Before Gerald’s party on Saturday, I still have a busy week. Sunday is my only free day, so I make sure to find Clarice and have her help me coordinate outfits for the week. Other than Monday and Saturday, I’ll be accompanying her, so she briefs me on the outfits she’ll be wearing and some of the fashions, guiding me as I pick clothes that complement her. (Well, it’s a mutual complementing.)

Monday morning is then another early start for me. As I’m visiting Florence, albeit just a visit rather than a tea or birthday party, my thoughts are similar to when I visited Ellen. My makeup and hairstyle try to appear youthful, and my dress is amber with yellow accessories. However, no reason to be as modest this time, my dress is more elaborate.

Cyril won’t be joining me. He has plans to go visit Julian another time (with Evan), but today is for me to meet Florence’s parents. While she and I have talked a lot by post already, her parents will want to make sure I’m the right sort of person. From the sound of it, Ellen’s parents somewhat knew about me via the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, but (from what Evan has told me) they are probably just happy that she made two friends from attending my tea party.

I leave around ten o’clock, the carriage trundling down the maze of streets that make up the capital. Not much of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes took place here, so I think it probably closely resembles Victorian-era London. Ellie didn’t exactly go about memorising street names, though. When was the last time she played Monopoly?

My idle mind floating among random thoughts, Eleanor’s spring break… she attended Gerald’s party. It’s funny, most of the book is about her talking to or making out with the princes, not many actual events that could help me predict what will happen next. I sat next to Evan and shared a class with Gerald, and I encountered happy prince Miles at the Samhain festival. Did Cyril come over in winter break for the book as well? It might have been the spring break. Now that I’m “living” through the events of the book, it’s a bit hard to distinguish between some things, Ellie’s memories mixed with mine.

Anyway, what was the party like. Um, Eleanor was bullied—because that was basically her personality—and Gerald stood up for her, much like how he dealt with Violet (in the book). Did someone go missing? Eleanor ran off in tears and found someone, but, really, it was just another chance for Gerald to praise her.

Arriving at Florence’s townhouse, I put away those thoughts. It’s not like they’ll be of any help to me today or Saturday.

While Ellen’s parents were very informal, I go through all the formalities with Florence’s parents. A proper greeting, niceties on the way to the parlour, maintaining my posture and expression, listening carefully and enunciating clearly, speaking modestly yet appearing confident.

Queen Anne’s is called a finishing school for a reason. It may not educate, but it teaches, the training sufficient that the sixteen-year-old ladies coming out of it really are ready for entering high society. Of course, it’s one thing to know how to act, another to act. Some people are too arrogant to keep it up after the threat of detention (and corporal punishment) is gone. On the other hand, I think I did a good job of incorporating the lessons into my normal behaviour.

As the long-winded introduction draws to a close, the mood does soften; Lady Hastings asks, “We thought of having a pasta dish for lunch, is there anything in particular you would request?”

“No, I couldn’t impose—I am sure that anything served will be to my liking,” I say.

She lightly laughs, glancing at Florence for some reason. “Please, why be a guest if not to be indulged?” she says, her tone still light with humour. In a loud whisper, she adds, “We are hardly picky eaters ourselves.”

I genuinely smile at her joke. Poor taste to reject an offer made twice, I carefully say, “Spaghetti alla carbonara,” with a (hopefully correct) accent.

Ellie didn’t ever cook it, but she roughly knew it was kind of like spaghetti with diced thick-cut bacon and some sauce. (She was probably wrong.) In this world, it’s a simple and quick dish of spaghetti and small cubes of a pork-like meat substitute—pancetta, if you can afford to import it from Italy—and a rich, creamy sauce.

I haven’t said before, but I think the meat substitutes are like tofu? Shred and crush beans into a paste, then add some water and, um…. Maybe it’s more like cheese?

Anyway, carbonara. It’s my favourite pasta dish and Italian dish (as long as we’re not including desserts).

Without batting an eye, Lady Hastings turns to the side and instructs one of the attendants—a senior maid, I think, going by her older appearance (still in her early twenties)—to inform the cook. Carbonara it is, then.

Lunch decided on, Lord Hastings excuses himself and Julian goes with him, leaving us ladies on our own (minus all the servants). There’s a moment of silence and I’m unsure if it’s awkward. I mean, I only speak when spoken to, so I don’t feel pressured to say anything.

The room we’re in is rather grand, large, several couches and chairs (beautifully upholstered) arranged in various ways to accommodate small groups talking. Well-decorated, the lighting good, and a pleasant smell comes from the flowers put out. Where we all are, there is one sofa (where Lady Hastings is sitting, Lord Hastings was beside her) and then four chairs facing it in a loose semi-circle.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

After a handful of seconds, Lady Hastings adjusts herself to look roughly in the middle of me and Florence. Since the boys left, I guess this will become a more open chat?

“I hear you offered to tutor my daughter in mathematics?” she says, her intentions hidden behind a polite smile.

Florence quickly steps in. “Mother, I did tell you—”

“Do let our guest speak,” Lady Hastings says.

I can’t see Florence well from my position and dare not casually glance over; my impression of Lady Hastings today is of a serious person, so I don’t want to seem nervous. “In a sense—I forget which of us brought up the idea,” I say, very much implying that Florence roped me into it.

Lady Hastings brings a finger to her chin. “I see,” she says, pausing a moment. “What qualifications do you exactly have?”

I sense more than see Florence’s temper, her hands clenching in my peripheral vision. However, I am unperturbed. My emotions a step back from the conversation, I can feel the gentleness Lady Hastings speaks with, a sense of fun. How often do these noble ladies get to play around? It fits in with what Florence has told me in letters and the little Julian has said to me.

Even if my reading of her is wrong, there’s not much I can do but present myself, so that’s what I’ll do.

“I should say that, as we are ladies of a similar age, my tutoring will not be limited to mathematics,” I reply.

Lady Hastings raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” she says, still showing nothing.

I take the opportunity now to look over at Florence and give her a reassuring smile before turning back to face Lady Hastings.

“My talents are well-rounded. Maintaining my appearance is in particular my strong point. I am capable at makeup and braided hairstyles, and have been diligent in my exercise, walking twice a day for my general health as well as performing calisthenics for my figure. Outside of that, I am a person who dislikes gossiping and enjoys the culture of a good book. I try to be kind and thoughtful in my conversations with others and always hesitate when thinking poorly of someone. And, while I may not always excel at what I do, I never take up something half-heartedly, my full effort going into every endeavour.”

My breath is light by the end. I really didn’t mean to get so into it…. Oops. Well, I don’t let my regret show.

This time, the silence is awkward, and it drags on for nearly a minute. The whole time, I feel pressured to say more by the gaze Lady Hastings directs at me. While she may have a similar appearance to Julian, her hair blonde with amber highlights and eyes to match, she lacks the curly hair and smaller stature that made even his coldest glares look warm.

Finally, she lets out a small chuckle. Her expression softening, she turns to Florence and says, “See? She had rather a lot to say after all.”

“Mother,” Florence grumbles.

“Now, now, what harm did I do?” she asks. Before Florence can reply (if she was even going to), Lady Hastings turns back to me. “That is certainly a thorough answer. Tell me, did you apply your own makeup this morning?”

Although surprised, I take the question in stride and give a single nod, saying, “I did.”

What follows is, more or less, a complete inspection of my every claim. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have thought she’d written down my earlier speech. As it is, since I was truthful, I have no trouble answering honestly and giving further details.

Really, I’m not sure if this is more like a job or marriage interview.

Joking aside, she seems satisfied by the end, her expression subtly brighter. I probably wouldn’t be able to tell if not for her resemblance to Julian (or rather, his resemblance to her). They both have this thing where, compared to when smiling politely, their mouths lift at the corners. Maybe that’s just him, though.

Rather than the conversation ending, we’re interrupted for an early lunch. With the lords once again present, it’s back to a formal affair, very little said but for things like, “Is the food suited to your tastes?”

After the meal, Florence makes sure to pull me away before Lady Hastings can say anything. Tugging my sleeve, she leads me upstairs and to her room, the door closed with a slight thud. Not exactly slammed, but the spirit was there.

Her face laden with frustration, she says, “I am sorry for my mother.”

I lightly laugh, letting my eyes wander. Her room is noticeably smaller than mine, but large enough—over double the size of the dormitory rooms (and the bathroom is likely bigger as well). There’s not much decoration, but this isn’t her actual main bedroom. Loose wool next to the desk, knitting needles in something like a pen holder, a book with a bookmark sticking out of it on her bedside table, three ornamental dolls (not meant to be played with) on a shelf.

Florence paces over to the window, leaving me to find my own seat at her desk. “It was all good-natured. She clearly cares for you and wanted to know more of me,” I say.

She makes an annoyed noise. “I have already told her everything she needs to know about you,” she says.

Apparently at Julian’s expense.

In a quieter voice, she says, “Mummy promised to be nice.”

I think I wasn’t supposed to hear that bit, so I ignore it. “Don’t worry. Even if I did take offence, I wouldn’t think less of you because of it.”

Sounding calmer, Florence turns around and asks, “Really?”

I nod, smiling warmly. She returns my smile.

The visit to Ellen’s townhouse fairly busy, I didn’t much think of the relationship between us. As pen pals, I have a kind of pretend closeness with both of them, like, um, it’s almost like I’m friends with someone in a book. A friend in mind but not in heart. That’s not to say my feelings are fake, rather that… the foundations are there for us to quickly get on well.

That might be one-sided. In case it wasn’t clear from my interactions with Violet, I like physical contact. I guess it’s because you can’t dress up a physical distance like you can fake words. It’s easy to call someone a friend, hard to warmly hug a stranger.

The way Florence guided me here (pinching my sleeve) means a lot to me. But also seeing her reaction, seeing how she gets upset on my behalf. These aren’t lifeless words on a page. Inviting me over isn’t an empty gesture. Those weren’t polite words she said in passing, never intending to fulfil them.

My thoughts coming back to the relationship between me and her, I guess the answer is simply that I don’t know. We aren’t quite the same age, but the difference isn’t large either, yet she certainly looks up to me.

What did we write about? A hundred nothings—things that happened at school, books we were reading, sharing anecdotes about Julian. It was fun. While she wrote very formally at first, she soon became more free and witty, but what made her letters interesting was that I cared for her. The one afternoon we spent together left an impression on me and I liked finding out more about her. Not just what she told me about herself, but seeing her express herself through her writing.

When I think about it like that, I guess our friendship was pretty straightforward. There’s no reason to change that now we’re spending time together in person, is there?