The weekend brings its own smile to my face. I managed to change the relationship between me and Jemima and Belle to a real friendship, yet I already had that with Lottie and Gwen, so it’s only natural to look forward to seeing them, right?

However, Lottie and Gwen are still a secret I keep from my friends, same with my job. Violet is the only one I trust unconditionally. She knows my personality inside and out, has experienced many of my flights of fancy, and has stood by my side through several scoldings. I trust she won’t tattle on me and justify it by saying it’s for my own good or anything like that. No, I’m sure she would only reveal my secrets if she thought I was genuinely in danger.

On the other hand, she doesn’t exactly have any secrets for me to keep. Her trust in me is more ethereal as I’m privy to her emotions she hides away. As children, that was loneliness, her parents distant with affection (but not abusive). Since we’ve reconnected, she’s shared her hints of jealousy, her worry, her tears, and words of platonic love.

That I’m the cause for all that isn’t important.

Still, the walk into town can’t help but make me thoughtful and reminiscent—this will be my last weekend working with Millie and Annie. I like them both a lot, but there’s no helping it. Len’s reaction reinforced what I already knew: we can’t truly be friends. The difference in status, wealth, past, future is just too much. While I can say it’s inconsequential, that’s just my privilege speaking as the one who has everything. Envy easy to take root even if I’m entirely sincere.

When it comes to Lottie, she knows me well and has some wisdom that comes from age, and she has her own happiness. She certainly wishes she could have all the money in the world to spoil her daughter, but I think it’s enough for her to see Gwen (and Greg) happy and healthy.

That I responsibly and earnestly dote on Gwen likely had a lot to do with why she didn’t cling to our old positions as servant and master. Our current relationship is far from an equal friendship, still some notion of status in how she serves me tea and escorts me around town, yet there’s also a warmth to how she treats me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m like family to her, but there’s a motherly or older sister aspect. I’m not sure how to explain it. I guess that’s because I don’t know what it’s like to raise a child, while she has her own daughter and she looked after me for a few years.

Maybe if I spend enough time with Gwen, I’ll start to understand what it’s like.

Regardless of matters of philosophy, I arrive at their house and happily indulge Gwen and chat lightly with Lottie. When it comes time to work, the café is getting slightly busier by the week, but Georgia is indeed competent (and curt), which makes it no trouble.

The next day, I wander around with (maid) Len to find presents for Millie and Annie. I don’t think they know I’m quitting, so I get some snacks that will keep well. Then I go to work early, helping Iris with this and that after I change, treated to a misshapen croissant in thanks. At the end of the shift, we hang around while Neville gets our pay and “payslip” ready. I take the opportunity to hand over the snacks.

“Something to eat on the way to the wedding,” I say, hoping my smile looks sincere.

Millie is enthusiastic in thanking me, and Annie looks tempted to eat them right away. Their goodbyes the same as ever when they leave, it seems neither of them are aware it’s the last time they’ll see me.

“Have a good trip,” is all I can bring myself to say.

Although a little out of it, the walk back to school gives me time to settle my heart, and I sneak Gwen the last snack packet I bought for the entirely selfish reason of wanting to see her brightly smile at me. She doesn’t disappoint.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her tone serious and expression double so, and she’s already holding one of the prunes.

Honestly, they were a little pricey (the plums used a French cultivar), but the one I tried was so sweet that I knew she would love them. “Don’t eat them all now,” I reply.

Hanging out with my friends keeps my mood from dipping over the evening; if left to myself, I’d certainly get bogged down overthinking everything. That said, we have exams starting in three weeks and so Violet has started us on revision sessions. It’s quite annoying. Not her—school work. I learned a lot of revision techniques from Ellie (like mind maps and highlighting with different colours) and yet they don’t work well when you have to perfectly memorise a lot of text.

Like, it’s not enough to give the date someone died; I have to write out a short paragraph (word-for-word from a history book) that gives the whole where, when, who did it, sometimes also how. Of course, not why. History is obviously all about unrelated facts with no sense of cause and effect.

So that’s my struggle. For the others, I realise something. I hadn’t noticed at the time because of Ellie’s schooling in the back of my head, but, for example, our maths classes didn’t actually carry on from what we’d been taught at Queen Anne’s. It was likely the same in other subjects. For example, we weren’t taught trigonometry and yet are now asked to solve questions that include it. Violet learned outside of school, tutored over the previous holidays, but Helena, Jemima and Belle have no idea about common identities like the sine or cosine of zero, or even how to use those functions when given an angle and side length of a right-angled triangle.

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Incidentally, I catch Violet’s attention when I teach the others the SOH-CAH-TOA mnemonic. She probes me for a good ten minutes or so, going through every topic in the syllabus to see if I have any other tricks. (She’s very much impressed by my sine and cosine graphs, even before I annotate the important points; I’m afraid what she’ll do to me if I show her a tangent graph.)

Rather tired from, well, Violet, I spend the last of my evening recovering by working on the pattern for the next exhibition dress. To contrast with the aquamarine seascape, I decide on the brown fabric. My design for it is an aerial view of farmers’ fields, my plan to use expressive stitches (like French knots) to add interesting detail, and then include shadows for a sense of depth and scale. Cabbages, apple trees—I have a few things already tested out, just need to properly arrange them into a sewing pattern that looks good.

Come Monday, I ask Evan a few questions between lessons and at morning break about what his last school taught. I’m not surprised by what I hear: our current classes either carry on where the boys left off (maths) or covered the same topics, maybe in more detail (history, geography, literature).

Even with Violet to help them, our other friends couldn’t compete with the guys in the last exams. Well, Violet isn’t exactly the best teacher, but let’s leave that for another time.

To sum it all up, no one actually cares if we ladies understand or not. There’s no degrees or certificates handed out, that we graduated from King Rupert’s Preparatory School the only “qualification”, so it’s not like we’re being cheated out of anything. And it’s hard to call this malicious as it’s Queen Anne’s who hasn’t taught us to an equivalent standard as the lords.

Yet it almost feels cruel, putting most of these ladies in classes that are simply beyond them without the same foundation the lords have. Isn’t this unjustly reinforcing stereotypes? It’s not like we chose to go to Queen Anne’s for a laugh; it really is the premier school for girls in this corner of the country. The only alternative would be to have parents who hire suitable tutors like Violet’s parents did.

Since this is how it was in earlier times for Ellie’s world, I guess it’s just an area the author overlooked. Maybe a side-effect because Eleanor was tutored by Gerald. I don’t really know how book-things translate to real world changes, so not much point thinking about it.

After school is embroidery club. I finished sewing the pattern on last week, so now I get started on sewing the various pieces of fabric together; the next (and final) part will be to sew the horizontal pleats, which should make the somewhat plain embroidery look three-dimensional. (At least, that’s what I hope happens.)

These simple stitches are mindless to me, my hands capable of quickly and efficiently going through the motions without mistake, all the while muttering a spirit magic chant to make the needle follow my finger as if it is magnetic. With the dress finally taking shape, I can drape it on the mannequin Ms Berks brought to have a good look at it. (Since it’s a female-shaped mannequin, it gives Evan a moment of pause and a blush shortly follows when I take the dress off it, the poor guy even teased by inanimate objects.)

I don’t quite finish by the end of the hour, but I will be done on Friday and can start on the next dress then as well. Huh, I guess that also means I’ll finally hear what Ms Berks has to say. Even though this didn’t start that long ago, I almost forgot how it did.

The next day goes quickly and the last bell rings out. Of course, I still have water magic class. My plan the same as last week, I seek out Ladies Challock and Ashford, this time not making as much of a scene and instead quietly joining them, offering a polite greeting.

I have thought about being more brave with them, but I’m held back as I have one more week working at the café. It really wouldn’t do to trip on the last step. Next week, next week I can hold my head high. So I planned to stay quiet on the walk over, knowing we probably won’t have another practical lesson and thus not really any time to chat.

Of course, the best laid plans (and half-hearted, mediocre plans) rarely survive first contact with the enemy.

No sooner do we leave the school building and round the corner than Lady Ashford says, “Lady Kent?”

I’m almost startled, a slight delay before I say, “Yes?”

“As I understand it, you asked Lady Brook to partner with you for our PE lesson last Wednesday, is that right?” she asks.

It’s an unexpected question, but I see no reason to avoid it or otherwise lie. “I did.”

A long second passes, and the bizarreness only increases after she says, “Then may I give you my thanks.”

“What for?” I can’t help but ask.

She giggles, her hand coming up to hide her mouth, yet it’s a hollow laugh. “Lady Brook, I, and another lady attending here are old friends from our childhood. She has always been rather shy and, although she has tried to improve upon that recently, I can only compliment her effort. So when we were asked to pair up and she insisted on leaving us to find her own partner, I couldn’t help but worry.”

Ah, so Lady Brook is one of the two I see Lady Ashford with in the lounge. I didn’t have a reason to pay close attention to them, so I didn’t notice.

Coming back to the present, well, Lady Ashford didn’t have to thank me for pairing up with Lady Brook. I mean, we both needed a partner, so she helped me as much as I helped her.

Putting that aside, would I thank someone for helping Violet? I’d certainly give them an earful for hurting her (and I’d certainly proved that), but this…. Stories of the cut-throat world of high society politics always like to frame kindness as weakness. Yet I already know that weakness is strength. After all, she only has to mention that she worried at that time and I already want to reassure her.

“There’s no need to fret in the future. My circle is uneven as well, so I asked for her assistance if we are to pair up again,” I say.

Turning to the side, I catch Lady Ashford with a broad smile before she directs it a little the other way. “Then I shan’t pry any further.”

Ah, I won’t be able to tease Lady Brook too much if she has Lady Ashford to protect her. Wait, isn’t it bad of me to be thinking like that?

Right, what I should be thinking is that I’ll eventually have Lady Ashford and the other friend to tease as well.