The night already feels strangely heavy for a celebration; when Susan sees the Stone Table picked out in plastic blocks, she fears she might actually start crying. She stares at it for a long moment, her heart in her throat, reaching out to skate her hands a scant half-inch from the surface but never quite bringing herself to touch it.

When she selects a block set to build, she chooses something utterly unrecognizable, thoroughly different from anything she's seen before, and she follows the included instructions slowly, carefully, not once glancing back. Her hands are steady; her face betrays nothing. She'll chat pleasantly with the girls building next to her. She remembers the dryads who lived in those trees, is the thing. She remembers when the mice ate through Aslan's bindings, and the pilgrimages she and Lucy would make every year as queens in the hopes that Aslan would come back, and when they had the council of war against Caspian's uncle.

The ice cream sandwiches taste heavenly. She looks forward to sneaking one back to Lancelot at the end of the night, and letting him coax her from the quiet that has settled deep in her bones.