On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

Susan smooths out her skirts. "Perhaps Mr Tumnus," she says, slowly. "But he was always Lucy's special friend. Cor and Corin, the princes of Archenland? They were such dear boys." She had, in retrospect, felt rather maternally toward them, which is ever so queer to think about now, given that she feels maternal about absolutely nothing at all and prefers it that way.

She presses her lips together. "Perhaps no one."