With so many things to keep straight, I spend the rest of morning break writing it all out in my school diary. It’s not like I’ll use the space for homework reminders. There’s the letters to send, gifts to prepare, things I want to ask (such as Florence and Ellen’s favourite snacks for the tea party).

I continue adding to it over the next lessons, satisfied I have everything down by lunchtime. As always, I eat alone. This was one of the things I mentioned when I spoke with Violet. I’m used to being alone, comfortable for the most part, but… meals don’t taste as nice without company. If I didn’t force myself to eat, I’d probably be unhealthily thin. Anyway, I’m not in a rush, so it’s fine even if I have to chew my food twice as much.

That’s also why I’m happy Evan is getting on with Cyril and maybe will with Julian. In Snowdrop and the Seven Princes, they very much felt like tragic characters to Ellie. Admired yet isolated. Cyril, so happy to talk once past his scowling face as he works on his writing. Evan, so happy to talk once past his shyness. And why did no one talk to Julian? He sneezed all the time, but they weren’t snotty sneezes and he wasn’t seen as gross or disgusting. I mean, I know it’s just a story, yet it mirrors this world so closely that I end up looking to it for some kind of wisdom.

I guess that’s my fault.

Though Evan comes back to the classroom a while after me, there’s still enough time for me to ask him about his little sister’s preferences when it comes to things sweet. Of course, there’s no need to ask about his preferences—the boys will have whatever is served and be happy for it. They’re just tagging along, after all.

Or so I say to him, a certain smile on my face and glint in my eye.

Fortunately for us ladies, PE is cancelled; the same cannot be said for the lords. They go off to do their… football? Rugby? Not exactly cricket weather and the bowling green was pretty ruined by the bonfire. (Bowling green, is that what the bit where they bowl is called, or is that where you play bowls….)

I’ve had my afternoon nap by the time the Accounting class starts, and Evan looks in need of a wash, a sort of sprinkling of dirt left on his face from whatever wiping mud off he did. Silver lining for them, at least there’s easily available hot water.

Going to embroidery club really is the best way to end the week. It’s such a nice, calm place to be that’s different enough from my bedroom to help keep me from getting antsy. Not to mention it’s just nice having company. There’s no Lady Horsham today, but there is a Cyril. He turned up without saying more than a greeting and then almost plopped himself at the other table before he noticed Ms Berks sitting there. Thus he’s sitting at the able with me and Evan for today. He’s not exactly happy about it, difficult to hide what he’s doing when we’re so close, but he’s still sticking around.

As for Evan, well, he looks like he has no idea of the distance between himself and Cyril either. I thought they might chat since I thought I saw them chatting at lunch, yet they say nothing beyond a greeting to each other, not even glancing over or anything.

Boys. What can you do?

Otherwise, Evan is doing well with his sewing. He had a few attempts at the pattern I designed for his sister (a rabbit) and now he’s made a “final version”, adding detailing to it. Cross-stitch isn’t great for such small details, but I’ve shown him some stitches that easily make pretty grass. I think it a shame I won’t get to see her face when he gives it to her, feeling like a mother missing her son’s first football match. Or something less weird than that.

I end up once again escorted by the both of them when the club finishes, once again the facilitator for their conversation. Last time I asked them about sweets, so this time I go for savoury, asking after their favourite spices and sauces.

Cyril is rather down-to-earth with his answer of salt, while Evan went for the fancy ginger. That does sort of fit Evan, doesn’t it? Something that’s sort of spicy but not really.

I spend the two hours or so before supper sewing as fast as I can without being sloppy. That might sound normal, but I am quite worried about what damage I might do to my wrists in the long term, the maids at Queen Anne’s talking of it (warnings passed on from their mothers and grandmothers) and Ellie knowing of carpal tunnel syndrome and repetitive strain injury from university health awareness stuff. (Lots of people using computers a lot for coursework, bound to be some that ignore the pain thinking it’s nothing.) What I’m trying to say is I usually don’t rush and take breaks when sewing, but not today.

If it wasn’t for the bell, I would be too engrossed to keep track of the time, but I put down my things and shuffle off to the dining hall (also called the cafeteria). It’s a rather spacious hall near the girls’ dormitories, separate from the main building. The inside is little different from a manor, wood flooring and panelling with high quality furniture, upholstered chairs and chandeliers (nice and bright as they run on light magic enchantments). Seating is eight to a table, but there’s enough spare that six is fine and there’s room for ten if you mind your elbows.

The food itself is presented like a buffet, out on show, but a maid (for the ladies) or footman (for the lords) will serve it for you and bring it to the table. And you can tell them what you want either while standing by the food or from your table.

I go for a sort of vegetarian curry. Well, every curry is a vegetarian curry in this world. It’s more a thick soup or stew that’s well seasoned, but not just with spicy stuff. The chopped vegetables aren’t overcooked or mushy, yet there’s no bitterness to even the bell peppers, and the sauce isn’t too rich either. I quite like it for being easy to eat and as something I haven’t eaten at home. It’s not that my parents look down on it or dislike “spicy” or “foreign” food, more that I think this is a fairly new introduction to Anglish cuisine.

Focused on eating, I don’t pay attention when someone sits next to me. Though I say I eat alone, it would be quite the waste of a table for just me, so smaller groups of ladies will often make use of the space and ignore me. I think this more of the same.

That is until the lady right next to me asks, “Is that what you are eating?”

My heart clenches, breath catches in my throat. I slowly nod while I find my voice. “Yes, it is,” I softly say.

Violet says nothing else, going back to talking to her friends. And even though that’s the only thing she said, it’s enough to make my food taste sweeter.

Something did change.

I head back to my room and carry on sewing after supper. With the gifts for my friends in town finished, I’m working on stitching together the pieces of the dress and all that goes with it. So I get it to a wearable state, check the fit, adjust here and there, line up the embroidery better, and then go about sewing the proper seam.

And I’m eventually interrupted by a knock on my door. I look outside to see it dark, but it was pretty much dark by supper. Is it time for tea already?

“Who is it?” I loudly ask.

An impatient whisper, Violet says, “Me.”

“Me who?”

“Oh just open the door.”

I laugh as I walk over and do just as she asked. “May I help you?”

She has a very serious face at all times, but I notice it a little harsher than usual right now. “May I enter?”

“Sure,” I say, punctuating the word with a smile.

She softens at my display, politely bowing her head as she steps inside and closes the door behind her. “You have tea, yes?”

“Not on me, no,” I say.

She clicks her tongue. “I meant served to you in the evening,” she says, speaking quickly.

“Ah, I do.”

“Then I shall join you tonight,” she says, confident in that.

I’m back at my desk, but only to pull out the chair and offer it to her. Once she sits, I hop onto my bed, sitting with my back to the wall. It’s not all that comfortable, yet I think it’s good to straighten out my shoulders after hunching over so much.

Her irritations fades, especially as her eyes look around my room. That’s actually quite rude of her, but I don’t say anything. If anything, it’s another small reassurance that this is… real. Even if I trust her entirely, it’s warming to see she’s interested in me, just as it’s warming that she decided to come see me. I wouldn’t think less of her if she hadn’t, but I feel happier that she has.

Of course, her eyes settle on the mostly finished dress, something of a disapproving look her response.

“Should I show it to you?” I ask.

She hesitates, and that’s all the answer I need.

“Say, I’ve been working at the café in town you sometimes visit—did you recognise me?” I ask, watching her closely.

And again she hesitates, only replying after a few seconds. “Really?”

I shuffle over to the end of my bed, close enough to the desk that I can touch it and so in a good position to have us see eye to eye. “Violet,” I say, getting her full attention. Though reluctant, she does look at me. “You can speak freely, you know.”

She almost pouts, her cheeks puffing out instead of her lips. “I… do not wish to speak carelessly is all.”

Oh bless her. My voice soft, I say, “When we were children, I really liked how honest you were with me. It was reassuring to know that, say, if I did something stupid, you would tell me off.”

Her expression… is difficult to read. Without no hint from her face, I think of how she might be feeling. Maybe she’s more conscious of what she says now, no longer a child, embarrassed when she says something that sounds harsh so easily.

Maybe it’s that we’re not as close as we were, are we? It will surely take some time for her to feel comfortable around me again. Because of Ellie’s influence, I’m very open with my emotions compared to the culture here—the upper-class culture, at least. It’s not easy to open yourself up to someone even if you do trust them.

Or maybe I’m not giving her the credit I should. Maybe it’s as simple as she doesn’t want to hurt me. I mean, she really didn’t hold anything back when she apologised, so why would she now?

“Say, do you think I think you’re a bad person?” I ask her.

She flinches at the question, looking away. “That is….”

“I don’t,” I say. “I never have.”

A shimmer comes to her eyes.

“So, when you say something to me, don’t worry how it sounds because I know you’re a bit clumsy with your words at times. If anything, I enjoy seeing a side of you no one else sees.”

She shuts her eyes tight, her nose wriggling as her face scrunches up, and I wonder if I maybe misread the situation? I thought I knew her rather well, but it has been a long three years….

Then she bursts and puts my fear to rest.

“How shameless are you? What would your parents say if they knew you to be playing maids for the likes of Helena, Ethel and Mabel?”

Giggling to myself, I really do think this Violet is best.