Violet ends up staying with me for most of the evening, only leaving after we have tea. In that time, we didn’t do anything, but having her here helped me to keep my thoughts productive. I made a mistake, so I adjust my behaviour. Nothing else matters. In this case, the best apology is through my actions going forward.

Alone now, I go through a few stretches, but I’ve just drunk tea and so nothing strenuous. Then I change into my nightgown. It’s fairly warm even at this time, so I bring my desk chair to the window, watching the stars (mindful of what someone outside could see of me).

How much of me is Ellie, how much is Eleanor? Is Nora the leftovers that can’t be attributed to either of them, or both of them combined?

I know how pointless such thoughts are, yet I can’t help but see them when I look in the mirror at these times. I know it’s pointless to entertain countless what-ifs, yet I can’t stop myself from wondering if Violet would still love me if I wasn’t influenced by Ellie. Putting Snowdrop and the Seven Princes aside as a debatably reliable source of information, would, could Violet and Eleanor be friends?

If things were different, would things be different? I think Ellie’s mother told her that. When you phrase it that way, you realise how those kinds of hypotheticals just answer themselves. Until I get hit by a runaway carriage, this is the life I have and I should be looking ahead, not behind.

Right. I have to admit to my failing, take a step back, adjust myself, and then keep going forward.

So I spend the last of the evening thinking through my relationships. Not just with Lottie, but all my friends, all the people I speak to. Am I treating them as I should? Are they treating me as they should? What are our obligations to each other? What are our boundaries?

It may sound silly, almost like the skill checks I was thinking up for Gwen, but it’s… refreshing. Putting the vague feelings and instincts I have into words lets me actually see and reason with my beliefs.

I mean, most of my social skills come from etiquette or from my family. Between those formal and informal extremes, I still need to develop myself, if that makes sense.

Sleep comes late for me. The next morning comes early.

Though it’s tempting to skip going to town today, I want to be brave. So I get ready, have my early breakfast alone, and sneak out the dormitory wearing my school coat. Soon, it’ll be too suspicious to do that (the weather getting warmer). Len accompanies along the familiar walk and is as stoic as ever.

At Lottie’s house, I have the usual cup of tea, and I sit with Gwen in the lounge while she shows me the sewing she did yesterday afternoon. The pattern is easily recognisable: the snowdrop from the dress I gave her.

“Ah, it looks good,” I say, running a finger over the stitches. Some are slack, or not quite in the right place and so leave tiny gaps, and there’s many holes where she poked through the fabric in the wrong place and then undid the stitch. However, it’s clear she worked hard. “You’ve been practising a lot, haven’t you?” I ask.

She grins, nodding her head.

I didn’t have Len stick around, so Lottie and Gwen walk me back to the school on their way to church. Heading back to my room, I think the mood between me and Lottie felt… okay. Not great like it usually was, but okay.

Though I consider lurking around my bedroom until lunchtime, it’s only a passing thought. I go looking for my friends after changing back into the uniform. They’re relaxing in the lounge, reading various books. Jemima and Helena have a novel each, Violet what I think is a textbook, and I’m not sure about Belle. Should I go back to my room and get something to read as well?

“Lady Kent,” Belle says, smiling.

Too late.

I smile back and walk over, grabbing a chair to sit between Violet and Belle. “Good day everyone,” I say.

They all reply at their own pace.

Leaning closer to Violet, I whisper, “No one told me there was a book club today—can I share with you?”

She gives me a dry laugh, but she then places the book flat on the table. “Interested in the historical customs and traditions of the chambers?”

I purse my lips, my eyes almost refusing to read such a small font. “Do you maybe have a picture book?”

And so everyone giggles.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Though I joked, I do read along with her (she’s considerate enough to turn back to the start of the chapter). As dull as it is, the writing is competent enough that I can read it.

Lunchtime, afternoon, supper, all of it passes in a quiet manner today. In the evening, I split my time between sewing (until the tea arrives) and (afterwards) working on the lesson plans. Slow and steady progress.

Monday is Monday, a bit tiring, but embroidery club at the end of the day pulls me through. All the more so since Evan and Cyril will join me.

It’s rather nice having Evan with me again on the walk over (much easier to move through the crowd when I just have to follow behind him). At the clubroom, we fall into our usual seats. I’m not sure what Evan’s doing now (Ellen’s birthday passed already, a bit early to work on Yule presents), but he busies himself with a slip of blue fabric and a spool of white thread. Cyril, as always, sits at the back and writes.

I think to ask Cyril to read aloud for us again. For now, all I can really give him is this little encouragement, so that’s what I want to do. It’s just, I have a stray thought.

“I don’t mean to pry, but, well, we’re not leaving out Lord Hastings, are we?” I ask.

Cyril doesn’t even look up; Evan does, but he doesn’t show any strong emotion. “He uses the time for his correspondences.”

Though it’s not a full answer, if I read between the lines, it sounds like they’ve at least talked about it. Good enough, I guess. And with that out the way, I ask Cyril to read, and he does, weaving an esoteric tale that uses a sort of rabbit-sheep hybrid species as an allegory for the dangers of overconsumption. I think.

While he reads, I finish the cutting and start on the sewing for the last exhibition dress.

The rest of the day passes much like yesterday: time with my friends, working on Iris’s dress, and writing more lesson plans. Slow and steady progress.

When it comes to Tuesday, well, I don’t exactly have something pleasant at the end of the day to keep me going. Quite the opposite, in fact. The bell rings and everyone starts packing up, and I drag it out, not wanting to make the first move.

I pick out Lady Challock’s voice from the din as she asks, “Are we not waiting for Lady Kent?”

Lady Ashford replies, “You remember what I spoke about, do you not?”

That’s enough for me. I close my bag, sling it onto my shoulder, and hurry to the door. Whatever else they say is lost to me. At least I don’t have to fight the crowd in the corridor, carried through to the outside where I slip off down the side path. Calm here, I let out a long breath, and then continue to the classroom.

Ripples. All it takes is one drop of a rumour and soon enough the whole surface is disturbed. That’s why you always bow your head, always de-escalate.

I reach the room and it’s mostly empty. Though I’d like to sit far away from where Lady Ashford normally sits, I can’t sit at the back in case of Leo. She normally sits on the right side of the room, so I hope I’m okay sitting in the middle on the left side.

Unfortunately, my hope barely lasts a minute, someone sitting down next to me.

“Lady Kent,” Leo says.

I show no emotion, simply shuffle one seat over, but he follows me with a breathy laugh.

“Really? You tell me you aren’t playing hard to get, yet you seem upset I haven’t been chasing you,” he says, almost a whisper.

Already, I feel Ellie’s impulses rising to the surface. She doesn’t like him. She sees him as the kind of man who thinks no is negotiable, who makes a point of pushing boundaries. I don’t know how true that is.

Out the corner of my eye, I see his hand come to rest on the edge of his seat—that little bit closer to me. If I ask him to move it, will he, or will he say something about it still being on his seat?

No, I made my decision last time. I don’t trust him and that’s enough.

“Did I do something to upset you?” he asks, sounding so reasonable. How easy it would be to give in. Surely he only wants to talk, right? What’s the harm in talking?

But, you know, I always compare him to Evan, and Evan wouldn’t try and force me to talk, would he? He respects me, right? Right. It’s respect, isn’t it? That’s what I feel Leo is missing.

“In case my silence wasn’t clear enough, I do not wish to speak with you,” I say, my tone flat. A line in the sand.

Putting his toe on the line, he says, “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Not an apology for bothering me, not an acknowledgement of my wish. If anything, he makes it sound like I did what he asked me to do. Again invites me to talk.

I don’t reply, keep my eyes forward.

“Won’t you at least tell me why you are not speaking to me?” he asks, his voice a touch louder.

Another reasonable request. I owe it to him, don’t I? I should give him a reason so that he can explain himself. After all, this is just me being silly, and I’ll see that’s true if I give him the chance to tell me why I’m wrong.

That’s what Ellie whispers to me.

What I notice, though, is how he spoke louder. I feel the attention being drawn to us. Really, it’s almost a threat, something like: “Do you want to do this in front of everyone?” Whether it’s intentional or his emotions getting the better of him, I don’t know. Regardless, I’m supposed to feel intimidated, worried what other people will think if they hear, or awkward about being the centre of attention.

Yet I don’t feel any of that. Rather, I feel more sure I’m making the right choice. And that’s enough for me.

“I don’t owe you an explanation. In fact, I don’t owe you anything. Please leave me alone,” I say, my tone still flat.

“Come now, aren’t you being unreasonable?” he says, again that little louder.

Am I? Should I have to speak with someone just because they want to? My heart steels itself even more. “Please leave me alone,” I say, and this time I raise my voice.

The room is maybe only a third full, but there’s a group of ladies in the row in front of us, a bit to the side, and I see one of them glance over her shoulder towards me and him.

Something of a heavy exhale leaves his nose. “There is no need to make a fuss,” he says, bringing down his own voice.

But he doesn’t move away, not even his hand. So I do. I stand up and walk a few steps to the end of the row, putting four seats between us. A few seconds later, he stands up as well, and I ready myself to repeat those words to him, but he thankfully walks to the other end of the row, moving to somewhere farther back or maybe even leaving the room.

My heavy heart can finally let out a sigh of relief.