Iris and I talk a lot, Gwen silently listening and Lottie going about washing up and other chores in the background. It starts with me telling her about life at King Rupert’s, things like the daily schedule and what sort of lessons we have and what we do in our free time. Between my monologues, she says how she’d like to run her own café one day; I guess her curiosity is like market research. The upper-class really do live in their own world.

After I get through her questions, she shares what she heard about Len’s wedding. Len herself was incredibly happy with everything, a warm welcome at the estate and no problems came up, even the weather as good as you get this time of year. Apparently, my mother spoke with her when she was getting ready and shared some words of wifely wisdom. (Lottie quietly laughs to herself when she hears this.)

“I’m not sure if they were joking, but Annie and Millie said they applied to be maids just so they can have their weddings there as well,” Iris says, laughter in her tone.

Then sewing comes up, and I tell her of my recent club activities.

“Will the exhibition be open to the public?” Iris asks, eyes twinkling.

Ah, ah? I try to remember… but I don’t really know. No, rather, I know it won’t be because those “open days” are for prospective pupils. You can’t put an admission price on it, even a barony not good enough.

Yet my mind works quickly and I have an idea. “I’ll see if I can get you in in a nicer way, but otherwise would you be my model? The next dress, I can make it to your size,” I say.

After a second, she understands what my reply means (I kind of skipped over answering her question). Then her excitement becomes muddied by, um, confusion? We only covered light topics when we talked at work, so my read of her isn’t always great.

“Your… model?” she asks.

Huh, is model a modern term I used by mistake? Maybe she thinks I’m asking her to be a model like for a drawing? “That is, my teacher thinks it would look better to have the dresses actually worn rather than hung up on a mannequin.”

Her excitement recovers. “Really?” she asks.

Giggling, I nod, and then say, “If you could give me your measurements, I’ll make it a good fit and see if you can keep it afterwards. Considering you’ll have to stand around for some hours, it’s only fair to pay you, right?”

She can’t help herself, happily fidgeting in her seat. “Ah, mama makes me nice dresses, but your embroidery is so pretty—I can’t believe my luck.”

My heart warms, moved by her enthusiasm. It’s nice to have kind gestures accepted. No back-and-forth as she politely declines, saying I’m too generous or that she’s worried I’ll think we’re only friends for her benefit. A comfortable level of trust.

Even if I can’t give her the dress, I can always make another one for her. Plenty of free time over the summer holiday and all of next year.

As quickly as this topic came up, we move on again, and Gwen becomes the subject.

“You can cross-stitch?” Iris asks her, voice perhaps a bit exaggerated.

Whether from listening to us talk or from before I arrived, Gwen seems to have warmed up to Iris; only somewhat shy, she says, “Yeth,” and then quickly corrects herself. “Yes.”

Iris glosses over the momentary lisp. Leaning closer, she quietly asks, “Can I see?”

Oh Gwen lights up, her cheeks bulging as her smile squishes them. I’ve long-since grown resistant to the urge to pinch those cute cheeks and yet my fingers now itch. Fortunately, I’m saved from temptation as she slips off her chair and then runs off.

In the lull, I think for a moment. “Do you look after your sister’s children at all?” I ask.

Iris nods. “They’re still babies, really, but I have young cousins as well, and there’s family friends with children.”

I feel a bit foolish. Upper-class families are fairly isolated, my family particularly so, but of course commonfolk have a much more interconnected situation. Neighbours, friends, colleagues…. I’ll just have friends when I’m older, and I don’t know how often I’ll even get to see Violet, everyone else.

While I soak in those thoughts, Gwen returns. She has some of her latest cross-stitches with her and readily shows them off. Amongst the different flowers, I’m touched to see a greenfinch (an imitation of the one I embroidered and gave her) and it’s much better than her first attempt. It really is a sincere flattery.

I catch the distant tolling of a bell, counting the ten rings. We’ve been talking for over an hour already? Iris doesn’t notice, but Lottie does, and she speaks up when Iris and Gwen pause in their chatting.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We have to head out shortly for groceries,” she says simply.

I’m not deaf to what she’s saying and neither is Iris. Getting to her feet, Iris says, “Ah, I should head back—I did promise to help with the lunchtime rush.”

Lottie says, “We’ll be going that way, shall we walk together?”

So we all put on our coats, check our shoes. It’s cold outside, but the sunshine is kind and wind gentle, and I’m ready to use fire magic if Gwen so much as sniffles.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” Iris asks.

I guess she means Lottie’s house. “Well, they attend church, so I will after they finish.”

We walk in silence for a while. The town is as lively as earlier, groups of younger teenagers here and mothers with their little ones there and girls around my age huddled outside the middle-class boutiques. I notice a few men, young and old, eyeing us up, but it’s restrained and not as off-putting as what Ellie had to put up with; it still makes my neck itch—the only bare skin I’m showing but for my face and hands.

It hopefully won’t be worse when it’s warm enough for me to forgo the coat. I do still have the dress I made from curtains, but I would like to keep wearing my prettier ones if they don’t cause a problem.

Iris interrupts my pondering. “I could accompany you before then, if you’d like,” she says.

It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about. “Really?” I ask.

“Yes. Do you know the area well? I could show you around,” she says.

Despite attending the school for, what, six months, I’d be lying if I said I know my east from west. “Sure,” I say, and we arrange a time and a place—the café, a little after eight.

Coming to the intersection where the main road running alongside the river meets the road from the school, I know she’s leaving shortly. Soon enough, we come to the alley that leads to the back of the café.

“See you tomorrow,” I say to her, pulling her into a light hug.

“And you?” she says, clearly not familiar with my parting words—but that’s half the fun.

I wave as she walks to the end of the alley, and she gives me a wave back before going around the corner. For a moment, I stare off at nothing in particular, just remembering how happy I felt walking this little path around to the staff entrance.

Shaking away those thoughts, I take a deep breath and then return to Lottie and Gwen. Like last week, I accompany them on their shopping. It’s interesting to see the different shops and watch Lottie bargain. Of course, she never drives a hard bargain. What you have to remember is that she’s seeing these people week after week, so everything is amicable, and they often spoil her with something for Gwen anyway. Lottie is also very careful in how she phrases it, saying that the jar feels lighter than usual, or that the vegetable looks like it may spoil sooner than usual—not that the jar isn’t filled, or that the vegetable isn’t fresh.

I’m not sure, though, maybe overestimating Lottie because it wouldn’t do to underestimate her. Experience isn’t something built up in two shopping trips.

Then it’s back to their house for lunch, some time talking with Gwen. Because of this morning, she realises I’m, well, actually nobility—something we’ve avoided until now. Although Lottie is on standby (and will probably talk to Gwen about it later), I think I do a good job of explaining why she shouldn’t tell her friends that I’m Duke Kent’s daughter, and clearly tell her what things she can say (like that I sew my own dresses, and attend a boarding school).

Back at the dormitory, I join in on revision with my friends, later spend my evening looking at my designs for the last two exhibition dresses. The one is velvet, a dark violet that’s like the night sky, while the other is a simple white. Of those, the first would look stunning on Iris, I think. Yet the second might be a better “gift”, a more practical dress for her to wear.

Since I still have to finish off the brown one, I don’t fret, just let some thoughts roll around my head for a while.

Looking forward to meeting Iris, I rush through my routine the next morning. Len doesn’t seem surprised to see me, even though we haven’t left this early ever. No, wait… I came back on Saturday at the start of term, and went to see them the next day, and Len was here.

Well, whatever.

She doesn’t say anything on the way into town, but when we come to the familiar staff entrance of the café, I finally see some disruption in her expression. It’s slight, and yet so emphasised after seeing her always calm.

“Miss Thatcher and I are going to be going about town until the Grocer ladies finish attending church. If you would like to accompany us, you may,” I quietly say to her.

Her unease melts. “Yes, mistress.”

It’s unclear if that is an answer or an acknowledgement, but one of the secrets to acting like nobility is to be ignorant; when I come back out, I’ll be able to see what she meant. So I bow my head a touch and then enter the café.

At this time, there’s just two cooks in the kitchen (their familiar voices drifting through), and Iris in the lounge, a book in front of her. My steps aren’t silent, her attention already on me and that book half-shut.

“Good morning,” she says, slotting in her bookmark.

“And to you,” I say.

Although she offers me tea, I decline, wanting to go out and about. It takes her a minute to drop off the book in her room while I wait outside with Len (who has decidedly not returned to school). She comes back down with a slip of paper, quietly slips it to me and whispers, “My measurements.”

So begins our tour of the town.

The places Iris knows are much different to those Lottie knows. There’s a street not too far that has businesses which supply the local upper-class households (and those of the middle-class with aspirations). One shop sells cutlery, another one is a professional tailor (certificate hung proudly in the front window), and, among all these shops, there’s certainly nothing missing that I can think of.

Dotted around other streets are simple houses marked by modest signs, which are merchant “stores” where her father arranges deliveries of various teas and fruit syrups; her mother also buys bolts of fabrics for the uniforms from one of them.

After that, it becomes less to do with her family’s business and more just places she likes for some reason. There’s a cul-de-sac of beautiful buildings, a small plaza with a pretty mosaic, a bakery (not Pete’s) which sells her favourite meringues.

Listening to her talk excitedly, seeing new and pleasant sights—it’s a really fun way to spend a morning. Like yesterday, ten chimes of the bell bring our time together to an end. We plod over to the main road and I buy her and Len a cup of tea, waiting for Lottie and Gwen to pass.

When that time finally comes, I say to Iris, “See you next week.”

Her smile is brilliant.