The next morning, Violet seems all cheered up when I go to the lounge. I’m glad. Really, really glad. However, after what she said, I can’t help but take notice of what she eats at breakfast, and I’m reminded of how we first became friends—me dragging her off to have tea and cake. I’ve never thought about it before, but she always loved whatever sweet things Beth gave us and, when I visited her manor, we weren’t served anything sweet.

While I haven’t been taught nutrition in this world, Ellie’s memories means I know about calories and vitamins and minerals. Assuming that that stuff hasn’t changed, Violet tends to avoid sweet or starchy food—not to a serious degree, but her choice of breakfast is (something like) scrambled eggs and peaches, which, although sweet tasting, aren’t as sugary as other fruits.

What I’m getting at is that I don’t think Violet has any kind of eating disorder, just a low-calorie diet. All her studying probably burns a lot of energy as well. Besides, her height is evidence that she is eating well.

I don’t want to upset her by talking about this before the sleepover, so I keep my thoughts to myself, but I’ll probably end up observing her eating habits now I’m conscious of it.

Anyway, (expectedly) lessons are non-existent as the teachers use the time to mark tests. We can quietly talk, but have to stay in our seats, so Evan and I talk plans for the spring break. One event we do have in common is Ellen’s birthday. She hasn’t decided what to do yet (she’s told me so in a letter), so I’ll be sent an invitation in a few weeks. The rest of our lessons are similarly lacking in learning; Evan and I don’t talk much after the morning break, only speaking when something comes to mind.

Towards the end of last period, my thoughts turn to embroidery club, and I ask, “Are you coming to the club?”

He thinks for a moment, then nods.

“Do you know if Canterbury will?” I ask, the informal way of calling Cyril slipping out in my comfort.

If Evan notices the “mistake”, he doesn’t show it or mention it. “He said he needs to rest his writing hand.”

I can see that. An aching wrist isn’t so bad for us who don’t write in our spare time. Wait, what about Violet? She didn’t look in pain….

Stopping myself before I got lost in those thoughts, I make a decision. “You should accompany him instead, then,” I say. Evan looks surprised and goes to speak, but I cut him off. “Your present for your sister is already finished and I will be too busy sewing to tease you. Besides, you should make the most of this time with your friends or else they may forget you come summer.”

He looks unconvinced, yet I foolishly don’t prepare myself for his reply.

“But you are also my friend.”

I feel my cheeks tingle, but with the warmth of happiness rather than embarrassment. It’s a very Evan statement. As such, I feel I should give a very Nora reply. “Worry not, I will never forget you, even after decades pass,” I whisper, so soft that it’s easily lost amongst the background muttering.

However, he looks like he heard every word, smiling brightly. Apparently this answer is sufficient for him as he says no more.

The bell rings and I begin my journey to the clubroom—it’s a lot harder without someone to clear the way for me. No rush, I slowly get through the crowd and amble over to wait and see if Ms Berks will come. There’s no one in the reference building today, I guess no reason to come to the library, nothing else to do here as far as I know.

After a few minutes, I grow a little restless. If she doesn’t come, would she mind me going to her room and—no, the brown dress is in the clubroom, so the most I could do is cut out Gwen’s dress and that I can do when I go home…. But would I even be permitted to enter? I guess the maid would go and ask her….

Lost in my disheartening thoughts, I don’t notice Ms Berks entering, brought back to reality by the sharp click of her tongue.

“Good afternoon, miss,” I say, bowing my head.

“No Lord… Sussex?” she asks, her pause suspicious enough that I don’t know whether she actually forgot his name for a moment or is simply teasing me.

“Not today,” I say.

She looks at me, a long second where I feel like she’s perusing my recent memories to understand what’s going on, and then turns to the door. I offer to take her papers while she opens up.

The room feels a lot more spacious with just me, or at least the table does. I take out the brown dress from storage and then the mossy green fabric from my bag. Regarding the latter, I have the dress pattern neatly drawn on and so can get right to carefully cutting it out. Although my back is to Ms Berks, I’m sure she has looked over, coming to her own conclusion on what I am doing (and thinking me foolish for it).

I diligently work, finishing the cutting a lot sooner because the dress is a lot smaller than the others I’ve made. That all then goes back into my bag (scraps included), and I carry on with the brown dress. Since this dress won’t have anything like the pleats, it shouldn’t take as long to stitch together, and the design itself (an overhead view of fields with shadows) has less sewing to it.

However, I’m less confident of my (rough) schedule, Iris asking about the exhibition reminding me how little I know of it. Ms Berks said on the open days, but I can’t remember when I visited this school….

For the rest of the hour, I put my worries to the back of my mind, not wanting to make a mistake because I’m distracted.

The four o’clock bell rings, so I finish the little cabbage I’m working on and then start packing up. Ms Berks doesn’t rush me, still sitting there marking tests the seniors sat (us juniors only have an art lesson next term), which gives me time to think through what I want to ask.

When I finish tidying, I patiently wait in my seat rather than leaving the room. After a minute or so, she looks up, not surprised to see me.

“Is there something I may help you with?” she asks, her words sage and tone sour.

I almost ask her about the exhibition, but it would be better for me to find out when the open days are from someone else. Luckily, I have a second question. “Would it be possible to open the clubroom every day this week? Or any extra day, or for longer?”

She holds me with a blank stare for a long moment, her unrelenting expression of disinterest as overwhelming as ever. Yet it’s also mesmerising. As embarrassing as our first meeting was for me, so thoroughly dressed down, her words from back then have slowly changed from (harsh but) constructive criticism into a challenge. Despite her aloof attitude, she surely has given me goals and resources and advice.

How could I feel anything but admiration when looking at her? Well, okay, I feel both admiration and mild fear.

“Do you think I have nothing better to do with my free time?” she asks.

I hesitate for a second. “Honestly, doesn’t miss have a lot of exams to mark?”

We return to the staring match, my cheeks becoming painfully hot as I come to regret my words. It’s not that I disagree with what I said, or that it was rude, but it was awfully casual. I really do slip into bad habits when I feel comfortable.

However, my worry is unnecessary. She slips into a smirk and brings a finger to her chin, and says, “You really do remind me of myself when I was younger.”

Oh I’m touched, such words sweet even if not entirely meant as a compliment.

Only, my good mood is quickly tempered as she shakes her head, and whispers, “No, rather, you remind me of who I thought myself to be when I was younger.”

Her melancholy is heavy this time, enough ways to interpret her words that I know there’s no point trying to work out what she means. Instead, I rely on her bittersweet expression, taking those words as a wistful compliment.

After a couple of seconds, she collects herself in a single breath. It’s at times easy to forget she was also raised in the upper-class and so has such skills. “This room is as quiet as any other, I suppose indulging you no loss on my part,” she says.

I smile broadly for her. “Thank you, miss.”

Not wanting to give her a chance to change her mind or give myself a chance to annoy her, I say a polite goodbye and beat a hasty retreat back to the dormitory. My friends are in the lounge, so I join them and share my plans for the week; pre-empting any offers to keep me company, I mention Ms Berks will be marking tests and that I’ll be busy trying to finish as much as I can before the break. They understand what I’m implying and simply wish me luck.

Then, I fall into a routine. A day spent idling through empty classes, an afternoon sewing until Ms Berks wants to leave (somewhere around half past four), a little sewing in the evening, and talking to my friends in-between.

From Wednesday, some results start to come out. I have unsurprisingly done better, both because of Violet’s study sessions and because I cared to try and answer properly (rather than simply try to avoid detention). In English literature and English writing, I’m second only to Violet amongst the ladies, about fifth or sixth overall in the class (of twenty). In the three mathematics classes, I’m first or second, Gerald beating me in “statistics” (not a hard class, but it’s more reading comprehension than maths). For the other classes, I’m third or fourth amongst the ladies, top half overall, beating a few of the lords.

As far as everyone else goes, I only pay attention to my friends. Well, Violet and Gerald are usually second and first respectively, so I end up noticing his results as well. Anyway, Evan isn’t quite the last lord any more, overtaking Lord Sandwich and sometimes Lord Watford; his results in algebra are especially good, about eighth, his highest “rank” so far.

Helena, Jemima, and Belle do well, but it’s the sort of well ladies do. That is, they are usually in the top half of the ladies, but still not better than most lords.

All of my friends, Evan included, are very happy with these results. That said, Violet can’t help but want to look over my tests and criticise my every mistake (and mutter complaints about the teacher when she thinks I should have got the mark).

“Have you offended Mr Willand? For him to give no marks…” she says, staring at my history exam.

Based on what she said, I guess she means where I got the name of the castle wrong and so he didn’t give me any points for the whole question—despite getting the contents of the treaty signed there correct. “It’s important training for when I have to deal with pedantic people in the future,” I say lightly.

Her gaze snaps to me, but her attempt to scowl ends up in a chuckle, my own expression far too smug for her to handle.

With my afternoons spent sewing, I finish the embroidery on the brown dress and stitch it all into a neat dress. The impact is a lot less than the blue (seascape mountain reflection) dress, but I find it very alluring—not in a sexy way, just that I’m pulled closer to look at the little things, the quality and detail of them making them like studded gems, or something. My confidence in my dresses fluctuates from “Oh god, everyone’s going to laugh at me” to “I’m a genius” every other day or so.

Since I’ve been sewing in the afternoon, I don’t sew as much in the evening, but I am making steady progress on Gwen’s dress. While not this weekend, I’m hopeful I can give it to her next Saturday before I leave for home (or rather, leave for the townhouse).

Of course, the last week has also been filled with fun conversations, walks in the good weather, and finalising arrangements with the maids for my sleepover. Florence and Ellen have sent their last letters of the term and I’ve sent my last replies, optimistic it won’t be long before we can meet. Given that, I should get to see Evan and Julian over the holiday as well, maybe, and I’m sure Cyril find his way over.

So ends a good week.