✻Wrong

Would it be wrong to kiss

Seeing I feel like this

Would it be wrong to try

Lena's sultry alto voice blended perfectly with the piano. From the moment she arrived at the party, she had the full attention of the Polkovnik and she made sure only he had her attention. When she sang, she locked eyes with him and sang only to him. When she danced, she danced only with him. She accepted drinks only from him; she smiled only for him.

Wrong

Would it be wrong to stay

Here in your arms this way

Under this starry sky

Little King had arrived before she had as part of the wait staff. He was around somewhere, she didn't know where as she hadn't seen him. He was trying to dig for information, find out what he could before Lena had to...but Lena pretended she was alone. She had to; it was the only way she could get through this. She knew one look at Little King and her resolve would crumble.

If it is wrong

Then why were you sent to me

Why am I content to be

With you forever...

Meri. Lena reminded herself that she was doing this for Meri. She did this so that one day Meri wouldn't have to. And so that Meri wouldn't have to know what she was.

So

When I need you so much

And I have waited so long

It must be right

It can't be wrong

Lena left the performance area with the assistance of the Polkovnik. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to sweep her into another dance while the piano carried on without her. She paid no mind as the Polkovnik's hand came to rest on the low curve of her back. Rather, she let her hand curl at the base of his neck as she toyed with the tender skin there.

The Polkovnik spoke no French and she spoke no Russian—or so he thought—but his eyes said all he needed to say. He wanted her; she could feel just how much as they danced closely. Not just yet, she thought. Little King needed more time. Perhaps there was still a chance...

She pulled the Polkovnik away from the party to a dark corner where she gave him a private concert. She sang softly in his ear; her ruby lips barely brushing the skin. She could feel his body tremble with anticipation. His hands took full advantage of their private setting as they glided over the red satin of her dress and followed every curve of her body. Her hair had been curled and gathered to one side in an intricate braid, so his lips could easily find the exposed skin of her neck. His fingers dipped into the sensitive flesh found in the low V of her neckline.

She permitted him his fun for a moment, but she couldn't let him get carried away. Not yet. She wiped the lip stain from his mouth and led him back to the party where she took another glass of wine and they shared another dance.

She tried, oh she tried to glean the information from him herself. All she needed was a name. But the Polkovnik was not a talker, neither to her nor to his comrades. He wanted only one thing from her and she began to doubt that he would ever give her anything else. Normally, this would be when she would signal to Little King that their mission was a flop. When she looked for him out of habit she could not find him, and the Polkovnik did not like her attention straying from him. He pulled her rough against his body and forcefully turned her chin so she looked into his eyes.

"Eet is time," he said.

With a nod to a comrade, the party began to disperse. Words of farewell, few they were, were exchanged, belongings were gathered, and a leaden knot began to form in Lena's stomach. The musicians all left. The drinks were put away. Even Lena's own unfinished glass of wine was taken from her hand as the Polkovnik began to lead her upstairs, his hand slowly tightening around her wrist. The staircase seemed to climb for miles, each step more difficult to take than the one before.

Meri. Meri. She was doing this for Meri. She was doing this to keep Meri safe, to give her the life she deserved, a life better than the one Lena was forced into, a life where she would never have to know the cruelties of men, even if it was a life without her.

When Lena reluctantly agreed to this mission, there was one thing she neglected to tell Little King. Lena knew if she went through with tonight, then it would be the last thing she ever did. She knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself otherwise.

Upon reaching the landing, the Polkovnik opened the first door on the right. Lena caught a glimpse of a large bed opposite the door; she looked away and down the mile-long staircase. She wondered how much it would hurt to throw herself down the stairs; would it be enough? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, it was forced to leave again. Little King was standing there. His hands were fisted at his side, his knuckles white with strain. His eyes, dark and heavy, were guilt-ridden. Lena saw the look for what it was, an apology.

I'm sorry. I failed.

Lena met his gaze and tried to send an apology of her own. "*Andrà tutto bene. Addio," she whispered.

The Polkovnik grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside the room. The door closed behind her and he pushed her against it. His lips attacking hers more vigorously than they had before. Lena struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Finally, she managed to twist out of his arms and put a few steps between them.

"*Attendez, s'il vous plaît."

"No," the Polkovnik replied with a guttural cry. "You weel give me vat I vas promised."

He grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, kissing her forcefully once more. Lena tried to be compliant; she tried to force all thought away. She tried to remember why she was doing this, but all she saw was the look on Little King's face. All she could think about was him, and it brought bitter tears to her eyes. She broke free once more.

"No, no, I can't. *Mi dispiace. S'il vous plaît. Nyet." She mixed her languages, hoping to gain some ground between them.

The Polkovnik did not relent. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the wall behind him. She cried out, her head ringing with pain. The Polkovnik pinned her to the wall with an arm across her throat while he cut a slit up the center of her dress. His cold, calloused hand dug into her thigh as he tried to force her legs apart.

Lena fought and struggled against him as hard as she could, hitting and scratching at anything she could reach. She didn't know why she fought so hard, she never had before. "You did what you had to in order to survive," Little King's words echoed in her mind. Could she still survive this way? Could she survive if she was compliant again? Was surviving the same thing as living?

Lena managed to get a good scratch across his face, her nails digging up flesh and drawing blood. The Polovnik cried out and released his hold on her. Lena stumbled away from him, coughing and gasping for air. She made for the door, but her reprieve was short-lived. The Polkovnik grabbed her arm and spun her around. He slapped her across the face and she fell to the floor. The Polkovnik loomed over her as he pulled his dagger out once more, and Lena knew whether it was by her hand or the Polkovnik's hand, she would be dead by the end of the night.

The door opened with a bang behind her.

"Vat is dis?" the Polkovnik asked.

Someone moved behind Lena, she didn't dare turn her eyes from the Polkovnik and his dagger to see who. They helped her to her feet while the Polkovnik issued a string of Russian curses that Lena couldn't comprehend. As Lena's helper stepped up beside her she finally saw who it was.

Little King.

Little King looked more righteously vengeful and more Kingly than she had ever seen him before. He had a cut about his eyes that was already swollen profusely, a busted lip, and his clothes were torn and askew. He looked at her as though there were a hundred things he wanted to say to her, but he only had time for one.

"*Correre."

Little King lightly pushed her towards the door while he turned and lunged at the Polkovnik's waist. He tackled him to the ground before springing back to his feet.

"Go!" He ordered her, not looking away from the Polkovnik. Lena ran.

She stumbled out of the room and down the stairs. Her torn dress was dragging behind her and tangling around her feet. She tripped and tumbled down the last few steps. The pain numbed by the adrenaline racing through her body and driving her forward. The house had a very different feel now. It was quiet, eerily quiet. As Lena made her way into the front sitting room she saw why.

The furniture had all been upturned. Lamps had been knocked over and shattered. Lena recalled the rough appearance of Little King, but who had he been fighting?

She saw the first body as she rounded the corner. She cried out and jumped back, tripping over her dress again. The body did not move; it's lifeless eyes stared at nothing. The blood pooled around it's chest.

With her heart racing and hands shaking, Lena struggled to regain her feet. She found the second body near the first, it's neck at an unnatural angle; she turned away. She could not progress to the front door without stepping over it. She would need to find another way out. She stumbled in her efforts to walk; the heel of her shoe had snapped off somewhere.

Above her, she could still hear the fight raging on.

Lena made her way into the kitchen, having recalled seeing a back door there. The third and fourth bodies were there too, however. Lena fell down behind the table and cried, overwhelmed and frightened by it all.

As she sat there, the pain began to creep in, withering its way in like an unwanted snake. She knew sitting was a bad idea, but she was too afraid to move. She could hear the distant thuds of bodies hitting a solid object as the fight continued upstairs. How much longer could Little King last? She had once thought him to be a fighter greater than any other, the best swordsman in Narnia. How much greater must the Polkovnik be if the fight still continued?

It was only then that Lena realized how great a fighter Little King must have been. For while she had been resisting the Polkovnik alone, Little King had taken on at least four different enemies and defeated them. And still he fought the Polkovnik. Lena didn't have to ask why he would fight so hard; she already knew the answer.

Her.

It was because of her. Little King fought for her as fiercely as he ever had. He fought for her when he recruited her, when she was too blind and too frightened to see it. He fought for her with Daniels, when Daniels didn't believe she was the right choice for the S.I.S. And he fought for her now when her—for lack of a better word—honor was at stake. And Lena knew, without question or doubt, that Little King, no, that Edmund Pevensie would die for her. After already having faced at least four other skilled combatants, he likely would die tonight.

And it was all because of her.

Lena looked at the floor across from her, where her handbag lay. Its contents lay spilled on the floor: a tube of ruby-red lip stain, a bottle of perfume, surprisingly still intact, a pack of Woodbine cigarettes, and her small but sharp knife. It wouldn't be much, but the best swordsman in Narnia wouldn't need much.

Lena pulled the knife from its protective covering and cut away the trailing part of her dress; it would do no good if she tripped going up stairs and gave away her approach. She kicked off her broken-heeled shoes—a woman couldn't be expected to run in those things anyway—and began her long trek back up the stairs. The sounds of the fighting became increasingly louder.

A loud bang issued from the room above. Lena flung herself against the wall. Through the open door, Lena could hear the taunting voice of the Polkovnik. She couldn't decipher every word, but a few key ones stood out: fight, dead, whore. Lena could hear nothing from Little King in response. The Polkovnik's words rang in her ears. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Little King was dead. She would be next. If she ran, she might still stand a chance. But how far could she really make it on her own? And who would avenge Little King? Maybe she could still salvage the night. Maybe she could still play the tempting cortesana and catch the Polkovnik by surprise. He'd have to take his clothes off at some point. If she failed, well, she knew this would be her last night alive anyway.

It was settled. Lena continued her silent trek up the stairs. She hid her knife behind her back and put her chest forward. When she looked through the open doorway, she found the Polkovnik had his back towards her.

"You have a good eye and good aim. Trust in that, and you will not miss," Little King's words from training played through her mind.

Lena knew going straight for flesh would be her easiest way in. The only bit of flesh she saw on the Polkovnik now was the tender flesh at the nape of his neck. Lena adjusted her grip on the knife, took a steadying breath, and then swiftly and silently struck.

At first, nothing happened other than the Polkovnik stopped talking. He put his hands to his throat as a thin trickle of blood began to pool around the blade. There was a soft thud as his gun dropped to the floor and he dropped to his knees. This gave Lena the leverage she needed. She placed her other hand on the pommel of the knife and pushed the blade in deeper. The Polkovnik began to gurgle and blood dripped from his mouth. As his body fell to the floor completely, Lena pulled the knife from his neck. Blood spattered everywhere. Lena's vision swam in the pool of red gathering at her feet; her ears rang.

"You weel give me vat I vas promised." "You are mine. Mi tersera. My treasure." "You stipid whore!"

The voices echoed in her head. Their faces swam before her. She struck out at each one, over and over. An anguished cry rose within her as her knife cut through flesh and muscle. Again and again. Until the faces were a blur before her, until the echos became a whisper.

Something rammed her from the side and tackled her to the ground. She tried to fight it off; she swung with the knife in her hand, but they evaded her and wrestled the knife from her grasp. She crawled to the safety of the corner and folded in on herself, knees drawn to her chest, hands tangled in her hair, head buried in her arms. Sobs wracked her body as the voices drifted in the air around her, mocking her.

"Lena. Lena, please."

She flinched when they reached for her.

Someone swore. "Lena, I...I'm so sorry." They swore again and Lena could hear the desperate plea in their voice. "Ileana, please. I know you must be scared. Scared probably doesn't even begin to cover it, but we... we can't stay here, Lena. We have to leave."

Lena shifted slightly, peeking out from behind her arm. She saw a man crouching beside her. The desperation in his voice was etched on his swollen face. She thought she knew him, but she couldn't be sure.

His smile was tremulous. "It's me, Ileana. It's Edmund. Little King." He held out his hand.

Little King? Why was that name familiar to her?

"Yes. Yes, it's me Lena. Please, take my hand. We have to go."

Lena didn't realize she had spoken. She turned to look behind her.

"No. No, don't look at that. Just focus on me, Ileana."

Lena turned her eyes back to him. If she took away the busted lip and restored his swollen eye to normal, she could see his easy smile and his pure brown eyes. "I have a proposition for you... You'll be interested in this..." She could hear his laughter. "Hence the name hot chocolate... I'm letting mine cool off first... Fine, cheers..." She could feel his embrace as they danced in the airport lobby. "Buon Natale..." She heard the warning and the plea in his voice. "Correre."

The events of the night came rushing back to her. The mission to find a rat. The singing, the dancing, the wine and the kissing, the Polkovnik pinning her against the wall and ripping her dress, it all came back. And Little King knew it.

"Lena, I... I'm so sorry. I..."

"*Stai zitto. Get me out of here."

Lena placed her hand in his and he helped her to her feet. Little King shielded her body from the rest of the room as they made their way out, blocking her view from the body that lay on the floor.

Little King descended the stairs first, frequently looking over his shoulder at her to make sure she was still there even though his hand never left hers. They stopped by a room Lena hadn't seen during the party where Little King picked up a pack of papers and shoved them in his satchel. Then they turned for the front door. Lena froze when she saw the bodies again.

"It's all right, Lena. We have to keep moving."

"Someone will find them. They will know it was us. They'll find us."

"Good thinking," Little King said. "We have to destroy the bodies, but how?" He looked around the room. "This way."

He pulled her into the kitchen. He left her standing by the wall while he went to the stove. He fumbled with all the knobs and a faint hissing sound emerged. He looked around again.

"We need a light, something to make a spark."

Meanwhile, Lena's eyes fell on the bag and it's contents spilled on the floor. She wasn't sure why, but she reached for the pack of cigarettes and pulled one from the cartridge. It was only after she put the lit cigarette to her lips that she noticed Little King watching her.

"Sorry. I forgot you don't like this." She went to put it out.

"Wait, tonight...tonight it will work."

He walked over, a slight grimace on his face and a limp in his step. He held out his hand in askance. Lena handed the cigarette over and watched as he too placed it to his lips. He took a drag with the ease of one who was not unfamiliar with smoking, but he made a face as he exhaled.

"I don't see what anyone gets from this." He passed the cigarette back.

Lena shrugged. "I suppose not everyone does." She took one more drag before handing it back to him. He did the same, then he set it down on the table, still lit.

"Come on, we need to leave."

He took her hand once more and led her back to the front door. She carefully stepped around the bodies as he pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and they stepped out into the crisp night air.

Andrà tutto bene. Addio: Everything will be fine. Farewell.

Attendez, s'il vous plaît: Wait, please

Mi dispiace. S'il vous plaît. Nyet: I'm sorry. Please. No. (Italian/French/Russian)

Correre: Run

Stai zitto: Shut up

✻Wrong: music by Max Steiner lyrics by Kim Gannon, 1942