What Susan can't say - can't even quite bring herself to admit to herself - is, of course, that she's angry at Aslan, at God, at any untamed creature she once put her faith into. Is this how Lucy's devotion is to be rewarded? To be crystallized, forever seventeen, before she ever even got a chance to become anything but a former Queen of Narnia? Is Edmund's prize for fighting to improve himself a removal of any ability to engage in that fight? Peter, so magnificent, stripped of every struggle to become magnificent? Even slimey little Eustace was killed and whisked away to that awful nonexistence. Susan has spent months fighting to be glad to remember that she's alive, fighting to accept that her family is not. In a way, now, the first is monumentally easier but the second proportionally more difficult.

She's silent, though, both to herself and to Lancelot. She is trying to understand this in pieces.