I wake up late. The lumpy bed in the guest room was surprisingly comfortable after such a long day, and I quickly fell asleep, and I’ve slept some time past dawn. Downstairs, I can hear a slight clink of plates or bowls, and there’s a general chatter fading in and out outside as people walk past.

After gathering my will and thoughts for a bit, I push myself up. Lottie’s nightgown served me well, but I change back into my dress from yesterday (I only wore it after the party anyway). I go to the bathroom next and have a wee. Unfortunately, no toothbrush, and I feel mildly distressed by that. With how much sugar I had yesterday, I don’t want a toothache…. Undressing again, I just wipe myself down, not comfortable running a bath.

All of that done, I finally go downstairs. There’s no loud sounds, but I hear quiet chatting—Lottie and Gwen, I think. So I follow the sound to the lounge, peeking around the corner.

“Good morning, Ellie,” Lottie says.

Gwen is reading something, cuddled up against Lottie who is knitting. A wool blanket (the kind that looks like a spiderweb, full of noticeable gaps) covers their laps, and their hair is a bit messy, ungroomed.

There’s a brief gap between Lottie speaking and Gwen looking over at me; she shouts, “Ellie!” Fighting between the urge to continue snuggling her mother and to run over to me, she eventually holds up her arms for a hug, I guess telling me to join them.

“Morning Lottie, Gwen,” I say, walking over with a smile.

Doing as she asked, I sit next to her. She pulls the blanket over to cover my lap, and then she leans over to give me a good hug, settling back against Lottie afterwards.

“Greg bought you the necessities—did you see them?” Lottie asks.

She doesn’t mean pads, does she? “Pardon?”

A smile comes to her, making me feel very foolish even before she says, “A toothbrush.”

“Oh.”

Since it has come to this, Lottie makes me a cup of tea first, leaving me in charge of snuggle duties. After my drink, I go and brush my teeth and feel so very relieved. Lottie really was wasted being the maid of some troublemaking child like me.

Although I was a bit worried about the time when I woke up, Lottie tells me it’s barely seven, so I settle down and enjoy the morning. When Lottie gets herself ready, I help Gwen dress in her church clothes and neatly do her hair in a simple bun (no braiding). Belatedly remembering I brought the sketchbooks with me, I let Gwen show her artworks to Lottie.

And I ask Gwen, “I really like your painting, can we swap?”

She’s surprised, but happily agrees, and Lottie looks to be fine with it as well. So I tear out a couple of my paintings and her sketch for her to have, and I leave her painting in the sketchbook. I wonder, will my mother let me frame it and hang it in my room? That should be fine, right?

Soon after, (to my surprise) Gwen is sent next door to attend Sunday school with her friend Tiff.

Just me and Lottie sitting in the kitchen, it almost feels awkward. Yesterday, I held on for Gwen’s sake, but, once she was asleep, I really fell apart. All the emotions I’d stifled suddenly broke free and… Lottie held me, comforted me, until I could deal with them.

Alone with her now, I am keenly reminded of all that. I’m worried she thinks less of me, that she regrets trusting me with Gwen, disappointed at how childish I still am.

Instead, she says, “It sounds like Gwen enjoyed herself and learned a lot, so thank you for having her.”

Oh god, I feel like crying again. Rubbing my eyes (a good excuse not to look at her), I quietly ask, “You mean that?”

“I do.”

Rather than talk, I ask her to teach me to knit. It’s weirdly easy and hard compared to sewing, the actual knitting easier and yet the focus required to avoid dropping stitches harder. I did managed to do it (poorly) in the carriage yesterday, but Lottie shows me a lot of little things (like correcting my grip of the needles).

At the ringing of the nine o’clock bell, we ready up and head to the church to meet with Liv. Clutching the sketchbooks, I say a goodbye to Lottie. She surprises me with a hug.

“Stay healthy and happy, okay?” she whispers to me.

Smiling brightly, I nod my head. “I will.”

Back in the carriage, I sit opposite Liv as we trundle along. The one sketchbook open on my lap, I carefully inspect Gwen’s painting, tying the strange splotches of colour to the scene we saw together. I hope she can find some worth in the pair of paintings I gave her.

As we go, I notice Liv glancing at me now and then. When I eventually catch her in the act, I say, “Is there something you wish to ask?”

She bows her head, embarrassed. I’m not sure what to expect, but she surprises me when she says, “It is just that… I think how mistress treated the little miss is very admirable. I already knew mistress was kind, but I see mistress in an even brighter light now.”

Her words echo in my head, grating, grating away at me. “How sad is it that treating a child well is worthy of such praise?” I murmur.

Liv hesitates, and then says, “Pardon?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

When we arrive back at the townhouse, I get fussed over—you’d think Clarice hasn’t seen me in years. I excuse myself to freshen up before lunch, using the time for a proper bath and then sit down to write the letter to Gerald. After a hard minute’s thought, I write, “To Your Royal Highness, I am sorry I did not get the chance to greet you the other day. Congratulations on your birthday. Regards, Lady Nora de Kent.”

Perfect.

After lunch, I talk a little with my mother about what happened, but it’s mostly just her checking the letter I sent yesterday was accurate and that I’m okay. I notice she doesn’t ask about Gwen, a knot forming in my stomach.

My father returns in the middle of the afternoon and it’s at that time I talk through everything with him and my mother, answering his questions, trying to clearly put everything in order. I give a description of the maid who followed us to the maze in the first place, a rougher description of the attendants with Princess Hilda. Even what Gwen and Victoria spoke about. I mention the paintings and sketches as well, another bit of proof that Gwen and I spent a while in the maze, and I make sure to bring up how Liv was treated. She might be a princess, but decorum is still expected and Princess Hilda can’t treat anyone she meets however she likes. In a roundabout way, it’s like Liv belongs to us, so Princess Hilda has to treat our property with respect.

I’m not blamed for what happened and my father promises he will bring the complaint straight to the King himself. However, I know nothing will happen. Especially when it comes to royalty, it’s all political, the abstract summing up of points. Maybe this will manifest as a slight tax deduction next quarter, or a contribution to one of my father’s projects, or an invitation to a certain event for Clarice.

There will be no apology. Gwen won’t ever have another chance to meet the Queen. My plan, I wasn’t even going to sit down, just walk up to Gerald to greet him and let Gwen see the Queen and then leave. That’s all I wanted.

Let’s not dwell on the past.

Spared from attending a dinner this evening (Joshua going as well, Cyril visiting Evan), I stay in my room for the rest of the day. Opening up the one sketchbook, I stare at the sketches I made of Gwen sleeping. So cute. I tried a few times, but I couldn’t capture the scene well. She looked so soft, seemingly melting, a slight wobble to her face as the carriage swayed, her lips still a bit stained by strawberry syrup from the earlier ice cream eating, braids coming loose and so it looked like her hairband was askew. Childish innocence.

That is the sight I want to remember. If I could end every day with such a sight, I would be so incredibly happy. With that as my inspiration, I draw until bedtime, barely making any improvement despite all my effort.

The rest of the week returns to the same routine of before. Some days we have somewhere to go or some people over for lunch or dinner, my role to sit around and look pretty (easily done), the gaps filled by sewing and drawing, walking with Cyril, helping Joshua with some homework, letting Clarice dress me up, and talking with my mother.

Oh, but, Violet joins me every day (except Thursday) for whatever event is on. It really is nice having that bit of company and she seems happy with the arrangement as well.

I get to see my other friends twice. The first is an afternoon tea at Helena’s townhouse (a much narrower one than mine away from the centre of the city, but no doubt still costly and prestigious). With how gentle her personality is, I’m happy to find her family mostly the same, her younger brother adorably cheeky and rebellious (Rupert scowls throughout the introductions before scurrying back to his room), her little sister cute and obedient (Cessy lets me braid her hair and plays a duet with me, very skilled at the piano). Her older brother, Philip, is on business, but I’m sure he’s wonderful as well, and her parents seem nice from the little I see of them.

The second time, we visit Belle at her sister’s residence. Rather than a townhouse, it’s an expansive flat that covers a whole floor; it has: a master bedroom, two guest bedrooms, a lounge, a luxurious bathroom, and then two more rooms we don’t enter. (A kitchen on the ground floor provides food to all flats and there’s probably a similar service for laundry.) The sister, Amy, lives here (with her aunt) as her fiancé works in Lundein, the flat something of a dowry or early wedding gift. (Of course, he will move in and the aunt out after the wedding.)

Amy is a much different character than Belle, very amicable and chatty, similar to Jemima, and her age is close enough that she talks freely with us. That includes some very informative topics to which Belle can only glow red and harshly say, “Amy! Not in front of my friends!”

It’s always nice to see two sisters who are close.

By Friday, I’ve put away my ill feelings from Gerald’s party. However, a letter arrives during lunch with the royal seal on it (and was presumably delivered by a royal servant). Although addressed to me, my father opens it after the meal, summoning me to talk in his office once he has read it and had a think.

“Yes, papa?” I say, standing in front of his desk.

He rubs his temple, letting out a long sigh. The letter is in front of him, from what I can see the (upside-down) handwriting neat and delicate. “You have been invited to attend a private dinner,” he says, pushing it over to me.

My heart tenses at his words, hands reluctant to touch the paper. I do in the end, if only to see for myself what it says, but it is as my father said. I resist the urge to clench my hands and tear or crumple up the letter. “Do I have to?” I quietly ask.

“At your age, you could hardly be compelled,” he says, his tone unsure.

I gently shake my head. “For Clarice, I mean.”

He draws in a large breath, another long sigh following. “This offer likely came from the young prince—are you sure you want to decline it?” he asks.

I’m surprised to hear that, but my father knows the royal politics better than I do. The more I think about it, well, it’s an unusual offer more suited to romance stories than reality. If not to meet Gerald, who else would be there for me at a private dinner? Not to mention it’s quite absurd to invite over a minor without some friendship between the families.

Tying up my wandering thoughts, it’s telling that I only have doubts—not that I was ever thinking to go. If it won’t interfere with Clarice’s debut, then I have no reason and no desire to set foot in the palace.

“I won’t attend,” I say, clear and calm.