Ch. 3- Parlour Treasoné

My head is a long swirling chain of things I don`t dare to think about; apparently it gives me an irresistable charm. Donald told me that; he told me that he looks at me as even more bored or sophistocated than himself; he told me I make men long to find something, anything that will make me smile a real smile.

I hadn`t realized people could tell my smiles were false.

I suppose I don`t really care.

And today, half a summer into this trip, I added another thing to ignore to the chain of things to ignore. (And even thinking about the chain gives me words I don`t want to think of, some of them about queenship and a stone knife and mermaids slipping through free water). My headache, Donald`s headache, the unsuspicious or conniving farewell of Donald`s mother, and the sound of him moving about on the floor below me. My feet on the stairs despite the dull pulse in my head. The odd detachement of my body as I watched the morning light spill in the parlour window, the deathiness or paint chalk that connected between my hands and face, and Donald`s. Many would say I have done nothing wrong; not strictly.

But I am a traitor, and no one to go under the knife for me.

(Oh hell. Aslan, you said you`d send someone for me. If I fall further, it will be your fault.)