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“I thought I’d locked that.”
Peter turns, his voice apologetic. “I was looking for you, and…”
“It’s fine.”
They stand there together, quiet, surrounded by a sea of stone animals.
“They’re…” Peter starts, but he stops before the word beautiful—statues can be beautiful, but that’s not what he sees when he looks at them, and he knows Edmund feels the same.
Each figure is frozen in a state of cold terror. Tiny paws are curled, fur raised in fear, wide eyes unseeing.
Peter shivers.
“I know,” Ed says. “It’s horrible, isn’t it.”
Peter looks at him, sees the weight of guilt and exhaustion hanging over him, and shakes his head. “No, not horrible. Maybe…grotesque.” He raises a hand but can’t bring himself to touch, hovering just over the pointed ear of a squirrel. “Ed…these are incredible.”
“I don’t know what to do with them.” Edmund’s eyes darken as he surveys his creations. “I’d display them, but…” He exhales heavily.
Peter understands.
When they leave, Edmund locks the door. They don’t talk about it again.
But after that, Peter can always picture it: Edmund, closed in the back room of his studio, trying to bring stone to life.