Where the Lamppost Flickers

Everything's new

The day was cloudy, over-cast and gray, looking very much as if it was going to rain. Peering out at the bleak sky through the poor view from the barred window, Lucy sighed heavily and turned away.

It was very strange, she thought, preparing for one's own execution when you knew you were going to be spared. All the same, there was always that stupid, irrational nagging thought lingering in the back of her mind that didn't sound at all like her, whispering cruelly, "What if he changes his mind and doesn't lift his finger? Or what if he's careless and waits too long before he remembers what he has to do?"

Of course none of that sounded anything like Caspian, and Lucy was able to reassure herself that, even with his belief that she had betrayed him, he still loved her and would not forsake her completely. Still hanging over her, however, was the fear that she herself might funk this. She, the nerve-racked former queen, might see the signal and not be swift enough to miss the blade. She wasn't fast-natured, she knew. Edmund had nearly always won when they'd raced back at the Lantern Waste. Sure, her legs being much shorter than his probably accounted for that, and the times she had won had probably been because he'd let her, but she still quivered with fear for a large portion of the morning.

Thinking of Edmund calmed her down considerably, surprising as that might seem. Lucy couldn't help thinking that, if the sword didn't miss her and she died, she would be no worse off than he was-they would both be dead together at least; both asleep in death. And if she managed to follow Caspian's instructions as she hoped she could-for even then she did not truly wish to die, she wanted to live-there was the reassurance that if Edmund were still alive, he would have wanted her to survive everything thrown in her way and to make a new life for herself. Either way, Lucy found that she felt closer to him, going to the scaffold, than she'd thought she would.

The little queen had been permitted to chose her own attendants to walk down with her to the scaffold and to stand at her side. Also, one of them would have to hold her crown when she took it off and handed it over, as a sign of giving up the queenship before death-Caspian had explained it all to her earlier. So, Lucy selected two of the more likeable ladies-in-waiting; one of them the little maid who had tried to comfort her when Peter left court. To hold her crown, she didn't chose a woman at all, although she had come close to asking a lady-faun to do it, simply for the look of the thing, before changing her mind. She knew it wasn't tradition, but she wanted Trumpkin the red dwarf to be the one she handed her crown to-and she wanted Trufflehunter the badger up there with her as well, if it would not shame them too greatly, and if they were willing. They both agreed, and as King Caspian had told the court not to murmur against his decision to allow it, it was done.

The dress Lucy wore as she stepped out into the chill air, walking slowly down the flagstone steps to the scaffold, was plain white, simpler than a night-dress, and she wore no ornaments except for her silver crown with the eight diamond diadems. How different this was from the coronation! Looking back it didn't seem like quite so very long ago. Her rein had been short; it had started off well; it had fallen from grace; and now it was over.

The scaffold was a large platform of grey-and-brown painted wooden planks and two black pine-wood steps. Little Lucy looked very small in comparison to the vast space up where she stood, even with all the others standing behind her, the only ones she dwarfed being Trumpkin and Trufflehunter. Her longish hair was up in a loose bun, so as to leave the back of her neck clear for the sword's strike, with a few fair, wispy strands having escaped, framing her round face.

She took in everyone and everything around her. The crowds; too many faces to count. The courtiers; some looking less than angry-she fancied they might actually pity her supposed fate now that their rage had cooled off. Lord Sopespian was there, but he did not look the least bit remorseful; Lucy thought his expression was more of restrained jubilation than anything else. General Glozelle looked a little sad, though, and Lucy felt the most childish urge to wave to him, or at least, to give the poor man a friendly smile. He had never been her friend-not really-but she'd never had any reason to dislike him, either. Compared to Sopespian the man was a saint.