My thoughts for the rest of the day are disjointed. No matter what distracts me, I inevitably jump back to those comments Belle and Jemima made. I still do everything I’m supposed to, but, well, when I go to brush my teeth, I see my “beauty mark”. The hair clip is there as a part of me that someone else has placed.

Thinking of it like that, my stomach knots. I feel awfully dishonest. What does he think when he sees it? For me, it was a small comfort, a reminder through that lonely time that I wasn’t alone. What is it to me now? I liked what Belle said about it being a beauty mark, but to think of it as such makes me realise my own hubris.

This is… something he should only give to a lady he is courting. I bring up a hand and carefully run my fingers over the pretty clip. Yes, it would be a nice gift to receive from a suitor.

But I spoke honestly when I told them that I have no such intentions when it comes to Evan (or Julian or Gerald, or anyone else at this time). So I correct the mistake I made many months ago and take out the clip, my fringe falling over my eyes. I guess a trim might be in order.

I would be lying if I said doing that didn’t affect me. There is a sense of emotional loss, giving up part of my identity (albeit a tiny part). Far from a big deal, but I feel it. The first gift a friend ever gave me, it would be weirder if I didn’t feel anything, right?

Sunday, I go into town and visit Lottie and Gwen (and Iris visits as well). After a hullo and a cup of tea, I ask if we can go shopping again—back to the jeweller’s. Lottie has quite the smirk on her, and Iris seems to pick up on it. However, I rather disappoint them when I come out with nothing more than a simple hair clip (undecorated and silvery), which I promptly put in myself.

I mean, I have my own hair clips from home, but I feel like I need something plain to replace Evan’s one.

As much for my own mood as to spoil Gwen, we go buy a pottle of fresh strawberries and enjoy them as we stand in the shade, watching the river. (A pottle being a tall basket that tapers towards the bottom, used for berries that easily bruise.) I hope Iris doesn’t mind the lack of a sewing lesson today, but she seems happy enough, lips stained red.

Earlier than usual, they walk me up to the school.

I change back into my uniform and meet my friends in the lounge. As is often the case with Sundays, they are relaxing, split between reading books or letters, and Helena is writing a letter. There’s a chorus of hullos when I join them, but they don’t ask after my morning. Accommodating as always.

Of course, things can’t go entirely perfect. Belle notices the small change, and she asks, “Did something happen to your hair clip?”

I put on a sad smile. “Unfortunately, yes. I do not think a repair will help, but I will return it and see about a replacement,” I say.

Just a little lie, a white lie, a misdirection. No harm done. No, harm done. The dishonesty burns at the edge of my conscience. For someone who hates lying, I’ve built half of my current life upon it. Such poor foundations can only lead to these moments where I reap what I sow. At least it hasn’t become easy for me to lie.

“What a shame,” Belle says. My other friends offer similar sentiments, but it’s less sincere; they don’t know the importance of the hair clip.

We usually go for a walk after lunch, so, when the bells rings at midday, I quickly stop by my room to pick up my sketchbook. As usual, we eat and then go for a walk. How clever I am. The ground dry now, we wander across the grounds amongst the shade of the many trees, a cool breeze taking away the summery heat.

I keep an eye out for a good spot, eventually finding one. “Everyone, if I could impose on you,” I say.

“That would depend on what you wish to impose,” Violet says, but her gaze falls on my sketchbook.

I bring it up to my chest. “For art class this week, I would like to paint a group portrait.”

“Ah, I see,” Violet says.

Jemima happily claps her hands. “Ooh, really? I haven’t seen anyone paint a portrait yet. Does miss think you have a talent?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. Jemima might have misunderstood me a little. “Rest assured, the result will be far from flattering,” I say.

She and Helena giggle, Belle holding herself to a broad smile. And Violet is as stern as ever. At least, that’s what you would think if you didn’t know her as well as I do. In truth, her eyes glimmer with mirth, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and there’s an openness in her body language, hands turned with open palms my way.

I hope I can capture all that and more in my painting.

“How would you like us?” Violet asks.

The spot I found is of two oak trees which are near enough that their leaves just about touch, and they together form a natural arch. In the distance behind them is pleasant greenery, the short grass meadow-like, full of colourful spots. The rolling hills give a nice horizon and the sky today is a beautiful blue brushed with wispy clouds. Although the lighting isn’t perfect, better suited to a midmorning where the sunlight would fall on my friends, I know well how they look in different lights, so I can adjust for that.

“Let’s see,” I mutter.

Being oak trees, they’re huge, but I can use perspective to fit my friends better in the arch. I pace backwards and forwards until I find the distance I want to sketch from.

“Okay, so Violet, if you stand in the middle and slowly walk towards me,” I say, roughly gesturing where I want her. She understands and does as I ask, walking, walking, walking—“Stop.”

One down.

Belle and Helena are a similar height, Jemima a bit bigger than them but smaller than Violet. It’s not ideal. Well, I’m already using perspective.

“Jemima, if you could stand next to Violet and then take a step forward,” I say. Obediently following my command, she does so. “Another step.” She steps towards me. “Perfect,” I say.

With that, her perceived height matches better with Violet.

“Belle and Helena, if you could stand a step in front of her,” I say. Once they do, I hum a note. “Half a step, please.” So they do.

I go down on one knee, resting my sketchbook on the one still up, and they all come together, framed by the oak trees.

“Perfect.”

Rather than have them stand like that for long, I draw out rough outlines, getting the proportions right. Once I have that done, I let them go. All of us sitting under the one tree, they chat amongst themselves and I work on adding other details, such as a small drawing of what the oak leaves look like. Tomorrow morning, I’ll see if I can come have a look at the trees in the right light, or at least sketch out what the morning sky looks like.

Well, paintings and drawings here are supposed to be… real. This sort of cut-and-paste of different things (not capturing a single moment) is a bit suspect, but Ms Berks did tell me I can do whatever I want.

Then we wander around the grounds a bit more, the growing heat pushing us back to our dormitory. We resume our lazing activities, reading books and such, staying cool.

So the day goes by.

I start the next morning early, going through my routine that ends with me carefully putting up my fringe with the new hair clip; I drop Evan’s one into my pocket. Then I take my sketchbook and hurry to the place we went yesterday. Bathed in the morning light, the magnificent oak trees give a brighter sight, leaves glowing in all kinds of green shades. The sun is behind me, so there’s none of the sunlight-through-the-leaves effect, but still beautiful.

By the time I finish up and get back to the dormitory, the bell goes for breakfast. Just in time, I meet up with my friends.

Evan’s hair clip rests heavy in my pocket the whole morning and early afternoon. After classes finish, Evan and I shuffle through the crowded corridor and head over to embroidery club, Cyril and Ms Berks soon joining us. Although my focus is fragile, I take care with making the adjustments to the dresses. It’s not fashion as such, so I’m not looking to make the fit perfect, but I’m shortening Len’s and Lottie’s dresses, tightening all the dresses’ waist and bust a bit, just to make sure the fit isn’t bad either.

At the end, Evan, Cyril, and I walk out the building together, and we stop to say our goodbyes. Only, I instead say, “If it’s not an inconvenience, may I have a moment with Lord Sussex?”

Cyril gives me an ambiguous look, one that merely pretends to hide his thoughts. However, he offers no resistance, saying, “As if he would decline an invitation from my lady.”

Evan chuckles at that, but then nods nonetheless. “Sure.”

So Cyril goes on ahead to the boys’ dormitory, leaving Evan and I to go on our walk, a conservative distance between us as we do. At this time, there’s not so many people near the school buildings. Many are out on the grounds or back at the dormitories, but the classrooms are mostly empty, cooler to relax beneath the trees than in a stuffy room with windows that barely open.

I say nothing at first. There’s nothing for me to say, even after some two days to find the words. I know that excuses are distasteful, so I won’t give any. Eventually, I put aside my lack of words and force myself to speak, unwilling to be a coward.

“Do you remember my birthday?” I ask.

“Ah, well,” he says, and his hesitation is understandable.

Do I mean my actual birthday at the bonfire, or when he gave me a gift, or perhaps even the small party my parents held over the spring break?

Of course, it wouldn’t do to underestimate him. He is a prince. “Did something happen to the hair clip?” he asks.

Which man would notice such a small change? I smile to myself, emotions swirling around my chest. It’s just that there’s… not the right one. “I made a mistake in accepting it. While it made me very happy to receive a gift, it was wrong of me to ignore the circumstances and, more importantly, ignore the possible consequences. I apologise it has taken me so long to correct my mistake,” I say, and I take out the hair clip from my pocket.

He accepts it back.

There’s a finality to that, my eyes prickling. It’s silly, I know, but that hair clip was so very precious to me. A shimmer of validation and acceptance in a world that seemed all too ready to disown me. Even if I have other gifts and people who give me that same comfort now, I’m sentimental.

I guess this feeling is like interest that has to be paid for the small comfort I’ve been borrowing. “I’m… sorry,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No, I am the one at fault for giving it without thought.”

Lightly chuckling, it’s my turn to shake my head. “I know you only had kind thoughts behind giving it.”

For a moment, he squeezes it tightly, then his hand loosens and he puts it in his pocket. “I wonder if I did,” he murmurs.

Though I hear him say that, I don’t ask him about, clearly speaking to himself. However, that doesn’t stop me considering just what he meant by it.