I wake up the next morning, and I can just tell it’s going to be a day. Breakfast comes and, as I hoped, the atmosphere between me and Violet’s friends is starting to settle. Ladies Hythe and Minster aren’t so wary of me, and Helena isn’t so reluctant to look at me, nice to have someone else that gives me a little smile when our eyes meet. And as I thought before, Violet seems to better understand the situation and doesn’t try to make me the centre of attention.

So I add a little, “Oh yes, I’ve read that book,” and, “Contract Law? I don’t know what it will be about either,” when asked. All in all, I only say around a quarter as much as the others. Shy as Helena is, she is rather comfortable and speaks up, happy to interject with a question or offer her opinion (even without being directly asked for it). An ebb and flow of chatter.

Since I’m not causing any harm, I stay until everyone finishes, only excusing myself once we’re back at the dormitory and they go to the lounge. It’s not that I want to leave exactly, but it is still rather draining for me to be around all of them. I’m not uncomfortable, but I’m not comfortable. Hopefully that will change soon.

When it comes to lessons and morning break, I stick to my seat and chat a bit with Evan. Not privy to Violet’s thoughts, I don’t know if she’s giving me my space or what, but I appreciate it. Even with Evan, it’s not like we spend the whole time talking, so to suddenly have to spend all day in a group, I’d probably die from oversocialisation (believe me, that’s a real word).

Otherwise, the classes are the same as always. Violet’s words from that day we spent studying have stuck with me, my notes more detailed, my focus sharper. I mean, not much more detailed or that much sharper, but, you know, a little.

Lunch goes well as well. Talking is mostly about the lessons now, Violet especially keen on bringing up this or that and asking us questions. I didn’t pay attention to Helena or Ladies Hythe and Minster when our last results were handed out, but they seem fairly clever. Violet got you all studying too, huh?

The end of the day comes, time for me to go see Ms Berks. Um, where exactly? Oh no. She said her room, but did she mean classroom? Since she teaches art, she probably has a separate room with all the supplies and such. Or did she mean her bedroom? Since they have to move from room to room, teachers sometimes use their bedroom as an office, so she might have spare paints and such there.

Ugh.

I start by checking the spare classrooms on the ground floor, and then the couple upstairs. On the way back, I check the downstairs ones again, but she’s still not there. To the female teachers’ dormitory, then. The “Ladies’ Dormitory”, I should say, the men’s one being the “Gentlemen’s Dormitory”. There is a distinction between the two (in terms of class). All the female teachers here are in fact Ladies (capital L), while not all the male teachers are Lords. I don’t know who exactly, not something that comes up since we’re instructed to address every teacher as a teacher. There’s nothing as easy as a Mr Smith.

Anyway, not all teachers live on the school grounds, but most do. For women, it gives a certain independence as the room and board is included in their contract and so they don’t have to rely on parents or brothers to, say, negotiate the rent and pay the deposit. For men, I guess it’s just nice and easy, not having to hire maids or anything like that.

These dormitories are fairly far from the school, which I imagine isn’t by mistake. Beyond the dining hall (heading towards the town), there’s a second, smaller cafeteria for the staff. Then a little farther the dormitories sit opposite each other, a plaza split by bushy evergreens in the middle.

Of course, it’s rather intimidating walking down this far by yourself as a student. The few people around are adults, and they look at you, and they judge you. I’m sure they think I didn’t do a homework assigned over the holidays and have been called out for it. And it’s not just teachers, a couple of maids, a footman passing me, no doubt thinking the same. “She has such a fortunate life, yet cannot bring herself to write a few hundred words?”

No, I shouldn’t think like that. I’m sure they don’t care about some random student enough to badmouth me.

Already nervous by the time I arrive at the dormitory, I think I might just die if she’s not here. Gathering my courage, I weakly knock on the door, and quickly follow up with a firmer knock just to make sure.

It’s not even a second before someone opens the door, and then a maid’s face pokes around the edge. Her pleasant expression noticeably loses enthusiasm at the sight of me. “Miss is expected?” she asks, her voice stuffy.

“Yes, Lady Kent here for Ms Berks,” I say, hoping that’s how I’m supposed to say it.

Opening the door all the way, she says, “Very well. This way please.”

I bow my head in thanks as I come in, carefully wiping my feet on the mat. It’s something I don’t much think about, but I guess this world is a bit dirtier than Ellie’s, so shoes are worn everywhere. I mean, I’ve been told to take off muddy boots more times than I can count in my younger years, but I always went into another pair of shoes right after. Wooden floors and rugs everywhere (hardly anywhere actually carpeted), it’s easy enough to clean. It might be a chicken and egg thing, but, anyway, it’s not important.

The dormitory itself isn’t all too different from the one I live in. Two storeys, some communal rooms, and even a similar outside appearance—a sort of long building, made with brownish bricks of similar-but-not-quite-the-same sizes and grey-yellow mortar and a tiled roof (those tiles having seen blacker days, the slate not exactly wiped clean). Based on the distance between doors, though, these rooms seem bigger. My dormitory squeezes in fifty or so of us, but I’d say this one is more like twenty people. I guess the building itself is also shorter and there’s at least a library and kitchen in addition to the lounge.

My distracting thoughts keep me occupied as another maid (not the one by the door) leads me through to a room near the end of the ground floor. There’s nameplates outside each room rather than just numbers, and this one reads: LADY AMELIA P. BERKS.

I take a deep breath to ready myself, and—

“Lady Berks, a Lady Kent is here to see you,” the maid says, accompanied by a light knock on the door.

Frozen to the spot, I wait a painfully long two seconds. “She may enter.”

Again without warning, the maid opens the door for me. Well, here we go. I step inside and, my manners kicking in, I go to close the door.

“Leave it,” Ms Berks says. “Rules and all that.”

“Yes, miss,” I say, pulling my hand back. Okay, calm yourself. Breathe. I take another timid step forward, trying not to look around even as my curiosity begs me to. No, I focus on the window next to the desk, not quite staring at her but near enough that I can see her.

That said, from what my brief look and general sense is telling me, this room is nearly twice the size of mine. There’s a door to the side, which probably leads to a small bathroom, and there’s a broad shelving unit that is mostly full of small boxes. A scent of paint to the air, but it’s mixed with a certain freshness, like she’s also had the window open. A chill to the room.

“You brought the sketches with you?” she asks. Her chair creaks as she sits more upright, stretching out her back, and then scrapes as she stands.

I’m less nervous than yesterday, that being a special case of opening myself up by showing off something I knew was terrible. However, I am in her personal room and taking up her free time, so there’s a pressure (I’ve put on myself) to get this done quickly and not embarrass myself. I mean, I think I’m okay with the basics of colour theory. Hue is the colour, tint for adding white, shade for adding black, tone for adding both. Complementary colours. It’s really the application I struggle with.

“Yes,” I say, more timidly than I would like.

Her mouth settling into a wry smile, she says, “I hardly bite,” and then walks to the shelves.

I don’t give her a reply, but my gaze follows and watches. It’s not just boxes there, several piles of canvases and some of papers (large sheets, no doubt also paintings or drawings). Sticking out of boxes are brushes and tubes of paints, and there’s a few with sheets of paper stacked over the edges, the same size as in my notebook and so I’d guess essays.

She goes for a box with paints, adding a palette on top. I gulp. This is looking… artistic.

“You have used oil paints before, yes?” she says.

No. Well, no. “I would be more comfortable with watercolours, miss,” I say.

After a chuckle, she says, “In other words, you have only painted for class.”

“That is… yes,” I mumble.

Her soft laughter comes more freely this time, setting the box on her desk. She starts to unpack it. “I look forward to seeing what I can get out of you next term, then. One of the reasons I am still here is to see the transformations which come from handing girls such as yourself a brush and then telling them they can paint anything.”

For some reason, her words are surprising to me. It’s silly, I know, but I’ve always had this impression that she didn’t much care for her job. Ah, but, I’ve mostly seen her not doing her job, haven’t I? Spirit magic class, embroidery club, staff meetings—those aren’t art. When I asked her to judge my embroidery, she did it properly, and she even offered to look at other pieces. Yesterday, she didn’t complain. And here she is now.

A reminder to myself that I judge people without thinking, and should try to judge them by thinking properly. That is, of course, judging in the sense of having my own, personal idea of who they are, not being judgemental.

“Well, I expected as much anyway,” she mutters to herself. With a gesture, she beckons me over to join her at the desk. Speaking to me this time, she says, “Watch closely; I am not fond of repeating myself and you aren’t so likeable that I will indulge you.”

Ah, but I am somewhat likeable—is that right, miss? I try to keep that thought from giggling out, controlling my voice as I say, “Yes, miss.”

“Good, then let us begin.”

Begin we do. It’s not exactly a lesson, but she shows me a lot about mixing oil paints. It’s not like there’s just the three primary colours and you mix them together in different amounts. There’s certainly a tube of red paint and another one yellow, and mixing them does give orange, yet she can mix all kinds of colours together to make all kinds of oranges.

Oh I’m really spoilt for choice. While she doesn’t actually give any input, she certainly asks questions as we go. “You say something like cyan or turquoise, but where do you see it? Is it a glittering gemstone, or a wave in the sea, or a strange flicker in a fire?”

I think we do this for an hour, guessing by the setting sun when I leave, but it’s certainly one the longest hours of my life. Yet I quite enjoyed it. Really, I would even say I’m looking forward to the exhibit now. I’m sure that, at the least, everyone will compliment the choice of colours.

So my pendulum swings back towards sewing. Books, it was nice reading you, and I’m sure we’ll catch up again later, but so long for now.