The afternoon with my friends and the princes keeps bringing a smile to my lips. When Violet chides me on the way back to our dormitory for not telling anyone my plan, my cheery expression only makes her feel worse. When night falls and I’m alone in my room, I’m filled with hundreds of tiny moments, of smiles and laughs tied to fragments of sentences.

My friends having had to time think, my morning is noisy. Violet wants to know how good of a writer Cyril is, an unspoken request for me to obtain some of his work so she can check herself. Helena wants to know (from all of us) what Queen Anne’s is like since she didn’t attend but her sister will. Jemima, I won’t say she’s taken a fancy, but she’s interested in what Belle learned of Julian and pesters me to fill in gaps or corroborate what Belle says. For her part, Belle seems to be mildly interested in Cyril, but she’s happy to trade information on Julian for Evan with Jemima.

It’s… fun, the first time I’ve talked in hushed voices about guys with my friends. Well, it’s not like we’re discussing how hot they are or anything. It does make me wonder if the princes are doing the same thing, though. The three of them huddled around a desk, maybe a piece of paper in the middle covered in scribbles as they jot down everything they can remember from yesterday, adding in some of the things I’ve told them in passing.

The other day, I thought about how Gwen has probably already met the person she’ll one day fall in love with, but us lords and ladies might be embarking on our very own romantic adventures right now. A few years down the line, I could be the maid of honour because I introduced the couple to each other—the strange link that joined them before love bloomed.

Ah, that would be nice.

As far as being a cupid goes (not that cupid faeries here are like the cupids in Ellie’s world), I don’t really know anyone well enough to differentiate between curiosity and interest. What does it mean that Violet wants to read Cyril’s stories and poems? Jemima’s questions? I can’t say.

I’m just overthinking things, infected by a good mood.

Evan doesn’t seem at all affected by yesterday, but he quietly thanks me, says that he and the other princes enjoyed it. Only after lunch do I notice his gaze isn’t as hesitant and shy when I come back with my friends; before, he would briefly look my way and then get scared off by the others.

After school is earth magic class. A lecture today, there’s more ladies attending than for the practical lesson last week. Julian is at the front of the classroom when I arrive, so I go sit with him. We exchange our polite greetings, ask how the other is—our usual ritual. I don’t hate it, good practice to turn the pattern into habit.

Once we finish that, we get to the actual conversation. “They seemed to be nice ladies,” he says lightly, maybe trying to tempt me to ask him if that includes me.

But his praise misses. “They’re just ladies,” I say, softly smiling. Echoes of words said long ago, disdainful glares flicker in my head. “You shouldn’t put such expectations on them.”

A moment, and then he hesitantly asks, “What are you saying about your own friends?”

Ah, did I say something strange? I guess so if he’s speaking like this. After thinking for a couple of seconds, I answer him. “I just don’t want you to hold them to an unreasonable standard—they’re people like you and me at heart.”

Clarice’s words, lingering in my heart.

Silence settles between us. If he wants to give a reply, his chance is cut off by Mr Churt arriving. However, I can’t focus well on the lesson today. All Julian said was “nice ladies” and yet I read so much into that without realising. It’s a phrase not all that different to “good girl”. A good girl sits still, is quiet, has neat handwriting, plays with dolls, and so on.

He probably didn’t mean it like that. No, he definitely didn’t, just using “nice” to say he liked them. So my reply probably made him think I was saying he shouldn’t like them? Trying to work out what people are thinking the way to madness, I let that train of thought lose steam.

Still, I think he should understand what I meant. He has misunderstood me enough times to know better than to jump to conclusions, and I trust he’ll ask me if he wants clarification. That I introduced everyone (and clearly by surprise, not like I gave in after being nagged) should tell him that I obviously do think well of them. But maybe he also knows better than to imagine what I’m thinking.

Such is the inherent drama of human relationships… or something.

Why did I even say what I did? I guess we can’t help but want to stop other people from making the same mistakes we do. If he heard a rumour (an entirely true one) of how they treated me before, I don’t want him to hate them for what they did but try to understand what happened.

By the end of the lesson, I’ve settled myself down and am ready to see how Julian is—to see if I need to apologise for my misleading words and explain myself better. As always, we wait for everyone else and walk out last. The weather has been clear recently, but that also means cold, and the breeze has a flowery scent, more coming in to bloom as spring tentatively approaches. Poor Julian, his hay fever is only going to get worse.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Since I don’t know what he is thinking, I wait for him to speak first; his steps slow to put a little distance between us and the people in front. “You are right, I shouldn’t expect them to be like ladies from a book.”

Brain stumbling over what I heard, my foot missteps and I stagger. He just about jumps, my heavy footstep like a clap, but I don’t see his reaction before I end up ahead of him. I manage not to fall, catching myself after that one step, so I clear my throat and wait for him to catch up to me.

Neither of us mentions it.

What he said… there’s definitely some karma there. Well, since he can’t possibly know how that was something of a slap-in-the-face to me, it’s actually touching. The “nice ladies” I thought about earlier are commonplace in books, so it sounds like he has understood.

I mean, I doubt there’s a single published book where a woman farts or burps, surely none that reference periods, and the closest acknowledgement to bodily functions are fleeting euphemisms for going to the bathroom. (“Powdering my nose.”) Of course, no woman actually goes to the bathroom at those times—she only suggests she is so she can go snoop around her lover’s room and find evidence of his infidelity.

My dissatisfaction with the societal objectification of women and femininity can wait for another time.

Other than that, I feel like he may have “complimented” me a while ago by saying I’m not like the women in books. However, it might have been someone else (Cyril?) as it’s not a strong memory.

Whatever the case, I am really glad to hear him say what he did. “Thank you for understanding what I was trying to say,” I say, smiling.

“You are welcome,” he says.

It’s not a long walk we have together, maybe a minute? My sense of time is bad when moving. However long it is, we’ve already used up most of it and I’m readying to say a good day. Except, something occurs to me, a new and old memory clashing.

“Ah, did you tell Lady Minster your mother started flower-pressing at her wedding? I remember you saying she did it as a young girl, but my memory may be mistaken,” I say.

No reply coming after a couple of seconds, I turn to see an astonished look on his face. He quickly notices me looking and sets his expression back to normal, and he goes to speak before stopping himself.

“You misheard yesterday—my mother started flower-pressing at my aunt’s wedding. I think I was talking about my aunt because her husband’s family owns a flower cultivation business,” he says, his last sentence spoken softer than the first.

Right, that explains it. Probably.

At the crossroads now, I don’t have anything else to ask. “Well, good day to you then,” I say.

“And you,” he says.

Back at the dormitory, our morning’s fun is avenged by more studying, which ends up mostly being me teaching Violet maths. I mean, that’s not exactly right. She knows everything she needs to know from being tutored over the summer holidays and winter break, but, um, she treats maths like she does history.

It’s hard to describe. I guess, think of it like she knows how to find “x” but not “y”. If she hasn’t seen a similar question before, she struggles to decide which method is right. Her solution to this is memorising more examples.

I don’t really know how to help, but I try, mostly making it up as I go along.

Friday afternoon, I finish off my first dress for the exhibition. It’s only then that the anxiousness comes, my heart erratically pounding in my chest as I neaten the pleats, unsure what Ms Berks will think of it.

Overall, I think it looks good and that it looks how I wanted it to look. It’s far from a photograph, but it captures my idea, the reflection of a harsh mountain softened by the smooth waves.

Trying to hold on to that feeling of success, I walk over to Ms Berks. “Miss, if you would give me your opinion,” I say, bowing my head.

All I can hear is my pulse.

Then she waves a hand dismissively, her gaze staying on the book. “There is no point me saying anything now. Let us wait for the exhibition and we can have a reflection session afterwards,” she says.

Miss….

“Okay,” I mumble, turning away.

As if I was relying on the worry to keep my heart going, I feel light-headed on the way back to my seat, the sensation fading with a few deep breaths. Still, the effects linger and I don’t have much focus. I end up staring numbly at my handbag.

“Ah, you should ask your fellow club members their opinion,” Ms Berks says, breaking me from my idleness.

Thinking over what she said, the problem is that there isn’t actually anyone else in this club. Well, Evan does sew, but he’s only here to make presents for his family (I think?); Cyril hasn’t even looked at a needle since he started coming.

I guess it couldn’t hurt.

“Lord Sussex?” I say, somewhat unnecessary since he’s already looking at me; he probably was listening.

“Yes?” he says.

I gesture at the dress on the mannequin, and ask, “Your thoughts?”

He stares at it for a while, maybe a whole minute passing in silence. “It is, um, I don’t really know about these things, but it looks… waves? I mean, it looks like the ocean, and there is something under the water… no, is it a reflection, but upside-down?” he says, speaking slowly and at times growing quiet.

I don’t know how to react, so I just giggle softly. At least he got there in the end. If I title it properly, the guests shouldn’t have any problems knowing what it is.

With his bit said, he stops talking, but continues staring. I wait to see if he has more to share, but I soon grow bored of just waiting and start gathering what I need for the next dress. The brown fabric, measuring tape, pencil.

“Oh, the spray,” Evan mutters, drawing my attention.

“Pardon?” I ask.

He shakes his head, and then settles into a pensive expression. “If the waves were this big, there would be spray, wouldn’t there?”

The pleats are, well, pleats, so they do fold right over each other; a wave that shape would have, um, I don’t know wave terminology, but a leading edge? That foamy bit.

I think for a moment. “Lace,” I say to myself. Turning around, I ask Ms Berks, “Miss, can we order white lace ribbon?”

“I will make a note of it; however, as it isn’t urgent, let us wait and see if anything else comes up,” she says, not once taking her eyes off her book.

Trying not to sound insincere, I say, “Thank you.”

Facing the front again, my gaze drifts to Evan. He looks a little, what, afraid? He doesn’t think I’m upset he didn’t say that sooner or something silly like that, does he?

“Thank you too,” I say to him, giving him back that peace of mind.

He smiles, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.

His suggestion might have only been a little thing, but I know how much the little things can mean.