Well, I listen and it sounds like the kids are having fun, so I don’t feel like my misunderstanding has been a waste of time. “So, what were you two talking about before I interrupted?” I ask, not at all subtle with the change of topic.

Iris says she’s been questioning Lottie about her time at the Kent estate, wanting to know more. While she was all too quick to compliment my focus, I admire hers as well, no opportunity wasted. I encourage them to continue.

It quickly becomes clear that there’s not much room for me to contribute; Iris is asking questions to do with maid duties. I mean, I have vague notions of these, but Lottie has an on-the-job education for it and answers most questions promptly and clearly.

My attention inevitably wavers.

I think about asking Iris which of the two exhibition dresses she would like, but decide it’s better as a surprise. I start worrying about Violet, and stop once I catch myself doing it. Because of the exams, I haven’t seen Cyril and Julian in a while, and probably won’t for the rest of term unless something unusual happens. At least Evan can’t get away from me so easily. Trissy tries to enter my thoughts, but I don’t really know what to think about her. I want to leave her in charge of our relationship, so all I can do is hope she comes to see me again. If I chase her, pressure her, I’ll no doubt scare her away.

Whether Iris naturally runs out of questions or cuts herself short out of pity for me, I don’t know, but their conversations winds down. Picking up on the silence, I come up with a few things to say and choose one.

“Will you be going back to help today, or…” I ask Iris.

She shakes her head. “No, the shifts are properly rescheduled now. Papa always keeps an eye out, so there’s no shortage of staff,” she says, ending on a laugh.

I giggle as well, not often a father praised for looking for women. “Do you have plans with anyone else then?”

“I’ll go see my sister for lunch,” she says.

Lottie gets up to tidy the cups and she asks me if I would like a drink. While she prepares a tea for me, I ask Iris about her niece and nephew, getting a (still rough but) better view of her family than from my time working for Neville. That ends up with us discussing what it was like for us growing up—her as the daughter of a couple who wholeheartedly ran their business, and me as a ruffian in a dress.

“There’s no way you did!” Iris says, covering her mouth.

I turn to Lottie and nod my head. She sighs. “The first time she climbed a tree after I was hired, she had fallen asleep by the time I found her, so all I could do was stand beneath the branch and fret. I didn’t dare shout loudly for help in case I startled her.”

However much my father paid her clearly wasn’t enough.

It’s not long before the children finish their stories. At Gwen’s insistence, we “grown-ups” have to come to the lounge and listen to them read. An experience filled with filler words and pauses while whoever it is squints at the words, apparently unable to read their own handwriting from just minutes ago. And of course, it’s all achingly cute, very much akin to watching Bambi take his first steps. I applaud loudly after every story and get back cheeky grins and flushed cheeks.

Then Lottie serves a mid-morning snack of savoury biscuits, along with little cups of water. (I ask her about the biscuits and she tells me they’re filling and nutritious. By taste, I’d guess they’re a mix of diced nuts and something like mashed bananas, baked to a slight crunch.) A few parents soon arrive, picking up Ali, Lucy, and Jessie; this leaves Hetty and Danny still here.

Those two seem close to Gwen. Even if Hetty talks a lot and Danny hardly at all, Gwen herself bounces between the two, and they both focus on her rather than each other. Observing their body language and not following what they’re talking about, I only notice Gwen has asked me something when she looks at me expectantly.

“Pardon?” I say, smiling.

She has a little huff, more adorable than arrogant. “May I show Hetty and Danny the Val, the Valatines you made me?” she asks.

Forgotten the word already? It’s only been a month, no two. “You can show it to whoever you wish,” I say, smiling.

In a flurry of little feet, she drags them upstairs to her room. Giggling to myself, I wonder if maybe I shaped Lottie’s views on parenting and indirectly influenced Gwen? She feels so familiar at times, the little sister I never had.

“I told her that Valentine’s gifts are a personal thing and shouldn’t be shown or discussed freely,” Lottie says, perhaps misinterpreting my expression as amused bemusement.

Having turned to look at Lottie when she spoke, I catch sight of Iris putting on a strange look of her own. She asks, “What did you give her?”

“I sewed her something like a card,” I say.

She nods, but, before she can reply, our attention is drawn back to the doorway, footsteps pounding down the stairs; Gwen pops around the door. “Ellie?” she says.

“Yes, sweetie?”

She shuffles in place, nervous, and asks, “Would you teach us some sewing?”

I glance at Lottie, getting a subtle nod of confirmation from her. “Sure.”

It takes a few minutes to organise everything. Lottie has some of her own sewing needles she takes out for me, and Gwen has her own set of (somewhat child-friendly) needles and threads for her and her friends to use. She only has the one embroidery hoop, but there’s enough squares of fabric around for everyone.

Given their age and (in)experience, I want to keep it simple, yet a running stitch feels too pathetic of a lesson. I mean, they could do that without me showing them. So I first show them a backstitch, mentioning the basics like keeping stitches a consistent length and not stabbing yourself.

I’m quite nervous about the friends playing with the needles, but it looks like Danny has some experience, awkwardly trying to thread the needle. My nerves are soon enough settled, no real injuries coming about as everyone takes to heart me telling them to go slowly and carefully. Gwen is fairly dextrous after all her cross-stitch practice and picks it up quickly, so I also show her a chain stitch; the (sort of) overlapping loops makes it more pronounced—both wider and a little more raised.

Danny does quite well as well, but I leave him to it as he looks focused on whatever it is he’s sewing. On the other hand, Hetty is struggling, and it’s hard not to notice her upset expression when she looks over at him and his progress.

That comes to a head when my back is turned, correcting Gwen as she attempts a chain stitch.

“Like she’d want something a boy sewed.”

Hetty says that quietly, a harsh whisper, yet both Gwen and I hear it. Gwen tenses up, nearly pricking herself. Her head raises to look, but I’m in the way and, when she tries to look around me, I move to block her. She glares at me, and I smile back, putting a finger on my lips.

My educated guess is that Danny is sewing something for Gwen. Also, he’s young and impressionable, no doubt impacted by Hetty’s frustrated outburst.

Speaking loudly, I say, “Gwen, did I tell you my friend embroidered a handkerchief as a present for his sister’s birthday?”

Her glare transitions to a look of confusion, and then she catches on. “No, you did not,” she says, her voice robotic. I guess acting is too dishonest for her.

“She was really happy with it. If you had a brother and he gave you something he sewed himself, would you like it?” I ask, nice and blunt—finesse is wasted on children.

Gwen nods dramatically, her movement overly exaggerated even though Hetty and Danny probably can’t see her. “Yes, I would,” she says.

Maybe because my own childhood was full of scolding, I prefer this kind of approach. Not to mention I’d rather not scold a child when I haven’t even met either of her parents.

Leaving it at that for now, I have Gwen focus on sewing again. When I get the chance to check behind me, Hetty is bent over her work with a fairly grumpy expression, while Danny just seems focused. Good enough, I guess.

Their parents soon come to get them. From the brief looks I have of their work, Hetty did her name and Danny made a blob—an animal? None of my business. Lottie and Gwen go to send off the guests, and Iris joins me on the couch.

“I don’t suppose there’s a lesson for me as well?” Iris asks, her tone half-joking.

But I latch onto the half that is serious. “Sure,” I say, smiling.

She’s initially embarrassed, yet her brazen personality soon returns and she has no hesitation picking up a needle. I go through a few tests and questions to gauge her ability and knowledge, and she is rather open with her replies.

When I ask what her mother taught her, she says, “Mama always got too frustrated with me to really teach me anything.”

It’s hard for me to see the sweet Terri as someone short with her own daughter, but I know that Iris isn’t lying. I don’t know the actual circumstances, though, so I don’t take it as the whole truth either.

Lottie joins us with her knitting once she finishes sending off the guests, Gwen picking up where she left off with her chain stitch practice.

As I get a feel of Iris’s skill, I’m reminded of what she told me a long time ago, something about being clumsy like her father. That seems to be true. Given what she told me about her mother, I take a (figurative) step back and observe her as a whole for a little while.

“You’re quite tense, try to calm down,” I softly say, stilling her hand with a gentle touch. Her hands are cold—as I thought, paler than usual.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

I lightly laugh and squeeze her hand. “Why don’t you embroider something for your niece? If you think of her while you sew, I’m sure your heart will be tender,” I say.

Although she nods, I can feel that slight quiver persist in her hand. Muttering a chant, the peaceful warmth of fire magic spreads outwards from my fingertips, running up my arm and, no doubt, across her chilly hand.

She gasps, tries to pull back, but I’m not easily escaped from. “Relax,” I whisper, and I switch to my “hair dryer” magic, brushing both her hands with warm air.

The initial shock over, she settles into it. Her hand squeezes mine back. Rough hands, not exactly calloused but self-evident of the work she’s been doing from such a young age. Did she help with washing up? I wish I knew how to make a good hand moisturiser….

Unfortunately, she adjusts her grip and pricks me with the needle in her hand. I wince, but the skin isn’t broken, just scratched. Maybe I could get a drop of blood out if I squeezed it.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry,” she says, stuck between keeping her hands to herself and wanting to check I’m okay, hesitant to an almost comical degree.

I bring my thumb to my mouth out of a childish habit, giving the scratch a lick to ease the irritation. Lottie clicks her tongue, almost making me jump—old habits really are hard to shake.

Well, at least Iris’s unabashed laughter at my reaction calms her nerves and the rest of our sewing lesson goes smoothly.