I try not to cause quite so much mischief the rest of the day. Maybe it’s just me, but I think the difference between teasing and bullying is caring for how the other feels. I won’t pinch hard enough to leave a bruise. I’ll be good-natured in what I’m doing, not putting the other person down, entirely willing to be teased right back. And I listen closely, watch intently for when I near the line, stopping before I cross it, ready to apologise if I misjudge.

That’s what I learned growing up—from both sides: Clarice (and occasionally my mother) teasing me, and me teasing Joshua. I know it’s different between friends and between family, but I’ve been practising a decent amount these last few months.

Still, I know it’s something not to overindulge in. Letting go of my fear has made it easy to be with them, not tiring me out from the sort of hyper-awareness I had of everything going on. I guess what was a broken fight-or-flight response. However, there’s a difference between comfortable and careless. These are my precious friends, not toys, and I won’t treat their emotions lightly.

So things are kind of back to how they were before when lunchtime comes, except my heart is at ease, and I speak up a bit more, more readily smile and laugh, maybe my remarks a touch more playful. Being honest with them now, I guess I bring a certain silliness to the group.

Of course, things going well, it’s only a matter of time before disaster strikes.

“If everyone would partner up,” Ms Consett says, a clap of her hands to punctuate her order.

We’re doing paired calisthenics today? But there’s five of us! I look between my friends and see that they also know that five is an odd number, an uneasiness showing on their faces. What could be more vicious than watching friends decide their order of favouritism, the heartbreak and disappointment as one is inevitably left to fend for herself?

Oh I’m joking, don’t worry. Seeing that no one wants to say anything, I speak up. “I’ll go find someone left out.”

Violet immediately shakes her head. “No, we should… do rock, paper, scissors.”

Huh, I think I taught her that? We would always split the last slice of cake or biscuit, but if we needed to choose who goes first in a game, that’s what we did. I smile at the memory, yet I don’t linger in the past. “It’s fine. After all, who else is as good at making friends? Just you watch, I’ll have a new best friend by the end of the lesson.”

My cheekiness leaving her speechless, I quickly patter off with a giggle before anyone can stop me. Truthfully, I am nervous, not really sure how the other ladies see me. I look out for Ladies Challock, Lenham and Ashford, but I belatedly remember that Lady Ashford has friends in another class, while the other two usually grouped up with another pair from a different class. Two pairs leaves none for me. Lady Ashford, how many friends are in her group…. There’s thirty ladies (hopefully give or take an even number) in this class, so it’s hard to spot her amongst the huddled groups.

But, ah! I spot someone from another class who looks lonely, skirting the edge of a large group. With my target in sight, I waste no time, coming right up to her.

“Excuse me,” I say, dragging her attention away from the group.

She’s looks normal enough, height on the lower-than-average, loose clothes hiding her figure. Blonde with a single dark streak—close enough to black I can’t tell in this light. Her eye colour is similarly near-black, making her gaze momentarily unsettling, sort of like seeing a kitten or a real-life Disney character.

“Would you be my partner?” I ask, offering her my hand.

Her gaze flickers down to it before returning to stare me down. Her complicated expression shifts from worry to something like awkward relief, and she reaches out to shake my hand.

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that, thinking she would just politely accept with words. Since it’s come to this, I say, “Lady Eleanor Kent, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A smile briefly cuts through. “Lady Beatrice Brook, and you,” she says, her voice quiet yet fairly high-pitched.

Alliteration! Maybe she has a personality suitable for being called Babbling Brook?

Before I can start testing that out, Ms Consett tells us to stop wasting time and line up. So we do. Having moved away from my friends, I can’t see them from where Lady Brook and I are standing. Ah well, I’m sure they aren’t worried—unless they don’t believe in me.

I’m soon left without room to think, carefully listening to Ms Consett’s instructions and, well, trying to do what she says. We’re using rings today, large things that would comfortably fit around my upper arm. Using one or two, the exercises involve us both holding the same ring(s) and gently pulling, adding a small resistance to the stretches. It’s a bit awkward at times, Ms Consett always saying things like, “Raise your right hand,” when that’s only half-true. (If I hold a ring with my right hand, then Lady Brook is holding it with her left hand, the two of us mirrored.) I quickly settle into being the “left-handed” person, using the opposite hand that Ms Consett says.

Compared to our normal lessons, it is more of a workout, surprising how a small resistance adds up over time. Lady Brook is mildly struggling with it, so I’m not even pulling the rings by the end. When I glance around, others are also looking quite red in the face, slick with sweat.

Maybe Ms Consett thinks we’re working too hard (a key part of calisthenics is that it’s not challenging), because she ends the class earlier than usual—something well-received by most of the ladies who let out sighs of relief or even muttering their thanks as we all file out.

Lady Brook, still getting back her breath, quietly speaks to me on the way to the changing rooms. “Thank you, for asking me.”

She may not be bubbly or babbling, but there’s a certain cuteness to her, leaving a sort of little sister impression on me. “You’re welcome. Ah and, If we need to partner up again, I can count on you, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly.

Oh my heart, so pure.

We shortly go our separate ways to get changed. Rather than a big room, it’s a bunch of cramped cubicles, a handful of maids at hand. The school uniform is simple enough that every lady (as far as I know) can put it on by herself, but, in particular, hair becoming dishevelled and neatly tying ribbons is a “problem”.

The afternoon, evening, and even most of Thursday passes nicely in this similar-yet-different fashion. Earth magic class takes me away from my friends, but it’s a practical lesson, so there should be plenty of time to chat with Julian.

As is normal for these lessons, hardly anyone actually turns up. There’s me and Julian, then the pair of senior ladies that tried when Mr Churt first taught us earth magic, and then a group of three juniors, unfamiliar to me. They might have been at Queen Anne’s but we never shared a class, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter anyway.

Mr Churt starts promptly (knowing no one else is coming). He goes over the different parts of a flower—an iris, the beautiful blue flower striking at this bleak time of year. Earth magic can only adjust what’s in the soil, so you still need to know how to tell if some nutrient is missing, or if it’s being watered the wrong amount (and, if you have no or little talent, then signs of pests).

This takes a while, but his enthusiasm keeps it from dragging on. Still, I’m sure there’s more he could say, but he can’t teach us everything at once. For the practical work, then, we just have to carefully go around the flowerbeds and see if we can spot anything wrong with any of the flowers.

Simple enough.

Of course, when he sends us off, we all naturally fall into our groups. Julian makes no fuss of me shuffling along next to him as he starts checking the irises Mr Churt was showing us. Although I’m not the best at multitasking, I try to concentrate on properly doing the work while also asking, “Did you miss me?”

Julian lets out a breath of laughter through his nose, shakes his head. “Are you really asking me that?”

“Well, I missed you,” I say, my tone plain.

He lets out a sigh, his hand gently bending leaves. Then he sniffles. Being this close to flowers in bloom probably isn’t helping his condition, huh? “Lord Sussex thought something had happened, and that you seemed unusually happy, but I hardly thought it was this bad,” he says under his breath.

Without sounding accusing, I ask, “You lords gossip about me?”

“We do. You’re so unusual and vexing that we can’t understand you even with the three of us working together,” he says.

I’m not entirely sure how much of that was a joke. “And precisely what about me is so hard to understand?” I ask.

There’s a pause in the conversation, his focus on a flower, and I follow his lead, carefully checking if the soil around it is too dry or soggy. Once he finishes inspecting, he answers me. “I said that mostly in jest. We know better than to gossip about you behind your back, but Lord Sussex sees you most days and he worries when you seem down. He can’t exactly hide his worry from me and Lord Canterbury with how clearly it shows on his face,” he says lightly, his gaze fixed on the next flower.

I guess I’ve troubled most of my friends with my recent mood swings. There’s a part of me that wants to apologise for that, but I know better. Instead, I say, “Thank you.”

“What for?” he asks.

“For worrying about me too.”

He takes out a handkerchief and squeezes his nose, but doesn’t blow it. Truth be told, even this much is poor etiquette on his part, but I guess you can only excuse yourself to blow your nose so many times before you have to give up.

“This is what I meant,” he says.

Confused, I ask, “Pardon?”

“Part of what makes you unusual and vexing. That is, you give unexpected answers with a strange sincerity,” he says, pausing for a moment. “I guess I have missed you this last week. These conversations are more enjoyable than not.”

I take a long look at him for all of a second, and quietly ask, “You’re not falling for me, are you?”

And he laughs—harder than I’ve ever seen him laugh before. He covers his eyes, but his mouth shows a broad smile, lips pressed tight to keep quiet, yet his shoulders quiver, nose splutters. That last bit quickly leads to him taking out his handkerchief again, covering his nose as the unpleasant sound continues for a couple more seconds.

Really, I worry Mr Churt is going to come over and ask what’s so funny, because that would surely lead to Julian laughing even harder, maybe getting a detention. Fortunately for him, Mr Churt looks to be busy talking to the seniors. (I really should learn their names.)

When Julian eventually calms down, he takes out a fresh handkerchief to dry his eyes.

“Was it really that funny?” I ask, feeling like I should probably be offended.

“Yes,” he says. With a last deep breath to settle himself, he turns to look at me, showing a gentle smile. “I am not so blind to say you aren’t pretty, or so insensitive to say your personality is too rough; however, you have hardly charmed me, have you?”

Okay, now I’m hurt. Bowing my head, I say, “Aren’t these quirky chats charming enough?”

He chuckles, going so far as to pat the back of my hand. “I may have doubted you at first, but, especially after seeing how you talk the same way with Lord Sussex and Lord Canterbury, it is clear there’s no feeling behind your words.”

Well, he’s not wrong. I mean, there is feeling, but it’s not romantic love. Maybe a friendly love, familial love sort of thing. Anyway, it’s not like I expected him to say he is in love with me, just that I was worried hearing him say he missed me and liked talking to me.

I mean, this is Julian—he’s supposed to be a bit cold to me. Maybe I finally got through to his heart?

As if that thought is a trigger of some sort, the world around me seems to darken, and pale points of light begin to twinkle. Like stars appearing in the night sky, they simply come into focus from nothingness, always there and yet not before seen. Not quite white, they have a smidgen of brown-yellow mixed in, a sort of beige colour.

Getting familiar with this, what strikes me this time is that they are mostly floating just above the ground. Fairly thick, too, a brilliant blanket that makes me think of a meadow, long grass swaying in the breeze.

Knowing how fleeting it will be, I stare for the second or so it lasts before it fades away as quickly as it appeared.

“Are you okay?” Julian quietly asks.

“Yes.”

I wonder, can I exchange three fairy kings’ hearts for a small wish?