I am fourteen years old. It’s been a few months since I started attending the boarding school, and I am home for the winter break. There’s a holiday coming up soon (which is definitely not Christmas) where families exchange presents with each other and some people sing carols and the church tries to guilt everyone into coming to mass. Yes, definitely not Christmas. We call this holiday “Yule”.

Religion is, well, it’s a mild Christianity sort of thing, or maybe a bit paganism? They believe there’s an original creator, and the faeries are somewhat worshipped as His children. Or are they closer to angels? I mean, this world’s bible is just as boring as Ellie’s, so it’s not like I’ve paid much attention.

Anyway, I’m home. It’s been a long few months, but I’m home. The carriage came to pick me up a little after lunch, so I got here in the twilight of late-midafternoon and excused myself to my room, saying the journey tired me out, and then I put on a brave face for supper, smiling and all that, before excusing myself to my room again.

I don’t really think I’m fooling anyone.

As if to prove that, there’s a light knock on my door and my mother says, “May I come in?”

I rub my face, feeling if the smile I’m forcing is there. “Yes, mother.”

She opens the door slowly, and the way she delicately steps across the room tells me she’s worried, far different to her usual confidence, elegance. She sits down next to me, her gaze on the floor a few paces in front of us both.

“How are you?” she asks.

“A little tired. I barely slept last night, excited to see everyone again.”

She softly nods along, but she doesn’t look at me, doesn’t idly stroke my hair or hold my hand; I’m not a child any more. “How is it there?”

“Oh, it’s very interesting. I thought the governess was strict, but Ms Norwich is, well, she told me off one day for crossing out a word with two lines rather than one.” I try to make it sound funny, but it comes out flat, like my voice has forgotten how to be anything but numb.

My mother nods along again, and, when she speaks, her gentle voice has grown even softer. “Are you getting on with the other girls?”

“Of course. I say my good mornings, and there’s always someone at the cafeteria to eat with. A lot of them were friends before they started at the school, but they treat me well.”

The pause before she next speaks is longer. “Would you like to invite any of them over this break?”

I softly shake my head, and say, “They… seemed to have a lot of plans already. I wouldn’t want to impose on them.”

“Is that so?” she says. After a few seconds, she asks, “And is miss Violet well?”

“Y-yes,” I say, the word catching in my throat. I clear my throat and continue. “She’s in another class, so I hardly get to see her, but she looks to have settled in well and is always surrounded by her friends.”

Violet, Lady Dover. In the book, she’d been in love with one of the princes and so at odds with Eleanor, not quite bullying her but being an antagonist. It was always to-the-face making fun of Eleanor and having various princes gang up on when Eleanor starts to cry from the “mean words”. For Ellie, it had just been pathetic and what initially made her think the story was for young girls. Grown women (well, sixteen-year-olds and up) should be able to take a few petty words in stride. I’m not saying Eleanor deserved it, or it’s her fault, but, well, Eleanor was too emotional. If she was my friend, I’d be worried to tell her she has sauce on her face in case she starts crying.

While I’m busy remembering useless things, my mother has sat there quietly. She reaches over to pat my hand, and she says, “That’s good. Well, I’ll leave you to have your rest then.”

With that, she stands up and slowly walks to the door.

I feel so lonely seeing her back. I miss the days she hugged me and stroked my hair, and it’s been years since she’s pinched my cheek and told me how cute I am, and her ticklish kisses on my forehead at bedtime. I, I’m supposed to feel happy to be home. Only, I feel like the close ties I have to my family are in the past, the thread fraying year after year, a gentle tug away from snapping. I guess that will be my engagement. They’ll hardly see me the next five years while I am at school, and then I will surely find a fiancé, and as I say those words on my wedding day, I will cut ties with my mother and father and Joshua, and Clarice will be married so she will have already cut ties with me.

My mother’s at the doorway now, a low groan as the hinges creak, and any second the click of the lock. Me, locked away.

“Mother,” I say, a whimper, unable to stop myself from calling out as the swirling emotions spill out. “Mummy!”

The door stills, and then opens. As she sees me teary-eyed, her own eyes start to glitter, and a second later she has rushed over, engulfing me in her warm embrace. I bury my face into her shoulder, wetting her pretty cardigan.

“Mummy,” I say, voice muffled. “Mummy.” Over and over again.

She holds me tight, on the verge of being painful. Her one hand rubs circles into my back, the other cradling the back of my head like I’m her precious newborn baby, and she whispers, “It’s okay,” again and again.

Stolen story; please report.

I can’t say how long we stay like that. By the end, I feel numb, but it’s the empty kind of numb. I’ve let out all the loneliness that’s been slowly filling me to bursting point these last few years. Um, cathartic. Yes, it’s cathartic. That useless fluff is gone and so my heart beats strong. The blood rushes to my fingertips, to my tongue and nose and ears and eyes, and it’s like the world is real again, finally escaping from my own mind—from Ellie’s memories.

We move apart, sit down, our shoulders touching. She has my hand sandwiched between her own.

My mind clear now, I ask the one question I’ve wanted answered for my two (short) lifetimes. “Why don’t they like me?”

Her hands press together, squeezing my hand. “I am… so sorry.”

I turn to look at her, ready to tell her it’s not her fault, only to be stopped by her pained expression.

She says, “Mama always told papa that of course the flowers bloom when the tree is felled, but, my little snowdrop, you’re a girl—not a flower. Mama just…. When you began to hate the parties, I saw no harm in letting you hide away. You made friends so easily, and I didn’t particularly care for how the adults treated you so lightly, so I told papa not to worry, to believe in his little snowdrop. And the maids, everyone, always just adored you, so polite and thoughtful while also so mischievous. Even with little Cyril, though you both looked ready to die of embarrassment at first, you doted on him, and he warmed to you.

“I made myself think that of course everything would be fine. To begin with, I prefer reading books to idle gossip, so I was more than happy to do away with inviting the ladies and their daughters over. The more you matured, the more assured I felt that I had made the right choices. And… the less I looked at you for your own age. Often times, I forgot the three years between you and Clarice.”

She pauses there as she wipes away the freshly spilled tears, her face horribly scrunched up as if in pain.

“Mama is so sorry,” she whispers, her voice rough, hoarse. “So, so sorry.”

I though I surely ran out of tears earlier, but I was dreadfully wrong, and they spill fresh now.

Though I’m as tall as her shoulders these days, it’s hard to wrap my arms around her—she makes it seem so easy when she hugs me. “It’s not your fault, mummy.”

She adjusts her position and moves her arms and, like that, now she’s the one hugging me. Her hand strokes my head, fingers combing through my hair. She would often brush my hair before bedtime when I was young, and I’d often fall asleep on her lap. I thought it was because I was a child, but I guess I was wrong, so warm and comfortable, feeling ever so safe.

However, there’s something I rather have to say.

It’s difficult to bring myself to push her away, but I need to look her in the eye. She seems settled now, not exactly smiling yet she doesn’t look like she’s hurting, maybe tired. Her head tilts the slightest bit, an unspoken question asking me what I’m doing.

I hold her hands in mine, and I say again, “It’s not your fault.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. Though her expression wavers, mine stays strong, firm in my belief of what I said. Eventually, she softly smiles, softly nods.

“Then it is not your fault either, okay?”

Her words pull the rug out from under me, my steady emotions tumbling into a heap, finding that dark thought I’d buried away and dragging it out into the harsh light.

And she had me put it to rest.

“Okay,” I say, barely able to get the word through my closed-up throat.

She doesn’t hug me, but she gives my head a stroke and then dries my eyes before resting her hands on her lap. After a brief silence, she says, “Should I invite Violet over? I’m not fond of her mother, but Violet does adore you and will surely come.”

I’d love nothing more, and yet… Violet has no need for me. I shake my head.

“Okay,” she says.

She stays for a little while longer, even though we say nothing. When she eventually does leave, it’s not long before Clarice arrives, and she asks if we should have a sleepover. I’m not sure if my mother said anything to her, but I feel Clarice may have decided this herself. She’s always teased me because she loves me.

We stay up late into the night, often giggling.

My school is for girls aged thirteen to sixteen, called a “finishing school” and is intended to polish young ladies to be ready for an upper-class lifestyle. Meanwhile, hers is for girls and boys aged sixteen to eighteen, called a “preparatory school” (prep school for short) and is more intended to prepare the upper half of the upper-class—those who will be dukes or counts, or the wives of—but it’s also a place where boys and girls can get used to each other in a more casual setting. Only one or two engagements actually happen each year.

As such, she has many blossoming love stories. The way she says it, every student is either in love or the subject of another’s love, and there’s love triangles (and vastly more complicated shapes, some of which require quite the imagination to comprehend). Because there’s male and female students and teachers, there’s even the unrequited loves and fancies.

Of course, she has no less than a dozen suitors desperate for just a glance at her handkerchief. Given how pretty our mother is, I’m sure it was the same for her. As I think that, perhaps Eleanor’s “adventures” in the story were merely a result of good genes and poor judgement.

The rest of the winter break is pleasant. No, far warmer than just pleasant.

Though my mother at one point asks if I wish to change school, I tell her no, my mental strength returned. She accepts my decision.

Back at school, nothing changes. However, I’m… happy. It’s not a rich and wonderful happiness, but I’m not numb, not sad.

I try out the various clubs. They’re things like gardening, and flower arranging, and calligraphy. Very feminine. However, even the older girls know of me, so I still end up ignored. Despite that, I settle into the handicrafts club.

Oh, I should say I did join the fire magic and spirit magic classes. Since there’s not so many of us learning magic, all three years are together; it’s about half first-years, and then a few more second-years than third-years. The classes are mostly reading. For fire magic, we’re only taught to light candles (using the spark spell) and warming cups or teapots—anything else wouldn’t be ladylike. Spirit magic, the other girls in this class are mostly the daughters of barons, so I guess this is useful if they don’t marry up.

The handicrafts club is mostly the same girls as spirit magic classes. They also ignore me, but sewing is enjoyable enough by myself. Besides, the room we use has plenty of spare cloth and needles and thread, so a maid or two is often here repairing something, and they will usually talk a little with me; I even help now and then, impressing them with my neat stitches and mild talent for spirit magic. Of course, it’s only a “shameless” couple of maids who would let a Lady do such menial work.

Often left to my own thoughts, I also think of Lottie from time to time. She sends letters to the house once a year at Yule. Her pregnancy went well and her daughter has been healthy, a little thing ten years younger than me. Her name is Gwen. When Lottie and I played dolls together, she once told me she liked the name I’d given Greenie, so I feel especially warm towards this toddler I’ve never met. As Lottie sent me that scarf, I’ve been trying my hand at embroidering cute things onto handkerchiefs, hoping to make something to send to her as belated thanks for her gift and for the years she cared for me.

It’s things like that which help the next few years pass.