Susan draws her dressing gown close around her, soundlessly stepping out into the back garden with a steaming cup of tea as the sun barely creeps over the horizon; she and Edmund both have always been early risers for longer than these newly young bodies of theirs have been alive.

"Have the crows said anything yet?" she asks him, passing him the cup.

"They will," Edmund says, gulping down tea and then wincing at the burn; "they're crows. They always have something to say. Regardless of which world's magic they carry."