She looks at him and her mouth cracks into a smile. He does not know. He is a stranger, after all, and Lucy knows it; but there is something innocent about that. "Who said the trees cannot dance?" she asks, and she laughs, and claps her hands, and turns so that they can look at the them. "If you please, ladies," she says, and the dryads all at one emerge, and curtsy, and Lucy curtsies back.

And they dance, spinning around each other, just feet off the ground, their skirts made of fine gossamer leaves, their skin the same blushing color of the sweetest pear.

She looks at Magnus, then, and she's so proud. "Welcome to Narnia, Lord Bane."