Dawn Treader Valley Fisher, Fisher where are you.

She was almost too busy self-flagellating to worry about (not) Otto’s response at this point, though his voice of reason cut into her low wailing. His reaction—or lack thereof—surprised her into silence after a final, heaving sob. Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he disgusted? Why didn’t he insist she pay for her crimes?

I don’t know, she whispered emphatically when he asked her if she’d ever do it again, then began crying again.

She curled into a ball and threw her black forelegs over her face, hiding it from (not) Otto and the world at large. Frolic wept for quite a while, so that by the time she raised her face again, her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks soddenly swollen. She could barely breathe through her nose.

She felt utterly depleted, though the weight on her young shoulders had lifted some for the confession. All the same, Frolic abruptly seemed to realize just what she’d done and sucked in her lower lip as fear gripped her. Her wet eyes widened as she stared at (not) Otto, wondering if at any moment he might decide she deserved punishment.

Although grateful for his grace, Frolic suddenly scrambled to her feet and bolted. She ran south as quickly as her shaky legs could carry her, once more a fugitive.