The next morning, I go see Gwen and Iris for another sort of sewing lesson. Iris is making good progress, focused and hard-working, and Gwen is steadily memorising and practising the stitches I teach her. When I have the chance to talk privately with Lottie in the kitchen, I’m happy to hear what she says: “I may model for you—if you still wish for me to.”

So I’m in a rather good mood when I return to school, one that seems impossible to shake. A quiet afternoon with my friends leads to a sleepy Monday. At embroidery club, I tell Ms Berks about my final two models and, like last time, she raises no objections to them. Perfect. Just under a month to go until the exhibition, everything should be ready.

Tuesday brings me to the art class, my still life this week painted with warmer hues, generally looking more realistic. I’m not so good with the delicate nature of watercolours, but this messy style of oil painting fits me rather well. Hardly a prodigy, but I’m happy with my progress and it’s rather fun to do, you know? I’m enjoying it.

And Ms Berks once again gives strange homework. Mine is to sketch the main school building (in the morning).

Water magic class is a rare practical lesson today, and I’m fortunate enough that Lady Ashford is happy to simply ignore me; Lady Challock (and Ladies Yalder and Walmer) kindly offer me a bit of conversation here and there, but mostly leave me be until they ask about the magic we are practising. (It’s rather neat: a kind of stirring magic that loosely separates out mud or dirt mixed into the water. Of course, it’s not at all useful in a world with near-infinite sources of clean tap water.)

Wednesday, my friends and I meet up with the princes after school for our study group, and we transition from doing homework to actually studying this week as we’re about halfway through the term. That does mean I take Evan to the side, the others working at a pace he can’t keep up with. But it’s nice. It seems he took my words from long ago to heart, a very diligent student. While he’s not great at memorising nor a fast learner, he listens to my explanations, takes thorough notes, and he’s not shy about saying he doesn’t understand something.

Thursday, I have a practical earth magic class with Julian. This is great timing as it means I can discuss Evan’s upcoming birthday with him. Thanks to Ellen telling me in her last letter, we have just under two weeks to prepare.

Since Julian was embarrassed by his birthday party, he’s very enthusiastic about throwing one for Evan. Amidst the odd sniffle and the near-constant presence of a handkerchief, we talk picnics and cakes and teas and, most importantly, presents. Well, present. Evan and Cyril bought Julian a present last time, while the picnic was the “present” from us ladies, and it will be the same this time. It’s not good for unwed women to buy gifts for unwed men (who aren’t a member of their family).

That said, he bought me a birthday present, so I’m viewing that rule as rather flexible in my head. At the least, I can do a bit of sewing.

Friday, I finish the embroidery for Lizzy’s dress. It has come out rather well if I don’t say so myself. Although I still have to sew the pieces together, it should only take one more club meeting. Working on Iris’s dress in the evening, the embroidery is maybe two-thirds done. I’m still hopeful to finish it by the end of term, but it’ll be close and I don’t want to rush, so I might have to arrange a visit in the holidays. No big deal.

Saturday, I quickly pull Len into my room to get a few rough measurements (as I have the time, I’ll make some adjustments to the exhibition dresses) before we go into town.

Gwen this week proudly shows off her handwriting practice when I arrive. Far more diligent than I ever was, she filled up a few pages (front and back) with cursive writing. Barely legible, but cursive writing nonetheless.

“Oh well done, you’re getting the hang of it,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m making fun of her as I hold back bubbly laughter. It’s just so funny, meandering squiggles that you could get away with calling art.

She takes my words sincerely, smiling brightly. “I did one page every day,” she says, and she points at the dates somewhat neatly printed in the corners.

“That’s good. Making a habit of it will surely help,” I say, giving her head a gentle pat.

Then we start the lesson for the day. While I don’t want her to get bored of doing the same thing, I don’t want her to forget either, so we start with a bit of money maths again before moving onto something new. Rather than history or geography, I push them together into something of a humanities and foreign languages lesson. A sort of: “Our country is Anglia and it’s here, and there’s France, they speak French, and we trade with them,” complete with a few hand-copied maps at different scales. (Not perfect copies, but good enough for this.)

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Gwen loves learning French words the most out of what I lecture her about, so we pivot towards that, practising a greeting and parting and introducing yourself. She then spends a while on saying what she likes as I tell her what various things are in French. Sweets, mother, father, flowers, sewing, reading. (Yes, her parents are secondary to sweets.) My French vocabulary is far from complete, but it’s good enough for today; I’ll bring a dictionary next time.

Cooking with Lottie is a soup. She starts by cutting off the tips of the asparagus and then cooking the stalks with a sliced onion until they’re tender. There’s no blender, so she forces them through a very fine sieve (a purée sieve, she calls it). Next, she melts butter and mixes in flour in a saucepan before adding the purée, bringing it to a boil. As that happens, she heats up milk in a second saucepan, pouring that in as well once it also reaches a boil. Spinach and a few spices are added and stirred into the pale green soup, and everything is then poured into a tureen (a serving dish for soups and stews, basically a deep oval dish with a lid). While it rests for a minute, she fries the asparagus tips to soften them and then puts a couple in each bowl, finally pouring a portion of the soup on top of them.

Unlike last week, it’s a very active preparation, always doing something, and she talks to me the whole while. She tells me the asparagus and spinach is freshly harvested, lists some other vegetables you can prepare this way, says what will be coming in season next month. I listen closely, trying to take in as much as I can.

Served up, Gwen idly stirs her spoon around the bowl, not looking all that thrilled about this meal. I resist the urge to giggle and instead have a spoonful myself. “Mm, this is delicious,” I say, really putting it on.

I glance over and see Gwen staring at me.

“Is there more if I finish my bowl?” I ask Lottie.

Now Lottie is barely holding on, a hand hiding her mouth yet her eyes full of mirth, her shoulders lightly shaking. “There is,” she manages to say.

It’s a bit funny, but my acting is fairly close to my feelings. The first few times I visited for meals, I only really noticed a blandness to the food, but, especially these last few weeks, I’ve come to appreciate these mild and subtle flavours. I mean, the only time I’ve had asparagus, it has been fried in butter and salted, so it had quite a strong, even unpleasant, taste. But this soup is rather smooth, pleasant. It tastes like what a mother would cook to have her daughter eat vegetables she doesn’t like.

To prove my thought, Gwen hesitantly brings her spoon to her mouth, sucking in the smallest sip.

“Don’t slurp,” Lottie says.

Gwen frowns, but tips in the rest of the spoonful and her expression sours for a moment.

“Tasty, isn’t it?” I ask her.

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she nods.

“Very healthy too. I reckon, if you ate this every day, you would grow up even bigger and stronger than papa,” I say.

She lights up at that, the next spoonful disappearing without a problem.

For dessert, we just have chilled strawberries and a glass of milk. It’s rather refreshing in the midday heat. Sometimes, simple is perfect. Lottie tells me about a few other seasonal fruits that are good for serving as-is and about some that need only a little preparation. Apparently, a sprinkle of coarse salt is quite nice on most summer fruits, or a drip of lemon or vinegar. (Just make sure to do it close to eating—you’re not marinading the fruit.)

Despite the heat, and I do feel bad about it, I ask Lottie if she could show me some shops that sell trinkets and such. I don’t have something in mind for Evan’s birthday, so I want to get some ideas. She readily agrees.

At this time of day, in this heat, the town is strangely calm and lethargic. What children I do see are lounging in shadows, boys fanning themselves with caps, poor girls sweating like they’re made of ice, dresses down to their shins (if they’re young) or ankles. Every time a cool breeze blows, I can hear relieved sighs drift over from here and there.

We’ve been inside and just had a cold dessert, so we’re in a decent state, a parasol keeping the worst of the sun off of us. It’s not big enough to fully cover us, but it’s putting in work. I think Lottie also takes us a different route that’s more shaded (difficult since the sun is high), but it might be that this is the way to whatever shop she’s bringing me to first.

By the time we get to a small jeweller's, I’m covered in a light sweat. “Is this suitable?” Lottie asks, loosely gesturing at the shop.

Ah. I didn’t explain it very well, did I? Definitely shouldn’t buy anything here for Evan. “Sorry, I was thinking more… a pen? A tie clip? Oh, I suppose they might do tie clips here,” I say, mumbling to myself by the end.

“I see,” Lottie says.

My danger sense flares up, and I slowly look over to see Lottie with an… understanding smile. Or rather, a misunderstanding smile. “It is not for a sweetheart,” I say under my breath, trying not to let Gwen hear.

“Of course it isn’t,” Lottie replies unconvincingly.

Great. Perfect. Wonderful. Does she send letters to my mother about me? She likely does. Fantastic.

So we go see a sort of stationery shop that’s nearby. There are some interesting pens there, but none which I think suit Evan. If I’m going out of my way to get him something, it should be worth it.

Not wanting to keep them out in this heat, we then go to the school, where I get to spend the afternoon melting alongside my friends in the dormitory’s lounge. Hot is easy to do, cold not so much. Maybe once freezers are commonplace, we can work on something like air-conditioning. Still, we have shade and there’s windows to let the breeze in and chilled water on hand, so it’s hardly torturous.

At least, that’s what I thought until it comes time for bed. Every year, I forget the horrors of trying to sleep in cotton nightgowns, drenched in sweat, damp clothes sticking to me. Please, someone save me.