We make it to the kitchens without any further disasters. Not that I was expecting any, but the way my life’s been going recently I couldn’t quite be sure. It’s the first time I’ve been here, though; I don’t know any of the kitchen staff, and it doesn’t feel right to just walk in and beg for food.

It’s only an hour and a half until the canteen opens for dinner. I can wait that long, can’t I? My stomach protests loudly at that thought. Okay. Fine. I can do this. I glance at Elsie. She glances at me.

“This was your idea,” I tell her.

“You’re the one who needs food,” she replies.

Worth a try, I suppose. I knock on the door.

It swings open a second later to reveal a large woman with thick curly hair, holding a dangerously sharp-looking knife. I flinch.

“Oh, you poor thing!” she says. “What happened to you?”

“Tripped over a piece of wood,” I say. It’s true; just leaves out most of the details. “But I skipped lunch. And dinner yesterday. I know I shouldn’t have, but I’m really hungry and… do you have any spare food? Please?”

The woman hesitates for a long moment, and then laughs. “I think we could find you a few scraps,” she says. “And your friend? Is she a starving waif as well?”

I laugh, but Elsie flinches. “I – no. No. I don’t need food.”

“Scraps and leftovers for one, then, coming right up. Name’s Anne; what’s yours?”

I don’t want to tell her. I just want to be an ordinary starving student who hasn’t figured out how to take care of herself properly. I suddenly understand why Edward was so reluctant to tell me who his father was when we first met. “…Tallulah.”

If she recognises my name, she doesn’t show it. “Well, come in, sit yourself down. We’re a little busy, but I think we can manage a stool in the corner.”

“I’ll go,” says Elsie. “If it’s easier.”

I shrug and look to Anne.

“It would be a bit of a squeeze, but – “

Elsie is leaving before Anne can finish her sentence. “Bye,” I say to the empty air. “Thank you.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Anne says, beckoning me in.

The kitchen is in fact busy: dozens of people scurrying back and forth, chopping and mixing and stirring and preparing. Anne gestures to the promised stool in the corner – it looks too low to be comfortable, but I’m not going to complain when she’s giving me the food I desperately need. A few seconds later she shoves a bowl of soup, complete with spoon, in my direction.

It’s good soup, too: warm but not so warm it burns my tongue, with a rich tomato-y flavour. I devour it at high speed, as much because I want to get out of the cooks’ way as because I’m starving.

I feel a little more alive by the time I’m done. I hand my empty bowl to the washer-up, thank Anne again and climb the stairs to my room. I have an essay to finish.

It only takes me another hour or so to get all my ideas down on paper. The structure ends up a bit of a mess, since I keep finding new ideas as I go, but given the circumstances it’s an acceptable first draft. I’m not sure whether I should even write a second draft, though.

I’m still replaying my interactions with Elsie in my mind, over and over again. It was good, I think, to talk to her. At least now I know I’m suffering from a lack of purpose, from feeling like I’m going through all this just to survive. Defining the problem is the first step towards solving it.

It’s just a pity I have no idea what the second step is in this case.

I set down my quill and reread my conclusion. It’s as good as it’s going to get, realistically. Is that good enough?

Regardless, it’s not the only thing I need to write today. I reach for a fresh sheet of parchment, take up my quill once more and neatly print my name and address at the top, then my mother’s address – my home address, I tell myself firmly. It is still home.

Dear Mother,

It sounds dreadfully formal, but it’s what I’ve always called her. Addressing her as Mum feels deeply, instinctively wrong. And Mrs Roberts would give exactly the opposite impression to what I want.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I want to apologise for… for what? For not denying Edward’s accusations? For half-believing them? For driving her away? It was Edward who did that, and I can’t even hate him for it. He just doesn’t understand, even if he’s trying.

what happened on Tuesday afternoon, I write finally. It was never my intention – no, no. That sounds far too formal. She’s my mother, stars, I shouldn’t be writing to her in this stiff and awkward way. But how else am I supposed to do it?

I’m resorting to that tone because it’s the only way I know to clearly express myself.

Because I know if I let my real emotions seep through into this letter, it will be an incoherent mess that she’d hate to read. Because I don’t want her to know how I really feel.

to give you the impression that I…

Once I set emotion aside and focus on just saying what needs to be said as precisely as possible, it flows surprisingly easily. At least until I reflect that I’ve put more of myself into the essay than the letter, and that is not how it should be.

Stars. Maybe Edward has a point: there is something very wrong with my relationship with Mother if I have to hide behind a mask of formal language to speak to her.

I take a breath, set the half-written letter aside, and reach for a new sheet of paper. Dear Mother, I miss you. Not the woman who came to the Academy today; the mother you once were. The mother who would read me stories and tuck me in at night. What happened to her? Is this a natural part of growing up, or have you changed as well?

This letter will not be sent. It’s going to be rambling, poorly structured, and completely honest. But I already think it’s doing me good to write it.

I even remember to get dinner. Edward has done his usual disappearing act, but Robin, Elizabeth and Elsie are all there. After the way the last few mealtimes have gone I keep expecting to receive a summons to the headmaster’s office to discuss some new disastrous development. No such summons comes, thank the stars.

Perhaps the worst is over now. Perhaps I can finally be a normal student and have time to find my purpose.

After everything I’ve been through in the last two months, I struggle to believe that.

I have to believe it, though; I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this.

I at least manage to catch up on sleep that night. I don’t want to go to breakfast, though: the newspapers will have published my answers to their questions now. I’ll be front page news once again. If I just stay in bed, it’s not real.

That argument convinces me to stay in bed half an hour longer than I should have, and then to study in bed. By the time it’s eight after midnight, Aisha and Hannah have noticed and come to check if I’m okay.

“Are you… doing Alchemy reading in bed?” Hannah asks, pulling my curtains open.

“Yup.” Okay, maybe it’s slightly weird, but there’s no reason for her to sound so incredulous about it.

“…why?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

Hannah doesn’t have anything to say to that, but Aisha does: “We’re trying to help, Tallulah.”

“I know,” I mutter. I feel bad; they really do want to help, but I don’t want help. I just want to not have to see the papers. If I go to breakfast, Edward won’t take that excuse, though. Maybe I need someone to force me to look, but it’s the last thing I want. “I don’t want to go down to breakfast. I don’t want to see the news.”

Hannah grins. “Sounds like the perfect day for breakfast in bed, then. You usually get porridge, right?”

I nod, smiling despite myself. Maybe they can help after all; breakfast in bed seems great right now. “Yes. Thank you. Really.”

“You’re very welcome,” Hannah says. “I’ll be back in five.” She flashes me another smile and leaves.

“You will have to see the news at some point,” Aisha says. “Isn’t it better to read it yourself than to hear distorted gossip?”

I force myself not to laugh at the idea that whatever the papers are printing about me beyond my own words is worth anything more than distorted gossip. “I know that,” I say. “But sometimes just because you know what the right thing to do is doesn’t mean you can do it.”

Aisha nods. “Of course. You can’t just keep pushing through everything forever and hoping that’ll fix things.”

I have learnt that lesson the hard way. After a while, you just can’t any more, and something snaps.

“How is the Alchemy reading going, actually?” Aisha asks, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “I always find it really difficult to know what sort of notes we’re supposed to take.”

It’s a blatant attempt to change the subject, but I would quite like the subject to change. “Well, I don’t think there’s a single right way to do it…”

We talk about that and other classwork for a few minutes until Hannah returns bearing a large bowl of porridge.

“I’ve just been interrogated about your whereabouts,” she announces.

“Edward,” I say. There’s no need to ask who. I guess I should have realised he’d be worried about me not turning up to breakfast.

“I swear, that boy is almost as terrifying as his father – no offence, Tallulah – I’m sure he’s a perfectly good friend, but – “

“No offence taken,” I say. “He might take offence if he hears you talking about him like that, though. What did you tell him?”

“The truth, of course. I couldn’t lie to save my life. He says he’ll want to discuss things with you over break.”

I sigh. “Of course he will.”

“Oh – “ Hannah says, realising she’s still holding the porridge bowl. “Here you are – “ she hands me the bowl and a spoon. The bowl is still warm; either she practically ran back or she’s been using magic to stop it cooling.

“Thank you.” I shovel a spoonful into my mouth. It’s just as good as ever. “Really. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. If I’d known we’d be doing this I wouldn’t have eaten earlier. We could have had a breakfast-in-bed day for all of us.”

I laugh. “Sorry. I can arrange for your name to be headline news if you want an excuse to have your own breakfast in bed?”

Stars, I probably could if I really wanted to and didn’t care about little details like the truth.

That terrifies me, but it also makes me wonder whether I can use this somehow, to tell the story I want people to hear. I doubt redeeming the Blackthorns in the public eye would go well, though.

“Please, no,” Hannah says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what for, but I’m sorry. Please don’t do that to me.”

I think she’s teasing, but it’s hard to tell. “Fine,” I say, drawing the word out with fake reluctance.

Aisha laughs. “If this is blackmail, I give in.”

“I’m not blackmailing you. Edward hasn’t corrupted me that much.”

We laugh and joke a while longer, as long as it takes me to finish eating. At which point I realise there are fifteen minutes until lessons start and I have yet to get out of my pyjamas. Hannah volunteers to run my empty bowl back to the kitchens while I change.