Copperfox, ever aware of the complex relationship between what characters experience _within_ the reality of stories and roleplays, and the thoughts _about_ these things expressed by persons writing posts, was also aware of how little he could really do about Change Party schemes in the actual world. But he _could_ still do things about the hearts and minds of individuals...and a world is still made up of the individuals in it. So, assuming the heroic form of The Grey Eagle, he took off to find the potentially suicidal girl and see if he could help her emerge from depression.
MEANWHILE......
Emmett had postponed opening the restaurant, and had told everyone, including Jake and Trinity, to leave. He was determined to show that he trusted Aslan's word about what was meant to happen. Aslan had said that no physical danger was involved; yet Emmett still felt the same suspense as when a gun duel was imminent. Or was it a very different cause that had his heart thudding?
The old gunslinger--that is, "old" compared to the short life expectancy of the profession in his native space-time coordinates--had cleared a large space, and placed two chairs in the center of it. The front door was left ajar, and Emmett had even taped a hand-written sign on it, saying, "CLOSED, EXCEPT FOR ONE VISITOR, WHO KNOWS WHO SHE IS."
He waited....until the door was opened the rest of the way, to close again quietly when she was inside.
Neither of the other times Emmett had seen the Snow Queen had there been any occasion even to think about her appearance; she had simply been an enemy--and the second time, an enemy totally preoccupied with using her unfair, undeserved advantage to humiliate him and Jake. But now, not only did Emmett know that she had no more power to threaten him; he realized that she was coming in full knowledge that now HE could easily kill HER if he wished.
Yet she had come; and she was so beautiful that the sight of her almost made his lungs forget which direction the air was supposed to be moving. No aspect of her physical construction, face or body, was any different from before; but now, both face and body projected what had been totally absent before: actual femininity, and even a timid, forlorn longing to be--
--at least, to be accepted, to be given a chance. That much was readable in her eyes, where a benign residue of her magic remained for him to see.
She caught her breath when she saw the shotgun in Emmett's hands as he rose to his feet. But she did not flee; and her eyes widened with something other than fear at what Emmett did next. The Western warrior held the weapon out toward her, reversed, the twin muzzles pointed at himself. "Take it," he said. "This'll show you that I accept Aslan's word 'bout your reasons for comin'. Now you can see me NOT expectin' trouble from you."
The hands of the former sorceress trembled, as she recognized the very same shotgun with which her crazed servant Arthur had tried to murder Emmett when Emmett and Jake had been captives. She suddenly flung the gun away from herself, as if it frightened her more than Emmett did. It hit the floor, but did not go off. With the exotic woman's eyes fixed on him, Emmett picked up the gun and set it on one of the pushed-away tables. "It ain't loaded," he told her. "Not that I figured you'd try to shoot me, but accidental firin' can happen, an' might have happened from you droppin' it like that. Anyway, now I hope you see this is at least a halfway-friendly jaw session. Have a seat right there. Can I take your jacket?"
Still shy, not yet moving from where she stood, the Snow Queen nodded. Emmett gracefully removing her outer garment was, she now realized, the first time he had ever touched her. (Her touching him when he had been an unconscious captive didn't count.) His action reminded her of being served by slaves; but _they_ had had no choice about serving her. Emmett was _choosing_ to be chivalrous. At last she recovered her voice, to say:
"Sir...you should know...not only did Aslan restore those card-soldiers to life...He also restored my butler Arthur, and the man you were forced to kill at my castle."
"Now, that is good news' ma'am," said Emmett in a perfectly sincere tone. "Please, have a seat. Can I fetch ya somethin' to drink?"
She finally made herself walk to the indicated chair, privately disappointed that the Western hero did not touch her again in any way. But he _was_ acting hospitable, at least. "I've, um, scarcely begun getting to know the kinds of things people drink in, um, this world."
"Lemonade should be safe enough," said Emmett. Pulling one of the tables closer to the chairs, he soon had two glasses of lemonade sitting on it, where he and his guest could reach them. Then he also sat.
"You'll pardon me if I _don't_ cotton to callin' you 'Your Majesty.' So what _should_ I call you?"
She lowered her gaze the way a bashful teenage girl might do, the very first time in her life that she realized an adult man was noticing her beauty. "You could call me what they're starting to call me at the fashion shows: Queenie."
"Fair enough. So, it's your play, Queenie. Tell me why you came here; I'm listenin'."
