He curls his fingers around hers as her hair whips into a golden mist around them. "There's only one other thing I can think of," he says, and steps back without dropping her hand, drawing her with him to the side of the tower that looks out over the sea and shore. "There."

There is a pier stretching out from beach and castle, at the end of which floats a beautifully designed ship. Her hull is green, the rolled sails on her yardarms are a lush purple, and a proud gilt dragon rears up from her prow, a coiling tail curling from the stern. "There she sits," he murmurs, pride and longing and wistfulness and joy all mixed together in his voice, in his face. "The Dawn Treader."