I am sixteen years old, but, really, I feel like I’m six again.

My first few days at King Rupert’s Preparatory School passed in a half-hearted flicker. Though the girls aren’t entirely ignoring me, none care for more than returning my greeting. They’re mostly girls from my previous school, but it’s not that they’ve grown up, more that the scenery changed? I mean, it’s easy to brush off something you did when thirteen and not so much at sixteen. Not to mention, they don’t want to give the boys the “wrong” impression.

Anyway, that’s of little consequence to me.

My past years have been busy with all sorts of things. Right now, I am in my room—not a shared one. The result of much effort, I whisper a pretty chant to the faeries, running my hands through my hair as a warm and gentle breeze seems to flow from my fingertips. As a result, my wet hair quickly dries.

At school, I have a simple look that is a ponytail and a blank expression, and it is a magic all of its own, making me near invisible. Now, with another chant, I borrow a little help to braid my hair into a neat updo, only taking minutes for what would have taken Ellie an hour.

That’s but the first step.

I have pretty clothes that I sewed last year, which look cheap and common due to being repurposed curtains, the fabric heavy and with a flower pattern. There’s a cap like what a maid would wear, a white cloth neatly trimmed and an elastic thread added to keep it from falling off. Unfortunately, the hat does cover most of my hair, my hair colour being pretty recognisable.

Not to boast, but it all looks rather good on me, the fit tailored and stitching neat.

Earlier on this Saturday morning, I told the manservant at the gatehouse that I would be expecting a servant later in the day and so he made a note. That’s to allow my return, the same manservant saying nothing as I now walk out through the gate. After all, his job is to check the people coming in. (Leaving, well, students can go out, but they have to be in a group and accompanied by a couple of servants.)

I had the idea from listening to Clarice. She has many stories, from her time here, of maids or footmen delivering sweets and such. That my plan works first time, well, it’s merely a reflection of my own ability—and how blind the world is when someone dons a different uniform.

The school is situated on the edge of Tuton, a vast field behind it and a row of middle-class houses a stone’s throw from the front gate. I mean, I have to use the side gate, so it’s about two stone’s throws away, but that doesn’t matter.

Tuton was once two separate towns which grew into each other, the old names for them long lost. At first, it was called “Two-towns” and then that became “Twotons” and then just “Tuton”. As such, either side of the River Medway has its own assortment of architecture from that history. It’s nowhere close to big enough to be a Crown City, but it’s a decently large town.

If I was Eleanor, such a sight would fill me with awe and I’d no doubt be caught out in a minute. However, these days, I’m feeling more like Ellie. Memory a hazy thing, I can’t really say for certain that that’s true. Well, what it means is that I blend in when I walk through the town. I don’t have a goal in mind as such, more just taking this is a distraction, a new experience.

Honestly, I was so busy thinking how to do it that I forgot to think of what to do afterwards. Oops.

The only thing that actually matters is I don’t have money, so I will have to return for lunch. With no other pressing matters, I walk down the high street and admire the displays, idly people watching too. Though a town full of commonfolk, there’s a fair number of the middle-class here as well and the prominent shops seem to cater to them. I don’t stray from the busy parts, knowing better as I don’t know how safe this world really is, yet I see the odd grocer down a side-street, or a stall selling cheap knickknacks.

A few people glance my way as I go about, some of them men, but I keep moving before anything more than a glance can happen. Again, I’m not here to unknowingly invite trouble.

And yet I’m drawn to it.

While I’m strolling through a pretty plaza, I hear the modest cries of a child who knows he shouldn’t be crying but really can’t do anything about it at this time. A quick look, and I spot him, a poor thing probably around five to eight. He’s alone and, thus, lost.

Such is what happens when a child’s hand is left unheld.

No one else eager to do anything, I walk over and lower myself to his height, coaxing a look from him. “Are you lost?” I ask.

He sniffles, his lips trembling, and he nods, the gentle action enough to send another tear trailing down his face. I bless him in my head, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his face. Due to my embroidery hobby, I may well have enough handkerchiefs for every child in the town.

“Come then, let’s look together,” I say, firmly taking his hand and pulling him forward.

He hesitates, but good children are nothing if not obedient, and every child is good when taken by the hand and pulled forward—or offered cake. Given my lack of money, I can’t exactly offer him that right now.

“Let’s see. Who are you with, and where did you last see them?”

His voice comes out in sobs. “N-nanny Gertrude. We, we were at a shop, and, and….”

I sigh, not pushing him for any more. Probably, he saw something, she talked to someone, and then everyone panicked. “Do you know where that shop is?” I ask. It’s a long shot, I know.

He shakes his head.

“How about your home?”

He shakes his head.

“Your nose?”

He shakes—he frowns, his face scrunched up, and then he quickly touches his nose, as if suddenly thinking I asked him because it had disappeared.

Giggling behind my free hand, I’m reminded of teasing Joshua. “Let’s walk around, and you make sure to look hard for nanny, okay? I bet you can see her from a mile away.”

His face scrunches up into a grin this time, and then he raises his chin, rising to his tiptoes. He must be closer to five, so simple.

In the end, it takes us half an hour of walking before a woman calls out, “Jasper!”

That single word makes him seize up, his little hand squeezing mine tight. I turn, and it’s a youngish woman who looks old, her uniform bland and face aged by the worry and anger she’s showing.

“Where have you been? Running away, why I ought to smack your bottom blue and purple!”

He steps behind me, trying to hide from the words, and I don’t blame him. “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

For a moment, she just stares at me—maybe because I called her “ma’am”. Then she says, “What business is it of yours?”

Her sharp tone bounces off me as I sweetly smile. “I have taken charge of a lost child and he doesn’t seem eager to return to you. However, he did give me his nanny’s name, so I wish to check.”

She stared at me with narrowed eyes, but she eventually says, “I am Gertrude Smith.”

I cover my mouth for a moment, and then say, “Gertrude is a rather common name, isn’t it?”

“It is not,” she quickly replies.

“Really? I’m sure you must hear it everyday.”

Though it takes a second, I can clearly see when my words sink in. “Enough! Jasper, come,” she says, reaching out to grab his hand.

I move to block her.

Her furious gaze back on me, she says, “What do you think you’re doing? Get out the way.”

“In my experience, children listen well if you offer them sweets.”

“And they’ll come out as spoiled as you.”

“Well, you do have a point there,” I say.

She doesn’t look pleased to have me concede that. I’m not sure anything could please her, to be honest. And through our argument, we’ve attracted a decent crowd, which isn’t exactly what I intended. Until now lost in the moment, I think about what I do intend.

“I’m not here to be made a fool, so just hand over my charge,” she says.

Meeting her gaze, I drop my smile. I doubt I look at all intimidating, but I can at least look serious. “On the condition you do not punish him. Clearly, you are partially at fault.”

“At fault? Me? He’s the one who—”

“—is a child. He will get lost. Worse than a child who gets lost is a child afraid to find the very person caring for him.”

I speak evenly, plainly. Her rage smoulders and I see her bite back the harsh words, because she is surely also realising this situation isn’t good for her if it would reach her master’s ears. Besides, what pride is there in arguing with a stranger—a woman years younger than her at that.

“Fine,” she quietly says, and I don’t stop her as she reaches for Jasper this time.

He’s scared, but I pat his head.

“See how upset nanny was she lost you? She was surely crying too, so be good and don’t make her cry again, okay?”

He hesitates for a moment, and then nods.

“Good boy,” I say, ruffling his hair.

Thoroughly done with me, Gertrude tugs him away. She doesn’t look back, but he does, waving to me.

“Bless him,” I mutter.

It’s not a second later that my freed hand is taken—by a woman, this time. I turn around and it’s a distantly familiar face.

Loudly whispering, Lottie says, “Miss Nora!”

Between her voice and face, I sense a certain amount of surprise and exasperation, chiding and pleased, and I’m certainly happy to see her. “Lottie!”

She tugs me along and, the good child I am, I obediently follow. In her other hand, I spot a little girl—Gwen. Her hurried footsteps quickly take us from the crowd to a quiet street nearby. There, she reluctantly stops, turning to me with an all too familiar look on her face.

Again, she says, “Miss Nora,” and it’s almost a disappointed sigh.

“You’re not going to ask me what happened?”

Her melancholy breaks, a weak smile shining through the gloomy clouds. “I can imagine.”

Given what I was like as a child, she probably can.

Shaking away whatever thoughts she had, she looks at me kindly now and asks, “Would you like to come for lunch? I was just buying bread.”

I look down at Gwen, who is hiding behind her mother so bravely. “Can I? I don’t have any cake.”

Gwen looks back at me with just one eye peeking out, and nods.

Lottie sighs again, and she takes my hand for a moment, only to quickly let go. “I’m sorry, it’s an old habit.”

Sneaking to the side, I take Gwen’s other hand, giving it a little squeeze. “There we go, all sorted.”

Though Lottie bites back her laugh, she still shakes her head, and then she leads us the handful of roads to a quiet street and the house she calls home. Of course, it’s tiny. I obviously don’t say that aloud. Anyway, between Ellie’s life and the boarding school dormitories, it’s not shockingly small. At the least, it has a separate lounge and kitchen, and it seems there’s three bedrooms upstairs. Lots of rooms, little space. I notice there’s several knitted blankets about the lounge and a painting hung. Otherwise, there’s not exactly what I would call decoration.

Lottie apologises and offers me tea, and I feel that she’s reverting to her time as a maid. It’s a back and forth later that we both have a cup in front of us (water for Gwen) and a simple sandwich of “butter” (a paste made from grinding a certain nut) and something vaguely like pâté (obviously made without any meat). I didn’t hate it, but wouldn’t exactly ask for it again.

In the lull after the meal, Lottie cleaning up, I look at Gwen. She’s adorable. Despite being on the thin side, Lottie has rather pouty cheeks, and the effect is doubled on little Gwen and really tempts me to pinch those cheeks. Somehow, I stop myself.

And there’s a touch of another colour to her blonde hair, an earthy tone, almost like an illusion how such pale hair can hide a mossy colour. But that illusion isn’t what stops me.

I reach into my pocket and, one after another, I pull out handkerchiefs to check the design on them. There’s cats and dogs (not that they exist in this world), flowers and trees, and some where I’ve tried to delicately write a word like “Violet” (in case such a time comes that I need to give her a present).

Near the bottom of my pocket, I find the one I’m looking for and place it in front of Gwen.

“Do you know this bird?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “N-no, miss.”

I smile, looking at the embroidered bird with soft eyes and caressing it once with a finger, feeling the neat stitches. “It’s a greenfinch.”

Her hand unconsciously drifts to her hair, twisting it around a finger.

I reach up to stop her. When she looks at me, I say, “You know, your hair will fall out if you keep doing that.”

She freezes, her eyes adorably wide. I almost feel bad, but it’s not teasing if it’s true, right?

I pick up the handkerchief, pushing it into her hand. “I’ve missed six birthdays, but you’ll forgive me, won’t you? If such a cute girl tells me she hates me, I would be so sad.”

Though I didn’t think she’d been listening, Lottie giggles in the kitchen, and I quickly think over what I’ve said until now.

“You haven’t changed, miss,” she loudly says.

I guess, to her, I haven’t—she hasn’t seen me in nearly seven years.

While I stay a little longer, I feel the distance grow between Lottie and me. She’s polite and friendly, and it would be easy to get the wrong impression, but I’m not her friend. There’s a gulf between us. That she went so out of her way to invite me over, I think she’s still fond of me. However, it’s not honest, is it? It’s feelings leftover from her time as my maid, or maybe she’s conscious of the difference in our “rank”. I’m not blaming her for that, just, well, I don’t care about the difference.

I guess it’s easy to say that when I’m at the top looking down.

When I go to leave, she tries to insist on walking me to the school. I would accept, not familiar with the town, but I’m not going to drag Gwen out that far. So we compromise, and Lottie and Gwen walk me some of the way. All I have to do now is follow the road to get near the school.

After a good walk, I arrive at the side gate. Since I gave notice in the morning, I’m allowed in, no problem at all. Back in my room, the magic comes undone and I return to my normal look.

It’s been a good start to the school year. Bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter.