Oh it’s a fun little store we go to, clearly targeted at a more middle-class clientele than the fabric shops Lottie took me to before. While the materials here are rather more pricey, even the thread, it does indeed have little tins and pouches and they don’t seem overpriced. I guess it makes sense to make your profit from things that get used up? It’s not like I’d come back every week for another tin.

I listen closely as Gwen just fawns over them. She loves this one because of the colour, and that one has a pretty daisy printed on the front, and one of the tins has a greenfinch painted on.

When we’ve had a good look, I let Lottie take Gwen out first, quickly buying one of the ones she liked. (Unfortunately, the tin is outside my budget, so I choose a bright pink pouch that’s shaped like a purse.) I find the chance to slip it to Lottie on the way back to their house, ready to be wrapped up for Wednesday.

It’s strange having lunch with them. How many months ago was it? I guess nearly four. The menu hasn’t changed since then, a sandwich with a meat-like paste and as much tea as I can drink.

Having been impressed by the cross-stitch Gwen sent me for Yule, I happily spend some of the afternoon watching her sew, those little fingers rather nimble. And I spend some time talking with Lottie, mostly about the holidays. I get to hear first-hand how Gwen’s party went, and how cute Gwen looked in her play. Basically, I ask about Gwen a lot and Lottie is only too happy to keep talking on that topic. Otherwise, she and Gwen and Greg are all well and happy.

It makes me happy to hear that.

While I’d love nothing more than to stay for dinner, I don’t want to take up all of Lottie’s day. So I try to leave before sunset, only to be reminded that, of course, I will be walked back to the school. It’s probably for the best. I mean, my navigational skills are hardly going to be better after a month away.

In good spirits from seeing Lottie and Gwen, I waste the afternoon reminiscing. I’m still not really sure how many friends I have. Or rather, I know I have friends, but they’re rather different kinds of friends. The kinds of things I can talk about with them, where we can hang out, who can know about us—hardly any of my friends are the same.

It’s frustrating at times. As much I adore Gwen and want to brag about how cute she is, I can only really do that with the girls at the café. Violet, I’ve told her the general situation, but she doesn’t care. Even the other way around, Lottie doesn’t want to meet Violet. I haven’t asked her, but I know, maybe ironic how both of them feel the same way. (Ironically, I’m not good with irony.)

Yes, I’m not a bridge between their different worlds, but a pane of glass through which they can glance at the other’s world.

Here I go, depressing myself again. I say that, it’s not like I’m really depressing myself, more stating reality. I am the strange one and I have to remember that. It’s not that I’m keeping secrets, but that I’m keeping the status quo.

My day having been quite active, I am actually hungry by suppertime and head off early for it. With lessons tomorrow, I expect everyone should be back by now, so my promptness also serves to avoid the rush. I much prefer being the one sitting at a table and a group joins than the other way around.

Despite looking out for Violet, I don’t see her when I get to the dining hall. Should I have visited her room when I came back from town? I didn’t want to intrude in case she was talking to someone else (I never go to her room for that reason), but I do miss her.

For my food tonight I go with something of a vegetable stew and posh bread on the side. I’ve never really cared to learn the different kinds of bread, no reason to. Sourdough? I only say that because it has a bit of a sour taste when I try a crumb, the flavour not noticeable once dunked. It doesn’t fall apart, which is good.

So I nibble and sip and, bowl emptied, I go for another mousse. It really isn’t the same as ice cream, though. I’ve really been spoiled this past holiday.

Of course, I still finish it all. Hard to turn down anything sweet. I give myself a minute to breathe and let the food settle, drinking a bit of water while I do (got to stay hydrated—Ellie’s top skincare tip). However, just as I get ready to leave, I’m stopped by a certain stern look.

“You have already finished eating?” Violet asks.

“Yes,” I say, smiling for no reason but seeing her again.

Her friends are beside her, but they show no signs of saying anything. In fact, they won’t even look directly at me.

Violet sits down ever so elegantly opposite me, her tray placed down in front of her by a maid. Ah, she chose the cheesy pasta (not its official name, and the cheese is… strange compared to Ellie’s memories).

Her eyes meet mine for a moment, and then drop to her plate. “It is unsightly to eat so quickly,” she quietly says.

Oh, I’ve not got food on my face, do I? Taking my napkin, I dab at the corners of my mouth and find a spot of mousse. Guess I might have been a bit generous with how much I put on the spoon. “My apologies,” I say, bowing my head.

She lets out a breath through her nose, but says nothing. Over a few seconds, her friends sit down—Ladies Hythe and Minster either side of her while Lady Horsham comes to my side.

I would like to stay, but there’s no reason for me to hang around. “If you would excuse me,” I say, tidying up my spoons and such.

When I go to stand up, Violet stills me, saying, “That is….”

The silence stretching, I ask, “Yes?”

“Thank you for your hospitality over the holidays,” she says softly.

Oh she can’t bring herself to so much as look at me. It’s too much, really, like a stray cat showing a bit of affection. “The pleasure was all mine,” I say.

With a candid, “Good evening,” as my parting words, I stride back to my room, surely looking daft because of the broadest smile I show. Those weren’t empty words she told me. She’s going to keep her promise.

I don’t have to wait long at all for a knock on my door, too early for evening tea. “Come in,” I say, sitting comfortably on my bed.

The door opens, and a familiar face appears in the gap. “Good evening,” Violet says.

There’s no one else with her. Once she closes the door, she takes her usual seat at my desk, turning the chair to face me.

“You… were not here when I knocked earlier,” she half-asks, half says.

“Sorry, I was in town,” I say.

She clicks her tongue. “Work?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I went about and did this and that. Next weekend is when I start again.”

There’s something of a grumpy look to her face, but it’s more her neutral expression than actual emotion, I think. I’ve become quite used to seeing her with a little smile, so it’s strange to see her like she normally is. It reinforces what I was thinking earlier, though, that Violet doesn’t care for that half of my life—that she thinks I’m making a mistake. Probably for similar reasons to my mother.

However, I don’t mind being judged. My happiness isn’t based on what’s in other people’s heads.

I break the silence and ask her how her trip back was, and she then asks the same to me. Then the silence returns, but I leave it be this time, the way Violet is acting making me think she’s thinking over something.

Eventually, she speaks up. “I… told my friends the truth, at a tea party a few days ago,” she says, little more than a whisper. “However, I couldn’t bring myself to tell them to apologise to you. Everything else I could say just as I had prepared, yet doubt beset me when it came to that point, suddenly aware of how audacious it is for me to make demands of them when it is my fault for their misunderstandings in the first place.”

Although she picks up some steam by the end, it’s strange to hear her speak so timidly. While she sometimes speaks softly, those times it’s like she does so because she only wants me to hear, but this time it’s like she doesn’t even want to say the words.

“That’s fine. I don’t think poorly of them or blame them,” I say.

Rather than settle her, I only darken her expression, a tenseness coming to her face. “I’m sorry for being such a coward,” she says.

“You took a step in the right direction; there’s no need to apologise for not making it a stride.” I want to say more, but I hold my tongue, not wanting to overwhelm her with empty words.

So she settles into thought, a handful of seconds passing before she gently nods. “You are correct.” A smile that doesn’t reach her eyes coming to her, she adds, “I suppose I should apologise for making a scene.”

“No, no, I’m glad you shared your feelings with me,” I say.

Lifting her head, she gives me an honest look and asks, “Really?”

“Yes.”

She holds out for a moment, and then the smile really flourishes, half a laugh leaving her lips. “You really are… someone,” she says, her tone light.

Whether or not she meant it as a compliment, I take it as one. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

Silence, and then our eyes meet, and we fall into laughter. Every giggle takes away a bit more of the lingering tension, replacing the awkward silence with a comfortable one and leaving behind little smiles on our faces.

In this good mood, she says, “I am worried how things will go.”

I lean towards her (still with a large gap between us given our seats), and I say, “Honestly, I am too, but I try to focus on what I hope will happen. How rarely is it that the worst comes to pass, right?”

She nods along. “And that helps?” she asks.

I shrug. “Sometimes, sometimes not, but it’s something nicer for me to think about.”

Oh she laughs, turning to the side and covering her mouth. “You do come up with strange thoughts,” she (eventually) says.

“Thanks,” I say again.

“You’re welcome,” is her reply.

The night outside frightfully cold, I’m reminded of that by a gust of wind rattling against the window behind my curtains. Ah, no more fireplace in my bedroom, the mornings going forward awfully cold. Without thinking, I mutter a fire magic chant and summon a mild warmth in my hands. It’s useful for keeping my fingers from going numb while I’m sewing (or finishing homework I forgot).

At least, that was all it was useful for before the holidays. Now, it’s no hotter, but that mild warmth spreads down my arms and I can even feel it stroking my cheek. Cyril boasted about this, right? That he didn’t have to worry for the cold.

“Is that magic?” Violet asks, taking me out my thoughts.

“Yes,” I say. Slowly, I move my hands towards her, thus moving the warmth.

Though she’s reluctant at first, she eases her hands all the way until they meet mine. “It’s not hot?” she says, unsure, poking the palm of my hand as if she thinks that’s where the heat is coming from.

“Nope. Faeries won’t harm people,” I say.

I’ve never talked magic with her. That is, I told her about my lessons when we were kids, but she told me it was a waste or something, so I didn’t bring it up again. Seeing her, ahem, warmer reaction now, I wonder if it was childish jealousy?

Well, the past is the past.