It was a strange world that his queen lived in, full of grey—from the cloudy sky to the odd buildings to the cobbled streets—with the rare dash of color, and he wondered how a soul so vibrant could come from such a drab land, fascinating though it was in its foreignness.

He heard a cry and turned to see Lucy running toward him, her book bag banging against her hip, and she seized his hands in hers, exclaiming and laughing in delight, before she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him fiercely. Caspian spun her in a circle and buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in, and when he at last looked up, the world was changed—bright, vivid, more—and Caspian understood: Lucy was Lucy, and no world could change her; rather, she changed it.