𝙸𝚁𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴. ➪ 𝙴. 𝙿𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚎

𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

In July, Phillis' book was finally published. She was to do a book signing at a little bookshop that sat opposite the train station. Susan stood in the crowd with Enoch on her hip and Enid in the pram. Reporters sat in the audience, waiting to ask questions to Phillis. The owner of the shop introduced her. She kissed her wedding ring lightly, which always hung around her neck nowadays, and stood up. The reporters began asking questions almost immediately and Phillis did her best to answer them all. About five minutes in, and a particularly interesting one was asked. "This is quite a heartbreaking story, where did it come from?" a woman asked.
"Well, one must endure such heartbreak to write about it," Phillis answered.
"Is it true you're related to Ralph Opal?" a pudgy man at the front asked.
"Yes, I'm his daughter."
"Your father was a brilliant author, do you worry you won't be able to reach such high standards?" another woman questioned.
"Not at all. Besides, my father didn't write a single word of those books," the crowd gasped. "They were all written by my mother, who was worried that the society we live in wouldn't approve of the books if they were published under her name. My father was intelligent, yes, but he certainly didn't have a way with words like my mother did."
"Where did you come up with the title?" another asked.
"It's something very dear to my heart."

The first page of the book simply read,

To the great Western Wood,
for my Eddie
Who taught me that everything
that has been wronged can always
be fixed. And that Turkish Delight
isn't as good as he says it is.

Then, one would turn the page, and read,

CHAPTER ONE
The Cherry Blossom Tree and What Came To Be of It

To understand life, one must understand death. And to understand death, one must have known such a thing to happen. That is why young children take these sort of things much lighter than most adults. Perhaps we do not have to understand death, but we must accept it. For everything will die and we cannot change the inevitable.

The book turned out to be a spectacular success. Despite being under Phillis' name. So, Susan went home with Phillis, Enoch and Enid to celebrate. "Do you think of Narnia often, Su?" asked Phillis, taking a sip from her glass of lovely wine.
"Narnia? Why, I'd almost completely forgotten about that little game!" Susan exclaimed.
"Game? I assure you, Su, I think it was very real," Phillis said. "I have enough scars to prove it, don't you think?"
"Who's to say that they're really from Narnia," the name sounded almost foreign on Susan's tongue.
"Well, I have no other memory of getting stabbed or shot in London," replied Phillis. "See, this was from when I saved Edmund, this was from when-"

Truth be told, Phillis was overjoyed that she'd decided to turn down Aslan's offer all those years ago. If she hadn't of kept her scars, she was sure she would have forgotten about Narnia by now. It all seemed like some distant marvellous dream. She knew it was real. She knew there was nothing it could be other than their beautiful reality.

"Okay!" Susan exclaimed. "Suppose Narnia really was real, we're never to go back, so what should it matter if we can remember it or not?"
"What if we were to go back?" Phillis muttered, more to herself than to Susan.
"What could we possibly go back for?" asked Susan.
"I'm not sure," shrugged Phillis, beginning to wonder why she'd said anything of Narnia at all.
"Well, whatever the case is, we've lived happy lives, haven't we, Philly?" Susan smiled.
"Most definitely," nodded Phillis.
The girls set down their glasses of delicious red wine on the coffee table and stood up from the sofa. A personal favourite of Susan's had come on, so neither of them could resist the urge to get up and dance. They danced the night away, giggling at each other whenever one would mess up or trip or stumble or mention something funny. They danced. And they danced. And, on the infamous coffee table, Edmund's last letter sat by a fairly thick book. The cover was red and on the front, in big golden letters, it read the title of the book. The hardback novel certainly looked like something you could find on a bookshelf in Cair Paravel in Narnia. So, the two dancing girls - who were to stick together throughout anything that the world might possibly throw at them - had never felt more alive than they did in that moment. The feeling of genuine happiness felt foreign to them at this point, so it was certainly nice to welcome it home with wide arms and big smiles. And, with a crackling fire, Susan's favourite song and two very happy women, the night bled into day. And, throughout it all, on the coffee table, sat the very first original copy of Where the Cherry Blossoms Couldn't Grow.