It was unsettling. The office Edmund entered clearly belonged to him. It was arranged just as he would have done, the drawers organized just the same (with the addition of weights to account for Titan's weaker gravity). Behind his desk, rather than a window overlooking New York City, was a large painting of the Narnian coast that could only have been privately commissioned. It was unquestionably his. He simply couldn't remember it.
The best way to find out what was going on for himself was to dive into the paperwork closest to hand. Edmund pressed a button to order a cup of tea and a sandwich. Catching up on (supposedly) two years of legal affairs would mean working through lunch. Fortunately, he was familiar with his own filing system.
Four hours and several cross-references later, his phone chimed a notification, and a digital voice informed him. "Fifteen minutes. Lunch with Jillia. Remember spoon."
Edmund blinked. There was nothing particularly odd about meeting for lunch with a friend and coworker, but 'remember spoon'? Titan surely wasn't that lacking in amenities.
He pulled the bottom filling drawer all the way out. If he knew himself, Edmund generally kept useful odds and ends behind the files. There was an extra thermos, a bag of sweets, a spare carving knife, and… he picked up what appeared to be his current project. Not a set of cutlery, but a wooden soup spoon such as he hadn't seen since Narnia. The handle was formed by intricately-carved vines and flowers (daffodils as trumpets of joy), woven around a pair of bells (for a life filled with music), and culminating in a heart-shaped lock promising security to the one implied to hold the key. He could recognize smaller details, as well, hidden among the vines and decorating the bells - little touches that were not Narnian, but brought to mind conversations about Jillia's homeworld.
Lovespoons weren't unique to Narnia. Edmund had heard of the tradition existing elsewhere, like umbrellas, and chivalry. What it meant to have one sitting there in his desk, surely the product of weeks, if not months of work, was something very Narnian. It symbolized a declaration which he certainly hadn't made back on Earth. He rubbed his thumb against the handle. It was not quite smoothly polished, not yet ready to be offered to its intended recipient. Edmund had no doubt that he had made it for Jillia - for all the complicated emotions evoked by that certainty - even if his future calendar had not suggested it.
"Ten minutes. Lunch with Jillia." The second reminder alerted Edmund to the fact that he had been sitting back from his desk, staring at the spoon in his hands. It wasn't ready to give, and their recent displacement proved that any offer of security would be a lie. That lack of stability played a large part in (for instance) the fact that he'd chosen to attend the Halloween ball alone. Looking at evidence that some version of him had overcome those doubts, added a palpable dimension of hope to the feelings Edmund tried to keep wrapped away.
(Nova had also been a symbol of hope, he'd once thought, a sign of a different kind.)
(Then again, perhaps her visit had merely been the catalyst intended to save her and her mother from harm.)
(Perhaps, he'd almost told Susan, some people weren't meant to get happy endings, only to ensure that others did.)
Edmund placed the spoon back in the drawer, locked it, and stood up to go. It wasn't ready, yet, but - he smoothed his hair and adjusted his jacket - this was not an ordinary lunch with a friend either.