Edmund had decided he didn't much like the ward sister.

He'd only bee truly awake for about an hour, but in that time she'd made him take about a dozen disgusting medicines (including a tablespoon of cod-liver oil that smelled like rotten cabbage), sponged him like a circus animal instead of letting him take a proper bath, and said he had to stay in the "igloo" (her childish name for the oxygen tent) until his lungs were less congested.

"Just another day or two," she assured him, then wiped his sweaty face with a damp washcloth before sitting it on his brow. That did feel lovely, Edmund had to admit. The ward seemed far too warm for the time of year, though the ward sister said that was because his fever had only just broken. She fussed over him for a few minutes, then told him to go to sleep and left.

Sleep was still a ways off, though, because once she was gone, everyone in the beds around Edmund felt the need to introduce themselves. There was Mr. Terrance on the right, with a broken leg, and Kipper on the left, who'd had an operation on his eye. There was Mr. White three beds down, who claimed to have hurt his throat, even though his voice sounded fine (and plenty loud) to Edmund. There were others, too, who tried to get a word in, but by the time Mr. White had finished bellowing, Edmund wasn't paying attention anymore. He was distracted by blond-haired, glasses-wearing boy coming through the door, the one the ward sister gave a skeptical look.

"Peter?"

"Ed?" His face glowed like Edmund hadn't seen in a long time; since their dad had left for the war, at least. Peter rushed over, ignoring a "tsk" from the ward sister, then pulled Ed into tight hug.

"Peter!" Edmund squirmed and tried to push his brother's arms away, but Peter held tight for longer than he'd have liked. Mr. Terrance was watching them from behind the book he was pretending to read, and Edmund was sure he saw a smirk.

"By Aslan," Peter said, finally releasing his brother, "you're awake."

"Last time I checked," Ed said. He took advantage of his new freedom to wipe his sweaty face with his pajama sleeve while Peter sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Feeling better, then?"

Ed nodded. "Yeah."

Peter waited for elaboration, but there was none forthcoming, so he cleared his throat and reached into his school knapsack. "I brought you a book. I thought you might like to read it. While you're still stuck in bed, I mean." He thrust a copy of Treasure Island into Edmund's lap.

"Thanks."

"I borrowed it from Miss Yallow, so, um, let me know when you've finished it."

"Okay." Edmund glanced at the book with raised eyebrows. He was feeling much better, but he still had a headache and didn't think staring at a page would help. "You didn't have to come."

Peter shrugged. "Well, here I am."

"But why?" Ed felt suddenly hotter, which he was sure had nothing to do with the breaking fever. "I'm sure you were all relieved to be rid of me, so go on. Enjoy it while you can."

"I came because I was worried, we were all worried. You really gave us a scare, Ed."

"None of you seemed to care much when I told Mrs. Macready I felt so terrible," Ed snapped. He put the book on his nightstand and sunk down beneath the scratchy hospital covers. "I'm tired, I'm going to sleep."

"Ed, listen . . ."

He rolled over so he was facing away from Peter. "Goodnight."

"Listen, you're right. I assumed you were making a mountain out of a molehill and that wasn't fair. Not at all. But I'm sorry, Ed, I really am. And everyone else is, too."

"It's fine."

"No it isn't. But give me the chance to make it up to you. How about I read you a couple chapters of Treasure Island? I know you can read it yourself, but Lucy said the measles is giving her such a headache she didn't want to think about reading."

"Lucy's sick, too?" Edmund turned so quickly he almost rolled right out of bed, but Peter caught his arm.

"Yes, but just regular measles, like Susan and I had. Just a bit under the weather, you'd hardly know she was poorly at all without the rash." That last bit wasn't quite true, but Peter had a hard time feeling badly over a little white lie. There was no reason to get Ed so worked up when he was still sick himself.

Mr. White cleared his supposedly-injured-throat quite loudly. "Well," he said, "are you going to read Treasure Island or not?"

Edmund snorted, and suddenly Peter knew that everything would be okay. "It's up to you, Ed."

"Only if you do voices," Edmund said with a smirk. "It isn't worth listening to someone else unless they do voices. The weirdest ones you can."

Peter grinned. "Of course." He flipped open to the first page and began reading with an overly-exaggerated Scottish highlander accent, which made Ed howl with laughter. After a few sentences the ward nurse made him stop, because Ed's laughing had prompted a coughing fit, but Peter convinced her to let him continue in his normal tone of voice (although he slipped in a bit of lilt wherever he could). And he read and read and read until Ed had fallen fast asleep, and then he read a little longer, past when his voice turned hoarse and scratchy, until the ward nurse told him visiting hours were over.

Peter Pevensie sat slumped in his chair, his pencil paused over a blank notebook while his teacher rattled on about Napoleon's invasion of Russia. History was usually Peter's favorite class, but that day's lecture must have gotten jumbled somewhere between the blackboard and the fourth row. He eventually deciphered "The Calormen army was prepared to rush in, bold!" to truly be, "Napoleon's army wasn't prepared for Russian cold," but by then Miss Yalow was three ideas and a tangent on, and Peter's headache was only getting worse.

Although, he thought, it was no wonder he couldn't pay attention to the details. Clothe the Narnian army during winter campaigns, predict what provisions could be found and what must be brought . . . Susan usually took care of those sorts of things. Without her Peter would have surely lead his people into a battle just as doomed as Moscow, unless Edmund stopped it all with a peace agreement. And with Lucy's cordial, of course, there'd be no worry of disease among the ranks; Peter heard Miss Yalow say "You know the men tied up were more deadly than guns and swords," which his mind slowly rearranged to begin, "Pneumonia and Typhus."

Myrtle Allen, in the front row, asked what Typhus was, and another tangent ensued.

In a way, Peter wished he was away on campaign. Chain mail might not have been the most comfortable of fashion choices, but anything was better than his stupid uniform tie and collar. They always tried to choke him, but that day they seemed particularly successful. Peter swallowed hard before remembering that that made his throat burn. Breakfast had been torture – dry toast (the grocer didn't have any jam or butter), a mealy apple, a cup of tea that might as well been acid, the cod liver oil The Macready had decreed he and Susan must take . . . dear Aslan, don't think about the cod liver oil! Mum used to make him take it, too, when one of his siblings was sick, but The Macready must have chosen the foulest formula at the chemist's.

"Peter?"

His head was buried in his arms, resting on his desk. He didn't remember assuming such a position, but forcing himself out of it was no mean feat. The classroom was empty, the board erased; it must have been the break Miss Yalow always gave them between history and English lessons. Before the war they'd have had a different teacher for each subject, but the straps had been tightened even there.

"Peter, are you feeling alright?"

His head shook before he could stop it. Miss Yalow pressed the back of her fingers against his brow, so Peter felt her engagement ring dig into his skin.

"You seem feverish," she said. "Would you like to go home?"

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, choking back the tears that had appeared in his eyes without warning. He knew he was ill. He felt like he'd been trampled by a heard of centaurs; it wasn't possible he was just tired, just worried, just homesick. Not anymore. But that didn't mean he wasn't all those things, too.

Miss Yalow didn't wait for an answer. She put one hand on Peter's shoulder and led him down to the office, depositing him into a chair in the corner, the same chair where Edmund had sat a week before. Miss Yalow whispered with the secretary for a few moments, then hurried out, back to the classroom.

"Feeling poorly, dear?" the secretary asked, safe at her post behind her desk.

Peter muttered in the affirmative and fought to keep his eyes open. By Aslan, he'd never felt so exhausted. And his throat was on fire, worse than the time he had scarlet fever when he was seven, and his head could've been knocked about by a troll's club and it wouldn't have hurt any more.

"I suppose you've caught something from your siblings."

"No, ma'am. I've already had the measles."

Mrs. Williams raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly. "Whatever you say, dear."

Peter slumped further in the chair and fell asleep before The Macready arrived to pick him up.

Author's Note: I told you updates would come quicker now! Trying to write the transition between these two scenes was driving me nuts, so I just decided to leave it be; I hope it isn't too jarring as-is. Reviews are always much appreciated!