Summers in the countryside were supposed to be idyllic — quiet mornings, long afternoons, and evenings filled with the hum of crickets and the smell of fresh bread cooling on windowsills. For you, they often were, at least when the house was full of Pevensies.

Susan was like the sister you always wanted — gentle, thoughtful, someone you could pour your heart out to, who would always know what to say. Peter had been your makeshift older brother for years, teaching you games, offering advice, and shielding you from the worst of Edmund’s temper. Even Lucy was a confidante, your little partner in crime, the person you whispered secrets to beneath the covers at night.

But this summer was different. Susan was away. Peter too. And Lucy had gone out with Eustace and some of the neighbors to help with errands. Which left you here, in the creaky old country house, with the one Pevensie you could least tolerate.

Edmund.

You’d sworn the boy had made it his life’s mission to irritate you since childhood. He had an uncanny ability to zero in on your patience and poke holes in it until it was leaking everywhere. He teased you relentlessly, pulled at your hair, and tossed snide remarks that somehow always crawled under your skin.

And now — insult to injury — the two of you had been tasked with cleaning the house.

Except Edmund, naturally, had no intention of lifting a finger.

He lounged in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk as you swept the wooden floorboards. The dust danced in the sunlight, swirling around you like a mocking halo.

“Very regal,” he drawled. “You should try curtsying while you’re at it. Maybe hum a little tune. It suits you.”

You shot him a look that could have burned the wallpaper clean off. “You could help, you know. Unless standing there pretending you’re king of the world is exhausting work.”

He grinned wider, clearly delighted at your irritation. “Oh, I’m helping. Supervising is very important, you know. Someone has to make sure you don’t miss a spot.”

You gripped the broom tighter, imagining — for just a second — swinging it at his smug face. “If you don’t start helping, I’ll miss a spot right over your head.”

Edmund stepped into the room then, slow and theatrical, like he was entering a stage play meant for his amusement. He plucked the broom straight out of your hands and leaned it against the wall. His eyes, sharper and darker than you liked to admit, locked on yours.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head, “you’re much prettier when you’re angry.”

Your jaw dropped. That was new. Teasing, yes. Annoying, always. But that? That was dangerous territory.