My head and heart unable to speak clearly to each other at this time, I settle Helena down with meaningless words. It’s more that she collects herself than anything I say, probably, and she apologises for making a scene.

I leave shortly after.

Back in my room, all I can do is hide in my hands. Why… is everything complicated? God, just… why? I’ve read stories of farmers’ sons who become kings, of maids who are secretly princesses, but all I want is friends. I’ve never read a book where someone has to fight so hard just to make and keep a handful of friends. No, friends are these things that help and support you, and they laugh when you laugh, hurt when you hurt. They’re not supposed to….

They’re not supposed to be real people.

It’s a guilty thought that I think to run away from my responsibility in this matter. Violet, Helena, both hurting because they feel neglected in a way. I don’t know if that’s the best way to put it, but it’s how their feelings have manifested in my heart. A mother need only act cold to hurt her child. Compared to my usual messy self, how cold my polite words must sound, polite smile must look.

For them to think I don’t trust them, feeling helpless—that has surely been painful. I don’t fault them for misunderstanding me, only for not speaking to me sooner. Well, it has only been a month, so they haven’t exactly drawn it out.

The guilt in my heart is heavy, yet not unable to be lifted. There must surely be a saying that guilt comes easiest to those with a guilty conscience. Or maybe it’s just my loneliness, unwilling to assign guilt to anyone but myself lest I scare them away. Regardless of why, I feel it earned this time.

Slowly, my thoughts settle on the word my heart has been hiding behind: coward.

Afraid to be hated.

The little girl who took Violet by the hand for afternoon snacks had no such phobia. Even the little girl who (very reluctantly) learned to dance with Cyril didn’t care what he thought.

Violet, who dearly loves me and knows all my flaws and quirks: do I really think she would toss me aside over a rumour, or because her friends don’t like me? If Helena wants to be friends with me, then I should show her who I truly am. Evan, Julian….

I thought I wouldn’t mind being hated over something meaningless; however, I think I would rather be hated for who I am.

Without mentioning anything that happened this morning or last night, breakfast time comes and we all go to eat together. For now, my mind is still busy tying together those loose threads of thought. After all, I started thinking about this last night, so there’s a lot to get through.

When we’re tidying up to leave, I get to work.

“I know the weather is on the cold side and somewhat blustery, but could I trouble everyone with a walk?” I ask.

Violet and Helena readily agree, and that perhaps bullies Jemima and Mabel to agreeing as well. Unlike usual, I’m the one who takes the lead, and I take us to the flower garden at the back of the school, not far from the earth magic classroom. There’s no specific reason for here, just somewhere deserted and pretty.

The snowdrops are in full bloom.

There’s a strange tenseness to the group. Violet was rather relaxed earlier, reassured by what I told her last night, while Helena was a bit more enthusiastic; whether or not Jemima and Mabel noticed that, I didn’t see a difference in their mood. Yet, ever since I tugged everyone along on this walk, there’s a thick silence.

I was right to think that, given time, things would inevitably become normal. What I forgot to account for is that normal might not be good enough. Or maybe it’s that normal simply doesn’t suit me.

With my back to them, my gaze on the snowdrops that look so beautiful, I begin speaking. “I should have said this a month ago, but I don’t blame anyone for what happened at Queen Anne’s. It was hard, and I enjoyed little of my time there, yet what hurt me wasn’t how many people ignored me, but that I had no one to call my friend.”

A tear falls, echoes of that loneliness which I might never forget.

“I’m far from perfect. Someone who… is overly familiar, speaks her mind, arrogant, tomboyish, ill-suited to be nobility.”

Slowly, I turn around with a bittersweet smile on my lips. The faces I see are unreadable, what I’ve said so far too complicated to be answered by a simple emotion.

“However, if you would still have me in spite of all my faults… I would love nothing more than to be your friend,” I say, my gaze trailing over each in turn. “Lady Helena, Lady Violet, Lady Mabel, Lady Jemima.”

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There’s a painfully long second where all my doubt surges up, trying to drag me down into the depths of despair. Violet glances at Jemima and Mabel, and Helena fidgets, and there’s a dark voice at the back of my head that tells me I’ve gone too far, too weird.

But I’ll learn to ignore it with time.

Another second, and the silence ends as Violet steps forwards, takes my hand. “I will always be your friend, Nora,” she says, a whisper straight to my heart.

To my surprise, Jemima beats Helena to my other hand, and she squeezes it tight enough to hurt. “What’s this fuss for? Of course we are all friends,” she says. But there’s a shimmer to her eyes, a strain to her smile—holding back the urge to cry.

Helena and Mabel shuffle around, each taking a wrist as my hands are still covered. Speaking first, Helena says, “Yes, I’ll be your friend.”

Although Mabel just nods, her grip is tight, and she’s mouthing something that I have no hope of lip reading. I think it’s two syllables, her mouth a little open and her lips slightly pursed for the second.

Oh, my chest itches, and I can’t stop the sobs from coming. Everyone lets go of me in a kind of fright, but I’m afraid it’s no use running away now; I spread my arms and catch Helena and Mabel, squashing everyone together into a loose hug. (It’s a bit hard to hug four other people at once.) Violet cooperates, and between the two of us we manage to get a proper huddle-hug going.

I smile and laugh through the tears, glad to see my good mood infectious. Violet has such a beautiful elegance to her smile, and Helena looks so dear, and Jemima loveable, and Mabel, oh Mabel has such a pretty smile, her cheeks making dimples—I haven’t seen her smile this widely before. The tighter I squeeze us together, the more laughter sounds out. It’s silly, I know, but it’s so much fun being silly.

“What are we even doing?” Violet manages to ask, her voice light and cheeks flushed. (Well, all of our cheeks are.)

Bowing my head, I let go of Helena and Mabel, and I say, “Thank you, everyone.”

A hand comes up to pat my head. “You are a funny one, aren’t you?” Jemima says, a little out of breath. “Lady Dover, no, Violet said so, but I could hardly believe.”

“Oh you have to believe Violet,” I say, raising my head while softly nodding.

Jemima lightly giggles, and takes back her hand to cover her mouth.

“Would you mind if I call you Jemima, and you Mabel?” I ask them both. “Only in private, of course.”

Jemima readily nods. I turn back to Mabel, and she shows a reluctance.

I’m not the best at this, but I know her personality is closest to Violet of those I know well (compared to, say, Clarice or Helena). Thinking that, an idea comes to me and brings along a wry smile. “Or what about May? Or Belle? Belle suits you, I would say. Not that I’m saying you’re shaped like a church bell—it’s French for beautiful.”

“Would you stop,” she says, trying to muster an annoyed look and failing.

“You would look good in yellow,” I say, my mind drifting to Beauty and the Beast, only to jerk back as I realise what I just said. “Not that you—”

“I know!” she says angrily, but the silence barely lasts a second before Jemima snickers, and then Helena breaks out into giggles, and any semblance of control Mabel has is lost as she covers her own face to hide the laughter forcing itself out her nose. “You remind me of my sister’s fiancé,” she mumbles.

That really sets Jemima off, her whole body shaking as she nods. “Yes! How did she ever agree to marry him?”

Violet, her expression full of mirth, says, “There is something endearing in such clumsiness, and we all taste sweetness differently.”

Putting on a hurt expression, I cross my arms and let out a fake sob. “My friends are being mean to me,” I say.

“Oh shush,” Violet says, lightly slapping my shoulder.

I feign like it was sore, which only earns me a flick to the forehead.

“Behave,” she says, such a stern tone that I feel every bit a scolded dog.

Making a show of pouting, there’s a moment of suppressed humour that trails into a silence. It exists as much as a chance for us to properly catch our breaths and calm down as it is a natural end to my joking, I think, but even then it only lasts some ten seconds before Mabel speaks up.

“I think… Belle sounds nice,” she says, almost a whisper.

Surprised, I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Really?” I ask, my voice coming out maybe at a higher pitch than intended. And then snippets of conversation from the last month flicker in my mind. “Oh, your grandmother is French, isn’t she?”

Mabel, henceforth known as Belle, looks at me wide-eyed.

“You mentioned her… not last week, the week before? Mémé—that’s French for grandmother, isn’t it? I thought you sounded close, but, ah, I’m rambling now, sorry,” I say, quieting down to a mumble by the end.

However, she doesn’t look annoyed.

“Oh you have been paying attention,” Jemima says, and there’s a twinkle of mirth in her eye.

“Well, one never knows when Violet will decide it’s time for a test—isn’t that right, Belle?” I say.

At me using her newly-assigned name, she sort of freezes for a half a moment, and then thaws into a gentle smile. “Precisely.”

Violet lets out a huff, but her heart isn’t in it. And as if jealous, Jemima asks, “What little fact about me do you remember?”

It’s somewhat harder to think of anything because she usually follows up on what others say rather than offering her own thoughts. Ah but, I have been watching her closely. “You are left-handed, yet you use your right-hand when drinking tea.”

She stares at me for a second, and then asks, “I do?”

Helena lets out a giggle. “You don’t know?”

Jemima shakes her head.

“You were likely taught that way,” Violet says, her expression sympathetic as she offers an explanation.

“But do I? I can’t remember,” Jemima says, her hands hovering in front of her as if awkwardly holding imaginary teacups.

Nodding my head, I say, “You do. If you didn’t, you would knock elbows when sitting next to someone, right?”

She thinks for a moment, her brow thoroughly furrowed. “I would, wouldn’t I?” she mutters.

Belle, as if unwilling to waste any more time on this, clears her throat and says, “See, Nora even knows more about you than you yourself do.”

And that’s enough to send us all once more over the edge, the building humour unleashed in giggles and chuckles and titters, flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes, and my mouth even aches from smiling. It’s everything Ellie and I ever wanted, and it’s as wonderful as I knew it would be.

Friendship.