Her hand is still in his, but Caspian is unaware of it, his eyes wide and his head high, taking it in.

They had left a wood, and they are in another--but this wood is as different from the one of the Lodge as that is from Narnia. Trees, ancient and sleepy, allow their knotted roots to twine through the surface of the earth. They reared huge leafy heads and arms to the sunlight, and a breeze rustled through them the way a fingers might slip through silky hair. The same breeze toys with Marian's curls; it smoothes over Caspian's brow and he takes a deep breath of it.

"It's beautiful," he says. Green and gold, aye, just as she had told him. "Lady, your home is lovely. Do you live in yonder wood?"