"Mary," Lucy says helplessly, and "Mary," she says again, and "Mary," as she moves and pulls the girl into her arms whether she likes it or not.

(What right, Archibald Craven asked, and now Lucy wonders if she never had any to start with, and all she can think is, Lion, please, don't let me have been wrong.)

"I love you." It's fierce and whispered and her arms are tight around the smaller girl and not letting go. "I love you. I love you. I will always and ever love you. You gave me reason to stay. You were worth it. You were always worth it and always will be. I love you."

She wishes if she said it enough it would make things better.

It doesn't.

It's just truth.