The Last Tale of the Flower Bride

by Roshani Chokshi

her voice was now transposed over a rhyme so old there was moss in its joints—

I knew there was danger in naming things. I treated the truth like a monster that could be summoned by speech alone.

“Like this life is one grand test and if we grow up wrong, then we’ll end up as Cast-Out Susans.” Her mouth pinched at the idea. That week, Indigo and I had finished rereading the Chronicles of Narnia and were once again obsessed with Susan Pevensie. A queen locked out of the realm she’d once ruled, exiled for the crime of growing up. Susan Pevensie was our nightmare.

Narnia ref we looove. Justice for susan

I finally understood why magic loved us so well. We had it all wrong. It was never about who we were, but what we were— Young. Downy-feathered, soft-skinned, milk-teethed young. Unmarked and limpid, so clear-eyed that where adults saw bitterness and shadows, we saw a language that might still be translated into light.