After that fun Sunday, Monday is a sobering reminder that it’s examination time. Well, I still don’t recognise the exams as a valid judge of merit, so I’m not fussed. My only worry is if my wrist will hold out from all the writing required, the history exam particularly straining.

The same can’t be said of Violet and, to an extent, Belle. In particular, their tempers are… fragile, at least when it comes to discussing the last exam.

“Mr Duxford didn’t mention oxbow lakes at all last week,” Violet says, her top lip almost curled into a snarl, eyes narrowed as she stares at her notebook.

Tuesday is thankfully less writing-intense, and Wednesday we have history (which we already had on Monday), thus sparing us from a first period test. Calisthenics is also replaced by a study session, so we only have four exams.

Since Thursday and Friday will only have a few more exams to take between them, Wednesday afternoon has a calmer mood, frustrations replaced by optimistic words.

“We should have a bonfire on Friday to get rid of these wicked books,” Jemima says, trying to make her geometry notes combust by force of will.

“And then what shall we do when we need to look over what we learned this term as a foundation for later work?” Violet asks, her tone of voice and smile both wry.

Helena simply says, “We shall look at your notes.”

She has quite the mouth on her at times.

Even though our group’s mood has improved, we’re too drained to revise or chat until late, and so we retire to our rooms early. I say that, but I’ve been working on dress designs and making them into patterns. While Gwen’s is ready to cut, I don’t have fabric scissors, so patterns are my limit right now.

For Gwen, I found a sort of glossy fabric that perfectly matches the colour of her eyes and the highlights in her hair, an earthy green (like moss). Rather than anything too extravagant, my design is a leafy vine that runs all the way around a bit above the hem, and it will alternate between snowdrops (stemming off the vine) and greenfinches (sitting on the vine), and all of it will be a single-colour outline. The fabric itself is dark enough that white thread should stand out well on it, and I have a lustrous thread that reminds me of pearls to use.

For Iris, well, I haven’t decided between the violet or white dresses. The dark shade of violet is to be a night sky, hundreds of stars neatly sewn on and with a half-moon as the centre. The white dress is to be a snow scene, spring flowers bursting through in colourful sprouts, and the combination of wool and poplin weave gives it a noticeable texture while also having a slight shine.

The measurements of the dress not impacting the design much, I don’t have to commit until I finish the brown dress. If I keep up a good pace, that should be the end of the month.

So I busy myself with both dresses, converting my sketched designs to a more precise pattern (or rather, several patterns that, for example, show how I’ll embroider a bunch of pansies, or one of the stars). I like to be thorough to make sure I always know what I’m doing when sewing. Mistakes hardly happen this way, and it gives me a good chance to properly think about the embroidery as a whole. When I sew freely, it’s easy to get lost in the details and, say, run out of room.

And while I’m in the middle of this busywork, someone knocks on the door.

It’s not exactly unusual for me to lose track of time when focusing as much as I have been, but my feeling is that it’s too early for tea. “May I ask who is there?”

“Lady Brook,” is the timid reply.

Oh my.

“Wonderful timing—won’t you come in and help me with something? I got stuck while changing,” I say.

There’s a long pause (nearing ten seconds) before she finally says, “O-okay.”

The handle rattles, and then turns. She only opens the door enough to slide through, facing behind her as she does, and shuts it as soon as she’s inside. With her eyes closed, she loosely looks my way.

“A-are you presentable?” she asks.

“If you’d prefer me to not to be, just say and I will make it so,” I say.

Her cheeks that were a pretty pink now remind me of ripe strawberries. Ah, it’s nice to chat to girls, able to say these sorts of things without running them through a filter first. Well, maybe I should still filter myself a little.

“Oh I’m just teasing you. Please, be at ease,” I say, standing up.

Her one eye flickers open, and then again, and only then does she feel confident enough to open both eyes and look at me. Seeing me dressed, some tension leaves her. “Good evening,” she says, curtseying.

“And to you,” I say, curtseying back.

She watches me for a moment before ducking her head, perhaps only now realising it’s a bit silly to curtsey to people all the time.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Do come sit. Can I get you anything? Tea? Cake? I have a soup simmering right now if you could wait for it to cool, and I’ll butter some bread to go with it,” I say, tugging her over by the sleeve. Her confusion is highly amusing, my giggles quick to come. “Do forgive me—I have such bad habits, yet no one dares scold me as I’m too adorable.”

Having caught myself growing too excited, I sit on my bed and show her a warm smile.

“Trissy, how are you?” I ask, my tone gentle and sincere, far different to my earlier playfulness.

Her expression melts into a mirror of mine, relaxed with a little smile. “I, um, am well.”

Although she says that, she doesn’t meet my eye. Leaning over, I reach out and raise her chin with a finger, and she offers no resistance, letting me. “When friends ask such a question, it’s not just a nicety, okay? You can be a little truthful if you’re comfortable to share,” I say, not chiding her.

I take back my finger, and she nods. “Okay,” she whispers.

Again, I ask her, “How are you?”

“Nervous,” she says, her hands fidgeting in that cute manner.

“Of me?” I ask.

She almost shakes her head, but stops herself, biting her lip. “That is… a little bit.”

I giggle at her precious honesty. “What of the rest of it?”

“The exam today,” she says.

My first thought is that she means algebra, but I realise that, well, shouldn’t her schedule be different? We’re in different classes, after all. But then, surely the teachers can’t hand out the same exams at different times?

“Which exam was that?” I ask, no point hypothesising when I have the answer in front of me.

“Algebra,” she mumbles.

Maybe my class’s timetable is used for when exams are held? Saving that thought for another time, I ask, “What about the algebra exam?”

Compared to when I’m teasing her, she looks settled now. There’s a delicate air to her, a small body with thin limbs, and her lips look like they’re quivering as they subtly follow the words she’s thinking.

Maybe if I was a man (or otherwise attracted to her), her appearance would invoke a desire to protect her, yet instead I feel more like I want to break her. Not physically, of course. I don’t really know how to describe this desire. Well, I guess it’s like what I did the other day, sort of breaking her down and building her back up. Something like exposure therapy? That’s where you make someone safely confront their phobia or anxiety, right?

However, rather than wanting to help her, I guess it’s me projecting. When I see her looking so weak and vulnerable, I can’t help but to empathise and I hate that (imagined) feeling of weakness. So… what? I want to make her feel something else so my empathised feelings also change?

Well, I’m not picking on her out of spite or anything like that, so I shouldn’t try to psychoanalyse myself. It’s bad enough writing essays on characters from books who are supposed to be coherent, never mind the mess that is a living human. Keep it up for too long and everyone turns into a sociopath.

Her long pause (which gave me the time to have such frivolous thoughts) comes to an end, and she slowly but steadily speaks. “I did what you said… copied the questions and did them again… a few times… and I read the book, and I understood more of it. But… I’m, I’m worried I still did poorly, and you helped me so much, so I’m afraid… you might hate me, for wasting your time.”

I listen carefully and patiently, not making a sound, gently nodding along. It’s honestly a bit painful with all her pausing, but she doesn’t stutter or um, only repeats herself once; when I don’t fluster her, she shows that she’s had elocution lessons before to offset some of her shyness.

That aside, her words are intensely bittersweet to me. This is probably the first time anyone has said they’re afraid of disappointing me.

With how fragile she looks right now, I carefully choose my words to try and break her in the right way. “Trissy,” I say, and then wait for her to look at me. It takes a few seconds, but she does and I firmly keep hold of her gaze. “I want you to say something nasty to me.”

“W-what?” she exclaims, her whole body jolting as she tenses, eyes wide.

I smile reassuringly. “The nastiest thing you can think of, like, tell me I’m fat or ugly, or that you hate me.” (Given how timid she is, I don’t have high expectations for her nastiness.)

She shakes her head, so vigorous that I worry for her neck. “I, I can’t. You’re so beautiful, and so tall, I’m really envious, but I don’t, I could never hate you.”

I stare at her blankly. Does Evan have a twin sister that was adopted? Also, this is the complete opposite of what I asked her to do! I resist the urge to rub the frustration off my face, mind whirring, coming up with another plan.

“Then, how do you feel about me teasing you?” I ask, hoping that she isn’t a masochist.

Her burst of enthusiasm cools off, which is promising. “That is… it makes me feel embarrassed,” she mumbles.

“Do you like feeling embarrassed?” I ask.

“I, um, don’t hate it,” she says.

Oh god. “But you don’t like it?” I ask, almost pleading.

“N-no, I don’t,” she whispers.

I let out a relieved sigh, my heart finally calming now there’s light at the end of the tunnel. “Then, won’t you clearly tell me that? Tell me that you don’t want me to do it any more.”

She fidgets in her seat, unwilling to look at me, yet I am patient and she is obedient. Eventually, she looks my way. “W-would—”

“Call me by name.”

She flinches at my interruption, but nods. “L-Lady—”

“Just my name, no title.”

She stills for a moment. “N-Nora, would you refrain from… teasing me, please?”

I hum a note, tilting my head. “That’s not really telling me, is it?” I say.

“Nora, would you… refrain from teasing me,” she says.

“Better, but far too polite. We’re friends, so you can be frank with me, otherwise I might not understand,” I say.

She takes a deep breath, and I notice her fidgeting hands have finally stopped. Whether that’s a good or bad sign, only time will tell.

“Nora, refrain from teasing me,” she says.

Leaning over, I poke her in the side, and an adorable yelp comes out. “What if I don’t?” I ask, my tone as teasing as my action.

“W-what?” she says, her eyes watery and hand covering the spot I poked.

“What will you do if I keep teasing you?” I ask, punctuating my sentence with a poke to her other side; as if she’s a squeaky toy, another yelp escapes her.

She moves her other hand to protect that side, which leaves her front open; poking her tummy, I’m rewarded with a breathless gasp.

“Well?” I ask.

There’s a pleasant expression growing on her face, that timid look being replaced by frustration, and her movements are becoming more forceful as she tries to block me off. The balance of two hands and three weak spots entirely in my favour, I successfully prod her a couple more times, and then giggle in the most insufferable way.

Her mouth quivers, and I greatly anticipate what words will soon fall from it; she doesn’t make me wait long.

“W-would you—stop it! Just stop it!” she says, scooting to the very back of her seat and pulling up her knees, protecting herself, staring at me with narrowed eyes.

Come on, you’re looking at me like that when you’re the one who made this so difficult.