₁.₀ YES TO HEAVEN; peter pevensie ✔

001.

There is something about the smell that lingers in these halls.

It's old wood, those panels adorning most of the walls, in some places almost up to the ceiling itself. Paint from all the paintings hanging up the many rooms and corridors, the great works of long deceased artists whose names attract visitors every few days or so. Dust, a thin layer covering most surfaces, however hard and relentlessly Mrs. Macready might try to rid the house of its presence. And books, for the Lord knows the Professor's house is filled with countless volumes, crammed on the bookshelves in the library or stacked on numerous coffee tables; piles growing each time Kirke, struck by a sudden thought, puts a book away before he springs out of his armchair with an energy quite surprising for a man his age (he forgets, then, and at first Birdie tried to put those poor things back into their proper places, but she gave up on that soon enough, noticing that all her attempts are futile).

It is the smell of books that she likes the most. Sometimes, laying on her stomach in front of the fireplace, Birdie imagines small particles detaching from their pages, rising into the air. As a little girl, she used to think it was some kind of magical dust. She believed that, if she were to gather enough of it, it would allow her to travel to other lands. Lands of brave knights in shining armour, talking animals and dancing trees, and kind fairies... of kingdoms ruled by kings and queens.

(She cried her eyes out that afternoon Mrs. Macready told her that no such thing is possible after having caught the child standing on one of the sofas with her shoes still on, waving her small hands in the air in order to catch those golden sparks. Of course, she run to the Professor, puffy eyes and red cheeks, seeking for comfort in the older man's study. And comfort he provided, wiping the girl's tears with a reassuring smile on his face. Oh, he said, but books possess the power to make one travel to magical places. Just in a different way.)

Yes, perhaps some would find that dusty, damp smell impossible to stand. But in a house like this, with next to none ventilation and high humility, to reduce it completely would be impossible. It's best to get used to it, as soon as possible.

And for Birdie, it's like heaven on earth.

It wasn't love at first sight, though.

She was a child the moment she stepped through the door of Professor Kirke's house. Only six of age and like a speck of dust herself it comparison to those high halls and narrow corridors. Lips parted and eyes wide, Birdie stared at it all in amazement. She remembers feeling so very small in these grand halls, so very... out of place.

It didn't take her long to grow into it, though.

Yes, one could say Birdie couldn't feel more at home in the Professor's house. It would be a stretch to claim that she knows all its corners like the back of her own hand, but she is no longer afraid to trace her fingers along the railings. In fact, over the past few years, the girl's grown rather bold. To steal a cookie from the kitchen is no longer an impossible task. And running through the corridors with strands of hair blocking her vision and a wide grin on her lips is no longer a profanity.

"Bridget!"

Which is precisely what she does now.

"Bridget! Come back here!"

Although, as she hops off the last few steps of the main stairs, it is no delighted grin on her face, but a scowl. With her lips pursed, Birdie rans out of the door. Paying no mind to Mrs. Macready's voice screaming at her to stop, she stays on the road for very little time and soon enough she finds herself sprinting across the lawn, grass moving in a blur underneath her feet.

Oh yes, Birdie has grown so very much accustomed to this house. It's a place like no other, one where she can feel the most like herself.

And that's why she's upset about the fact that some strangers are to live here as well.