While I go with my parents and Clarice to an event in the evening, nothing happens. I give my greetings and then sit at a table and… that’s it. My father talks to the other company owners, my mother to their wives, Clarice to their daughters (either the same age as her for a few years older).

Okay, I’m exaggerating a little. Those daughters do include me a little, and my mother joins me after a while, and one of the sons does approach me… only to be reprimanded by his father. (He didn’t even get to give me his name.)

I go straight to bed when we get home—not because I’m sulking, but because I have a busy morning tomorrow.

After slipping into a more lax schedule, getting up at dawn is weird. The silence is different than in the day, heavier and interrupted by different sounds. Still, that doesn’t stop me from running a bath, glad my period is over. While Ellie liked showers, soaking in a tub is rather wonderful in its own way.

By the time I come out, an outfit is laid out on my bed, a cup of tea on my desk. There’s a pleasant aroma too, some fresh flowers placed by the window—the curtains drawn shut.

For once, I actually chose the clothes. I may not follow the fashions just yet, but I have a good sense of what colours suit me and what impression clothes give. I think. Fine, I don’t actually have much experience, but some of Ellie’s memories are rattling around in my head and I have seen myself wearing a lot of different clothes while growing up.

Today, I want something modest (it’s Ellen’s birthday party) in a pleasant green (a youthful colour which also matches Ellen’s highlights). A few dresses matched that, so I chose one which has little frill on it, relying on ribbons for decoration. Given our age difference, I’d like to appear younger.

That theme continues in my hairstyle and makeup. I leave half my hair down, the other half neatly braided, then all of it pulled into a simply ponytail kept in place by a small bow—a matching green. My makeup rounds my face, lightens the skin, and there’s a rosy blush on my cheeks. I’ll add some lip gloss after breakfast; Clarice has a kind of cloudy one, which should make my lips look paler. No heels on my shoes either (already someone tall without them).

Coming down for breakfast, I’m met by Clarice’s and my mother’s praise. Cyril doesn’t say anything, but I notice him looking at me for a bit while eating.

Speaking of Cyril, he joins me in the carriage when the time comes to leave. Normally, this being a birthday party (rather than a tea party or similar event), my whole family would attend as well, but Ellen’s parents put forward in the invitation that everyone was busy enough with other things at this time of year. However, Evan would be there, so it seemed natural for Florence to bring along Julian, and the same for me and Cyril.

Although Evan and Ellen’s father isn’t the Duke of Sussex, he is a count of an affluent area. Without going into too great detail, the history of Anglia is mostly trading, so the southern and south-eastern coastlines are especially prosperous. The county of Sussex (and Kent) benefit from that history.

As such, their townhouse isn’t too far from my family’s one and should be a similar-but-a-bit-smaller size.

Near the start of our (short) journey, Cyril finds the will to say, “You look like you are your own little sister.”

I giggle, bowing my head. “Thank you.”

He clears his throat, and says, “I am not entirely sure that was a compliment.”

“Oh? It definitely was,” I say. Having looked at him while we spoke, my gaze now settles on the notebook beside him, pages dog-eared. (Is that even a phrase in this world? I don’t think I’ve read it before….) “Is there something you would like to read for me?” I ask.

So he dawdles for a moment before giving in, flicking through to his poetry section and then selecting a few to do with spring and travelling.

When we arrive, it should be a formal affair of greeting Ellen’s parents and thanking them for the invitation and all that. But rather than being received in a parlour or drawing room, we are led straight through to the garden, everything arranged on a patio. Unlike the garden at my home, this one is mostly grass and then some trees for shade. There are some flowerbeds and there is no pond. The atmosphere it gives is more relaxed, a sense of calm and space, while our garden is more tranquil and beautiful.

Well, “relaxed” is maybe the wrong word as there’s young children rushing about the place. Um, I guess they would be cousins, no, cousins once removed. Indeed, I see the familiar Duke and Duchess of Sussex—Ellen’s cousin and his wife—sitting with Ellen’s parents. While I wouldn’t say I personally am on good terms with them, I think my parents think of them as friends.

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Before Cyril and I are announced, Ellen’s mother looks over and notices us. “Ah, you must be Lady Kent,” she says, clapping her hands together.

Or maybe not so formal.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say, curtseying for her.

She turns to the duchess (poor Cyril, completely ignored) and says, “You hardly did her justice.”

I suppress the laugh. What, is someone else’s mother supposed to try and matchmake for me now? The duchess has no need to stifle her reaction, freely laughing, a pleasant yet refined melody. “Lady Kent hardly dares to let me see her precious children. As it is, all I told you are the praises she sings.”

“Then remind me not to ask her to sing if the notes will come out so dull,” Ellen’s mother says.

Really? Did I walk into a theatre without realising, a satire of high society performing today?

As if the duke can read my mind, he smiles blandly at me and Cyril and then leans close to his wife, murmuring something to her. At the same time, Ellen and Evan (who were entertaining their little relatives) notice our arrival and make their way over.

From there, it settles into a… normal affair. I brought ice cream for a present, making sure to tell everyone upfront to pester, um, contact my father if they want more. Florence and Julian then arrive, and we have a relaxed meal followed by us older children idling around the garden, catching up on various things.

“You are putting on an exhibit? I must attend,” Florence says before tugging at Julian’s sleeve. “Mother should come as well.”

I smile to myself, somewhat embarrassed. That Florence has become my biggest fan is a little more awkward in person than on paper. “What of my ladies? You’ve been working on your knitting, haven’t you?”

“Oh, well, yes,” Florence says, the change of direction taking her a moment to catch up with. “When you visit, I will have my brother model the scarves for you.”

Poor Julian.

Ellen being Ellen, she spends most of the time listening or answering questions directed at her. (For that matter, Evan is much the same,) It’s only after we split into ladies and lords that she starts to really talk. Her parents seemingly happy with this arrangement, we three are left to our own devices for a long while.

So we talk books and makeup and exercise. “We go for afternoon walks around the lake, yet I almost feel the need to, just, tie a rope to her, always wandering off when I look away,” Florence says. Yet her upset expression and sharp tone of voice are unable to cover up the affection she holds for Ellen, such a look fleeting and her tone normal by the next sentence.

However, I am thoroughly amused by the image of Florence leading Ellen around like a pet. Knowing Ellen, it wouldn’t even be unreasonable. While I’m bad with directions, at least I can properly follow someone, right?

Mind reading perhaps a trait common to the Sussexes, Ellen gets revenge for my thoughts when Florence excuses herself. “Did you really tell my brother you won’t come to love him?”

I almost choke on my breath hearing that, my eyes flicking over to look at her and only seeing her pleasant expression. Mm, she seems harmless and ditzy, but maybe I’ve taught her how fun it is to tease people….

“Specifically, I meant a romantic love,” I say, my smile forced.

“Is there anything disagreeable about him?” she asks, her eyes innocent.

I take a moment to plan my words. “Not really. It is just, to me, I would rather have a friend than a suitor at this time. I may well live eighty years as a married woman, so I want to make the most of my twenty-odd years as a child and young woman.”

There’s an unreadable depth to her expression as she stares at me, those eyes unsettling. But I am not one to back down.

Eventually, she simply says, “I see.”

Florence returning puts to rest the topic.

The rest of the afternoon passes naturally, the only hitch being a promise to help tutor Florence in maths. I mean, I don’t mind, so it’s not really a hitch. On the way home, Cyril tells me more of how Evan and Julian have been, and I’m glad to hear everyone is well and enjoying themselves.

A problem does crop up later, though.

After dinner, my mother asks me to remain behind, and my father stays as well. Huh, I really did forget about Gerald’s party. Her questions start rather round about, slowly taking focus until she finally gives in and asks, “Can it really not be here or the estate?”

And I realise that there was something very important that went unstated in the plan. Bowing my head, I say, “I am sorry, I wouldn’t be stubborn, but I made a promise to Gwen that I would bring her along if I ever had tea with the Queen.”

I glance up, and their faces have changed a lot from just one sentence. My mother’s stiff expression now shows clearly that her patience has been thoroughly tested, yet there’s also resignation, as if having given up. On the other hand, my father looks ready to laugh.

He nudges my mother with her elbow and, loud enough for me to hear, whispers, “Do you remember that time when she was seven and you promised—”

“I do,” she replies, clearly enunciating both words.

Likely a wise choice, he does not finish that anecdote.

While he does then advise against my plan, he soon has to leave and his parting words are, “Well, there should be no harm in it, so listen to your mother.”

The older I get, the more I realise that my father is far from the stern and sensible man I thought him to be. Or maybe he just likes teasing my mother? That also seems likely.

Left in my mother’s care, she shifts from opposition to advisor. She’s been to the palace a handful of times (both formally and informally) and so shares some insight with me. In particular, she gives me specific landmarks to remember, knowing how directionally-challenged I am.

That’s one nice thing about the townhouse: a lot less confusing to navigate.

As her (educational) lecture reaches its end, I can’t help but relate this situation to last break. I’d like to say it went smoother because I learned from my mistake and patiently spoke with them; however, I feel like it’s mostly because my mother tried to understand me rather than trying to make me understand her. I don’t think on it too deeply, though, the important part being that we both handled things maturely (not including my father).

Oh, but, something comes to mind.

“If you see Countess Sussex, you should offer to sing for her.”