Caedmon, rolling his neck and insisting that Cordelia go straight to bed because he sure wasn’t going to deal with her being cranky the next day, and really she shouldn’t be out wandering at night by herself anyways. Then he saw she wasn’t alone, which confused Caedmon horribly, but she had already left Peter’s side and looped her arm through her brother’s. Peter watched the pair of them retreat back into the castle, then went back to watching the dark ocean and chewing on his lip. Maybe one of the healers had some sort of balm; he would ask on his way to council in the morning.