The next day as I wait in the classroom for morning registration, Evan asks me if we’ll be having the “study group” again this term. I haven’t thought about it. “Well, I will see what the other ladies think, but, if we do, it will start next week. No need to rush it all for today.”

“Ah, okay,” he says, nodding along.

Then it’s a day as normal. Classes, a little chat with my friends at morning break, classes, lunchtime. Violet has been keeping to porridge in the mornings, and has started choosing food with at least some starch in at other meals; today, she has croutons with her soup. Then afternoon lessons, ending with calisthenics. Our PE classes have kept the same slots (and we accompany the same other classes for them). No partnering up, though, so no Trissy. Well, I don’t know if we still will partner up. It’ll be up to her.

I received a letter from home this morning, but saved it to open after school, so I excuse myself to my room when we go back to the dormitory. It should be about Clarice’s debut, and that makes my own heart pound. Everything went fine, I know that—she worked so hard and is so talented—yet it’s like it isn’t real until I read the words.

Taking out the letter from the envelope, I see Clarice’s handwriting. That bodes well. If she was upset, surely my mother would have written the letter. And, as if Clarice can read my thoughts, the first line isn’t my name or a greeting, but simply, “I looked so beautiful and appeared so graceful.”

Smiling to myself, I read through the short essay which espouses her virtues and showers her in praise. Though she might not be as literary as my mother, she certainly has a flair of her own, a strong voice that carries over into her writing.

When I go back to the lounge afterwards, I guess my good mood is easily seen. “Did the debut go well?” Jemima asks the second I sit down.

I nod my head.

“Oh that is wonderful,” Belle says. Her sister debuted two years ago, so she’s probably sincere in saying t hat, speaking from experience.

We talk about Clarice’s debut for a bit, and then I bring up what Evan asked this morning. Everyone is keen to continue the study group (but timid about it). It wouldn’t do to seem excited about spending time with lords, you know?

“I suppose it helped to have other points of view,” Belle says.

Helena follows up, saying, “It made a nice change from studying here.”

So we come to a consensus that maybe we will continue to have study sessions in the classroom on Wednesday afternoons, and it’s not like the lords couldn’t also be there for their own studying. With that sorted, we go for a walk, idle away the time until dinner, and then have another walk afterwards. Time slips by, accompanied by the warm voices my friends.

I spend the evening finishing the pattern for Iris’s dress. I’ll check over it tomorrow and then draw the outline to cut along, looking to actually cut it out on Friday. Otherwise, if there’s a problem, I should have time to get it ready for Monday. The pattern for the last exhibition dress has also been long done, so I can get started on that on Friday as well.

As always, I do my own calisthenics (morning and night) before the tea arrives. It’s not much, but Ellie would read or hear something every year about how every bit of exercise was good for you. Even though my old age is a long time away, I’d like it to be comfortable, so this is… like an investment.

Thursday, I share the decision regarding the study group to Evan. Nothing else really happens during the day. Come evening, my friends and I retire to our rooms, and I sit at my desk, going over the dress pattern.

Then someone knocks on my door.

I expect it to be Violet, but ask, “Who is it?”

“Me,” says someone who certainly isn’t Violet.

But she is a friend, so I reply, “Come in,” as I stand up.

The door opens and in steps Jemima. Though still in her uniform, she has cleaned her face and brushed out her hair. There’s a nervousness about her, her hands subtly fidgeting, and she doesn’t quite look at me.

“You can close the door if you’d like, and please do take a seat,” I say, offering her my chair.

She gently nods and then does as I said. As she comes over to sit down, I reaffirm my initial impression: no makeup at all on her face. I’m not sure if that’s relevant, but I’m focusing on her appearance since I have no idea why she’s here.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything important,” she says, glancing around at the pages on my desk.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” I say. As usual when I have a guest, I sit on the edge of my bed.

She weakly smiles, but it doesn’t last, and she finds a spot a little to the side of me to look at. “That is….”

I wait for a few seconds before I ask, “Is there something you wished to ask me, or ask of me?”

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She bites her bottom lip, and it adds to an overall look of timidness I’ve not really seen her make before; I’m curious why. A few more seconds to gather her thoughts before she finally speaks.

“That is, do you remember how you helped Helena with her makeup one day?” she asks.

I’m surprised, but answer promptly with a nod. “Yes.”

“Would you… be willing to do the same for me now?”

Her previous question made me expect this, so there’s no surprise this time, my answer still prompt. “Of course.”

The light isn’t ideal at this time, but fortunately the enchanted lamps don’t have cords or plugs to worry about, so I bring it over to the desk. I have her move the chair back a little too, making the light fall more evenly on her face.

Going over to my chest of drawers, I ask, “What would you like me to do?”

“I, um, don’t really know,” she says, mumbling a bit. “It’s just… you looked so pretty over the break, something like that?”

Most ladies never apply their own makeup, so it’s understandable that Jemima doesn’t know what she wants. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” may be a cliché, but that doesn’t mean it’s untrue. That is, Jemima probably would be happy if I did her makeup like I do my own (when I “dress up”), but she probably has a way she wants to look that would make her happier.

Hmm, maybe happy is the wrong word. It’s… more about comfort, about making your appearance better match what you want to look like. You want to have that control over how others see you. Even if you argue it’s not noticeable or unimportant, good makeup still gives confidence and confidence is attractive.

“Well, let’s start with a few questions,” I say, standing in front of her as I inspect her face more closely. “Would you like a mature look, or a youthful one?”

So we go back-and-forth over a handful of questions, helping me get a feel of the look she wants. She would like to look a bit older, a bit slimmer, to emphasise her high cheekbones, amongst other little things. I get to work on that.

With how chatty she usually is, I know it’s only a matter of time until she starts talking. Prepared for it, I quickly stop when she asks, “I am… being silly, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” I say, carefully carrying on.

Her expression falling is all the more clear from up close, a lot of the tension in her face leaving. In a quiet voice, she says, “It is just that… I thought Mabel would be like me. Even though her sister has always been rather fashionable, she never showed much of an interest. Then, as her sister prepared to debut, she began to… resemble her sister a little more. Meeting Helena this year, I thought she wouldn’t be interested either, yet….”

She doesn’t say it explicitly, but I understand. The feeling of being left behind as your friends grow up. And I notice she mentions Belle as Mabel. It doesn’t come up much, but I guess she’s used to calling her that? They’ve been close friends for a lot longer than just this year.

“Speaking frankly, even though you seemed knowledgeable about these things, I thought you were like me. But when I saw you over the break, I realised that… there is a gap between us,” she says, ending in a whisper.

I hum a note, pausing what I’m doing. “Would you like to hear a secret not even Violet knows?”

Despite her mood, she brightens up at my question. “Really?” she asks, her whisper touched by excitement.

I resist the urge to giggle, smiling instead. “It may sound awfully arrogant, and it really is, but I wear modest makeup most of the time as I worry about being too attractive. If, say, you or one of my other friends was sweet on someone, but he was sweet on me—I would hate for that to happen.”

She lightly chuckles. “What would be so bad about that?” she asks.

“Well, you see, love—romantic love—is something like… cheating at a game. When you love someone in that way, you ignore his faults and praise every little thing he does, grow more attached to him even if he doesn’t return your affection. It’s so potent that it can easily get between friends and cause a vicious jealousy. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no lord worth losing any of my friends for.”

“Oh, that’s really sweet,” she says, her tone sincere.

I softly laugh, and then continue putting on her makeup. “Thank you.”

A silence settles for a little while before she finds the next words she wants to say. “When you visited, my mother told you she had trouble finding a suitor, do you remember?” she asks.

“I do,” I say.

Jemima gently sighs. “She was apparently rather unladylike in her younger years, or so she tells me. She hated wearing corsets and elaborate dresses, and she disliked the makeup powder—how it made her look deathly pale, and it often irritated her throat. Even though some lords showed interest in her, their families quickly put a stop to it.”

She pauses there, a complicated expression on her face, maybe bittersweet? There’s a softness to her eyes, her mouth sadly smiling. Not much tension.

“I think she shared that with me to encourage me to be myself, yet instead I seem… afraid of standing out. I thought that she had trouble because she walked her own path, so I would be fine if I follow those around me. However, especially recently, I am realising that… everyone has their own path taking them this way and that. That even if I don’t change, because everyone else is, I’ll eventually stand out anyway.”

The words fall out one after another, heavy with all the emotions she’s been holding back for who knows how long. By the end, her breathing is unsettled, a few unshed tears clouding her eyes. But she quickly collects herself and carefully wipes her eyes, avoiding smearing the makeup.

“My apologies. I… let myself go there, didn’t I?” she says, finishing with an ironic chuckle.

“I’m happy you felt comfortable sharing that with me,” I say softly.

This time, she says nothing. I try not to pry via her expression, feeling like I should give her some privacy to process her emotions, so I take a moment to busy myself in my makeup drawer. When I come back to her, she looks calm and settled.

“Something that came to mind while I listened to you,” I say, “we may all be on our own paths, but, right now, we’re still walking beside each other, aren’t we? And who’s to say that our paths won’t cross again in the future?”

She gives no reply to that, but she gently smiles. “Ah, I’m reminded of what Violet said to us,” she says, more to herself than to me.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“Oh, I shouldn’t… but she has surely said it to you already,” she says, again talking to herself. It only takes her a few seconds to come to a decision, this time speaking to me. “That is, when she told us about… you know, she also told us that you see the world in a different way to everyone else. I didn’t understand at the time, but I think I do now.”

That catches me by surprise. Despite what she thought, Violet hasn’t said anything like that to me. But, Jemima in front of me at this time, I pick up on what she said. “And what is it you understand?”

Between the makeup and the gentle expression on her face, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp, she looks very beautiful in this moment. Serene. It’s an unguarded look that reminds me of Violet.

“It is like you can see my heart itself, and so speak words that resonate with it,” she says as if reciting poetry, her voice light and melodic. Then she has a little giggle. “Rather than a modest look, I would say you should refrain from speaking to any lords.”

“Well, you might have a point,” I say, my smile wry.