The weekend passes without anything coming up. It’s the first time that’s happened since, well, the start of the (school) year. Len accompanied me into town, and Lottie and Gwen walked me back, and everyone at the café were as nice as always. Violet and Lady Horsham came again with Ladies Challock and Lenham (the two regulars in my class), but nothing unusual happened, just a few more looks from Violet. I guess she’s still not entirely sure if it’s me.

My dress is making good progress, should be ready for next week. I think of what Ms Berks said a lot while I sew. A living exhibition. It’s kind of exciting, really. I mean, a dress isn’t flat, so it’s more different than just using a different fabric. When I wrap the sleeve around my arm, that curve seems to add more depth to the apple blossom branch, like it pops out of the fabric. Luckily, it still looks fine, but I’ll need to remember to design patterns with that in mind, test them out first too.

I get to Monday classes early to avoid the rush—as I always do. However, clever Gerald is there, all too eager to talk to me.

“Lady Kent.”

Do you think I can ask him to come back later? A nap would be nice right now. “Sir Ventser,” I say, bowing my head.

He waits a long second before talking—was I supposed to say something? “If you would give me your papers, I will take them to the relevant teachers at break and we can get them marked as soon as possible.”

I scratch my nose, maybe feeling a little remorseful (not that I’d admit it). “So you completed them?”

“Of course?” he says.

“Very well. Then, I concede.”

My words hang in the air for a short few seconds before he asks, “You what?”

“I concede the tests. You have beaten me in all three.”

For a moment, he’s too confused to be angry, but time sorts out that problem. “Speak plainly, please.”

“Well, if you insist,” I say, throwing away any remorse as I’m reminded of how annoying he can be. “I didn’t do them. Since I am generous, I assume you will manage at least one mark in all three tests, and so I concede my three defeats.”

If looks could kill, well, I’ve already made that joke.

“Is that suitably plain?” I ask sweetly.

There’s hardly anyone in the room but us. His friends Lords Surrey, Smarden, and Pluckley are by his desk at the front; Ladies Challock and Lenham and (their other friend in the class) Ashford are on the far side. Evan’s not yet here, but probably will be soon.

Ah, I suppose I say hardly anyone, yet that’s a third of the class. Though, given how we’re taught, it probably wouldn’t make a difference if everyone was in one big class. Oh well.

Maybe because of Lady Challock and her friends, or maybe because he’s getting more used to dealing with me, he quickly reigns in the irritation he shows. “Then I win the wager, is that right?”

“Well, you would think so,” I say, fiddling in my bag for my school diary. Once I find it, I open it to the “contract” and hold it out for him. “However, I think you will find that you did not beat me in precisely two tests.”

If looks could kill—okay, I’ll stop with that.

Still, it’s too much, hard to keep it together when he looks to be debating internally whether or not he could get away with murder. (I might be exaggerating, not exactly privy to his thoughts.) Of course, when I burst into giggles, that does little to calm him down, and yet that only makes me want to laugh harder.

It’s a good thing I have some self-control. Okay, it takes me half a minute to calm down, but I do settle down.

Mouth thin, eyes narrow and eyebrows pulled together, a tenseness to his jaw, hands clenched so tight his knuckles are white—I could go on. I imagine the only reason he has yet to say anything is that he simply doesn’t trust himself.

“Fret not, I am merely making a little joke,” I say, tilting my head. “I do of course concede defeat in this wager. However, I should say now I have plans for Saturday already.”

I can’t be entirely sure, but I’m entirely sure I hear him curse under his breath.

He looks away from me, collecting himself as his gaze falls on the pleasant view outside the window. I find it quite an enjoyable sight out there when a lesson drags on, and sometimes the guys play football for their PE lesson. It’s not like I like staring at guys in shorts running about and working up a sweat, but I wouldn’t exactly say I dislike it.

Anyway.

“Then what of Sunday?” he asks.

“Plans.”

“For the whole day? Both of them?”

“Yes.”

His head droops, a hand coming up to rub his brow as if dealing with something (or someone) troublesome. “Then next weekend?” he asks, his resignation clear in his flat voice.

“It is something of a recurring busyness.”

“I see,” he says, his hand moving down to his chin. “And other days?”

Putting it on a bit, I wring my hands and bring my shoulders in, and I say, “Well, to be honest, I have better things to do.”

“Why did you even agree in the first place then?” Rather than upset, he sounds defeated—an honest question that he sorely wants answered as he simply can’t understand how this all happened.

Maybe I’m having a bit too much fun with this.

“Can I be honest?” I ask, dialling down my cheery mood.

“Can you be anything but completely honest?” he asks rhetorically.

Softly smiling, I give him the answer to his earlier question. “I had only just managed to cheer up Lord Sussex, and then you came along, basically calling him useless as you spoke about how important grades are and all that. Though I am sorry for all this, there seemed no other way to have you stop talking at that time.”

“I see,” he quietly says.

Considering it’s only morning, he looks awfully tired, perhaps wishing he’d chosen to come see me later on in the day. Well, there’s worse regrets to have. Probably.

Nothing else said for a while, I set myself with a sturdy breath. “Then, is there anything else?” I ask.

As it has been for a while, his gaze still lingers on the outside scenery. He shakes his head.

“Good day to you,” I say.

One last pause, and then he nods. “And you.”

It’s only as he’s walking back to his seat—his “friends” grinning at him—that I remember that, well, I’m supposed to be (trying to) get on with him. The “faerie kings’ hearts wish plan” really has fallen down my list of priorities recently. I mean, it probably won’t work, so there’s no reason for me to go out of my way. I’m sort of going along with it because it is in my way, or on my way? Whatever. I just mean that I want to make friends and I happen to know that these seven guys are good people.

That’s something that can’t be understated. Everyone else in the school, I don’t really know. Even the ladies I’ve known for three years, sure I can tell you some facts about them, but I can’t really tell you about them. Just because this is a world from a book doesn’t mean it’s picture-perfect. These people, they’re rich kids, spoiled, maybe spoiled rotten.

Anyway, Gerald… maybe we just don’t get on. Eleanor, she thought better of Gerald after he told off Violet for reading out Evan’s letter home. From there, she drummed up her courage and asked him to help her study. And he fell for her because, as the cliché goes, she treated him like a normal person rather than royalty.

To be honest, he probably fell for her because she was a pretty, ditzy girl—very much like a puppy. She sat nicely and listened to him explain things. She said things like, “You make everything so easy to understand.” She laughed and played with her hair, always smiling.

I’m also always smiling, but I don’t think it has the same effect on him as Eleanor’s smiles did.

But, yes, maybe I’m too different from Eleanor. It’s not that I hate him, or dislike him, just that he only cares about schoolwork and I can’t. I’m not going to pretend to care. I’m not going to start caring. And I guess that’s fine. It’s probably for the best, even, since it means Violet has a clear shot at him. No stepping on toes.

Really, I wish he’d at least done this at morning break. No idea how I’ll get through Geography after tiring myself out before the first bell. Not to mention, poor Evan missed out on the entertainment.

Oh well.

Come the end of the day, I quickly ready myself to head to club. Evan takes a little longer, hurriedly scribbling out the scrawl on the blackboard. While I wait, my gaze idly sweeps across the room, watching the others draw into their groups. There’s Violet and friends, and Lady Challock and friends, and (in front of me) Lords Watford and Sandwich.

Near the front of the room, Gerald… isn’t with his friends but walking this way. Isn’t once a day enough?

I prepare myself, neatly folding my hands at my front and putting on a smile.

And he stops at Evan’s desk.

“Evan Sussex, is it?” he says and offers his hand.

Poor Evan, he pretty much freezes. I guess I didn’t cure his shyness. (Not that I thought I did, or was trying to.) “Y-yes?”

“Gerald Ventser. Good to make your acquaintance,” he says, impatient enough to reach over and take Evan’s hesitant hand, giving it a shake.

“And yours,” Evan mumbles.

In this time, Gerald hasn’t so much as glanced at me, not even when he walked over. And, grumbling inside of me, there’s a certain feeling of “hey, he’s my friend—go back to yours”, but it’s more a twinge than an actual feeling of jealousy.

“We are having something of a revision session to go over the mock exams, did you want to join us?” he asks Evan.

It catches me by surprise, but there’s no pause from Evan before he says, “I am sorry, but I already have plans.”

Gerald, what face does he make? “Very well. My apologies for disturbing you.”

“Good day to you.”

“And you.”

And he’s gone.

Busy watching him walk away, I nearly jump when Evan softly says, “Lady Kent?”

“Oh, yes, let’s go,” I say, quickly picking up my handbag (loosely speaking, different from what they were like in Ellie’s world). Busy in the corridor, we slowly make our way against the stream flowing towards the dormitories and break through to the outside, calm there.

We don’t say anything at first, just walk over to the clubroom. There, though, I can’t help but say, “If you want to, you should go study with them. Sir Ventser did well in the tests.”

Evan awkwardly rubs his cheek, turning his face a little away from me, but not enough to hide the red splotches. “Between us, I don’t much like him.”

That’s news to me. In the book, everything was (for the most part) very episodic, one chapter each to cover Eleanor’s seduction of a specific prince, but the ending was harmonious, everyone agreeing to be best of friends and let her decide who she wants to trap. Sorry, marry. (That’s how it works when seven guys fall for the same girl, right? No one fights, everyone’s happy.)

“Between us, is there a particular reason why?” I ask, curious to learn something new.

He lets out a long breath. “I know I laugh at the spats you two have, but I dislike how he treats you. To be so insistent with a woman, to show such an ugly face to her—he should know better.”

Ah, I said it before, right? Grumpy Cyril has a way with words, but Evan has just the right words. “What of me? Should I know better?” I ask, thinking I should repay his sweet words with some light teasing.

“You have been more a friend to me in the last month than any of my peers have ever been, so I think there is nothing you could do to make me dislike you.”

Just the perfect words. Really, it’s a shame my heart doesn’t beat quick from them, for him. But, you know, if I don’t marry for love, I wouldn’t dislike being married to such a man.

“Is that a challenge?” I ask, leaning forward to catch his eye.

He softly laughs. There’s not enough shame in him to be embarrassed from saying such words, no more flushed than before. “Regardless of my answer, will you not take it as such?”

I gently shake my head. “I wouldn’t want you to dislike me either.”

Evan, my precious friend.