Once the rush of “achieving my goal” subsides, I’m left staring at Trissy with doubt in my heart. Would it have been better for me to simply hug her and tell her that I love her? I mean, I don’t, so I didn’t want to do something insincere and misleading.

While I care for her, it’s not the same as love to me. Seeing that someone’s happy makes me feel happy, seeing someone sad makes me feel sad, love not as simple as caring for her. Rather, it’s proactively making someone happy. I’ll go out of my way to make Violet happy without her asking, not out of pity or seeking favours or wanting her to think better of me. I’ll think of her at odd times, find courage or motivation in wanting to meet her expectations of me.

Trissy, though, I love her like I love cute things and adorable girls, a shallow love that has nothing behind it. Sort of a borrowed love. Like, Jemima and Belle, I love them as my friends and I would happily do so much for them, but I wouldn’t keep loving them if we “broke up”, not like I kept loving Violet for those three years.

However, I am trying to love Trissy. This is how I do it. I take two steps forward, let her push me one step back. You know, I was the sort of girl who picks scabs, am still unrefined and shameless. I like to say unexpected things to see what faces people make, make them laugh and blush and show me the expressions they don’t show to anyone else. Yet I try not to be reckless, try to be thoughtful and compassionate, try not to act for my own amusement at the expense of others.

But right now, am I helping or hurting her?

Knowing better than to try and understand someone I barely know, I lower my head, let that prideful smile turn solemn. “See, you can say it clearly.”

She gives no reply.

When I look up again, her posture has lost some of the tension, not so guarded. Ah, but, she wasn’t careful lifting up her knees, so I’d be treated to quite the sight if I ducked my head. Let’s not do that (even if her reaction would be incredibly amusing). She’s clearly still upset with me. Angry? Betrayed? Who knows.

I don’t feel like I should apologise; I don’t regret my actions and her reaction is what I expected. That said, I do feel like I should give her an explanation—a full one.

My gaze settling on the table beside her, I say, “It really touched me that you said you were afraid of disappointing me. What hurts me is when my friends are distant, so I’m glad you told me, that you trusted me enough to share your feelings with me.”

Before I start rambling, I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts.

“I know you’re not perfect. You have parts of yourself that you dislike or want to change, and you sometimes say the wrong thing, or make mistakes. It’s the same for me, for everyone. I hope that, eventually, you trust me enough to show me that side of you and, rather than you worrying about it alone, we laugh together.”

Memories flicker in my mind. One that stands out, Violet accidentally shoved me over into a puddle (no doubt I deserved the push and then I lost my footing). When she went to help me up, I pulled her in as well, the two of us thoroughly ruining our dresses amidst our squeals of laughter. I think that was her third or fourth visit, about a year after our first meeting.

“We can argue and upset each other and still be friends. I won’t hate you over little things, and I hope you won’t hate me either. I want you to be honest with me, to tell me off when I annoy you, to tease me back or otherwise have fun when we’re together.”

Moving my gaze to her face, the expression there isn’t easy to read, her emotions hidden behind a blank look.

“What do you say?” I ask.

It takes a while, some two or three minutes, before she comes to her decision. Slowly, she lowers her feet back to the ground and straightens out her dress. There’s a different air about her. Without all that tension, she looks soft, and her comfort is easily mistaken for confidence, making her seem less fragile. The paleness of her skin (with no hint of a blush) also adds to her beauty, a stark contrast with her eyes.

I can’t help but wonder how many people have seen her look like this.

“Okay,” she says, that word quiet but clear.

I smile softly, and then a thought comes to me. “May I braid your hair?” I ask, getting to my feet.

Like she’s a calm pond, my words send a ripple through her, yet she quickly settles. “You may.”

It only takes a few steps to get around my room, collecting my hairbrush and a ribbon. Brushing her hair, it’s nice—sleek and smooth, no knots. I soon move on to the braiding, and I talk to her as I do.

“My friend did this for me the other day, and I really liked how it looked,” I say.

Just like Helena, I carefully braid Trissy’s streak—a thick strip of black amidst blonde hair. I won’t give her a whole makeover or do anything with the rest of her hair, but I think this is good. However, I do it entirely by hand (no magic) as I casually talk with her.

“Did you have the writing exam today as well?” I ask.

She tries to nod, stopping herself as soon as she feels her hair pull; I silently giggle. “I did,” she says, still in a quiet but clear voice.

I guess everyone does use the Rose class’s timetable for exams. “Do you like the writing classes more or less than the literature ones?” I ask.

So it goes, my meandering questions never quite following on directly, but she answers them, gradually becoming more talkative. After a couple of minutes, she even starts asking me similar questions back.

“What dessert do you like most?” she asks.

“Ah, at school… I would say the mousses.”

She makes a little sound of agreement, and then asks, “And outside of school?”

It’s funny, she has probably picked up all the skills she needs from talking with Lady Ashford and the third friend (whose name I still don’t know). “When I was young, a maid at my estate had a pound cake recipe I’m very fond of. Oh, but, my father also brought back a treat during winter break. It’s called ice-cream and is like sweet milk that’s been frozen, more creamy than a sorbet.”

She laughs, the delicate titters reminding me of birdsong. “You sound so happy talking about desserts.”

“Wait until you see me eating them,” I say.

Her laughter returns.

Despite braiding rather leisurely, I can only delay the inevitable. To keep the braid secure, I use a small slip of pink ribbon, neatly tying it into a bow. When I take a step back, I’m happy with the choice of colour. Even without lipstick, her lips are a rather nice colour and I matched it.

Offering her a hand, she takes it without question and I help her up, leading her towards the bathroom; rather then entering, I just open the door for the full-length mirror there. (The mirror on my desk is good for makeup, but bigger is better for this.) Her hair is long and she brings the braid in front of her shoulder. She looks at it in the mirror, and then holds it in front of her face, closely inspecting it.

“Do you like it? I think it really emphasises the contrast like this,” I say, peeking at her reflection over her shoulder (an easy thing to do with our height difference).

Her eyes hold a lot of emotion, but I can’t tell which. “It would look nicer… if it was a prettier colour, wouldn’t it?”

Ah. I smile, and I carefully move her braid from the side to the back, nudge her so she turns at an angle. After a couple of brushes with my fingers, I have her hair in a ponytail, the braid tucked underneath.

“How is this? It’s like a shadow, still there yet it doesn’t draw attention,” I say.

It’s a bit awkward for her to see (especially since I have to keep hold of her hair, no ribbon to tie the ponytail), but her expression looks better. “I like this more, I think,” she says.

“Do you use makeup?” I ask. I can tell she does, but I want her to talk more.

“Um, just powder,” she says.

I let down her hair and nudge her to face forwards again. Without going into much detail, I share some secrets: a few moisturisers I recommend (it’s not like you can pop down to the pharmacy and see all the big brands there, what you can buy very regional), how to use concealer, and I suggest some colours for lipstick and eyeshadow. It’s quite funny, clearly something she’s interested in but has been too afraid to ask about before.

Then I move on to fashion—what colours she likes to wear, accessories. We’ve moved to my wardrobe during that discussion and I show her some of my handmade dresses.

“Oh they’re so beautiful! And you did it all yourself?” she asks, elegantly squatting down to inspect the branch embroidered across the waist of my green dress.

“Well, I bought the fabric and thread,” I say.

With my focus on dresses recently, I haven’t thought much of my (many) handkerchiefs, but her compliments remind me and I show them to her, offering for her to choose one for herself. In the end, she selects the one with a tortoiseshell cat. (Fictional that cats may be in this world, they seem to still be cute.)

From there, we both end up sitting on my bed and I let the conversation open up, her near-crippling shyness long forgotten. That’s not to say she speaks perfectly—she often pauses or uses a filler word when her mouth gets ahead of her brain—but there’s not a timidness to her voice or a reluctance to share her thoughts.

Eventually, it comes to Evan (as she’s curious after meeting him). After a couple of questions, I turn it around and ask, “Are there any lords in your class who have caught your eye?”

Despite my light-hearted intentions, she quickly closes up at my words, her expression gloomy. “No,” she says simply.

I’m not so blind to think she has a crush, but it’s clear there’s something. “Then is there one whose eye you’ve caught?”

Her eyes glisten, yet she doesn’t turn away from me when she lowers her head. “Maybe. He… comes to talk to me, but….”

I wait, only finishing her sentence when it really looks like she won’t. “You feel like he’s just making fun of you?”

She gently nods her head.

Sitting right next to her, I easily loop my arm around her far shoulder and lightly hug her. “Okay, so, when he talks to you next, just start crying. You’re so cute that everyone will think he’s bullying you and rush over to protect you.”

She giggles, some of her poor mood washed away.

“Lady Ashford is in my class, but is your other friend with you?” I ask.

She nods her head.

That’s good; it’s important to have friends because it can be hard to care about yourself when it comes to some things.

Before I can ask my next question, there’s a knock on the door. This time, I feel like evening tea must be an hour late—or is it that my friends and I all retired an hour early tonight?

“Oh, I should go,” she says, quickly getting to her feet.

“Did you have fun?” I ask.

She stops halfway to the door, and turns around to give me a bright smile. “I don’t know, but I feel… lighter.”

Well, I guess that’s good enough.