Florence and Ellen and I have a minute to catch up (which is mostly Florence giving her opinion on how well she did on the exams she sat) before their parents are ready to leave. So we say our goodbyes and they go on their way.

No other interesting guests come, the rest of the afternoon passing in quietly spoken French. (It’s as much for my own entertainment as for Gwen’s education.)

Like yesterday, five o’clock marks the end of the open day. The models go in the back to change and clean up, and then they go on their way too, leaving me and Ms Berks behind. I take a few minutes to carefully look over the dresses in case any stitches are loose; they all seem fine. After I’m done checking, I neatly fold the dresses and come back through.

“Thank you, miss,” I say, bowing my head.

Rather than at the desk, she’s looking at the paintings. In particular, a still life—a book, a pen, and an amulet. It almost looks like a cover for some fantasy-adventure story. Rewriting Fate, all about an author thrown into his own book, who has to change the unpleasant ending he wrote as the world itself changes because of his arrival. (I mean, look how much has changed here compared to Snowdrop and the Seven Princes—the author should have an even bigger impact on things, right?)

“Do you still want to attend tomorrow?” she asks.

It takes me a moment to understand. “I do,” I say.

“Very well.”

Nothing more is said. I quietly leave, going back to the dormitory for another fun hour of studying before supper. We eat and then study for another hour, chat for a bit, and go to our rooms. I think they’re being a bit considerate, the afternoon draining for me even though all I do is sit around and entertain Gwen.

Still, I’m also happy for the extra time, Iris’s dress pretty much finished but for a short stretch of stitching and some final touches. It really has come out well. Seeing my pen pal friends today has helped restore my confidence, especially since Iris is more like them than my school friends when it comes to sewing. So I get to work on that, diligent and focused, every stitch careful.

After I finish the stitching but before I start on making adjustments, someone chooses the perfect moment to knock on my door. The time not right for tea (unless I lost track of it), I imagine it’s Violet checking up on me, or maybe one of my other friends.

“Who is it?” I ask, putting down the dress and standing up.

“L-lady Brook,” is the shaky reply.

Oh my. I can’t help but burst into a smile, so happy to hear it’s her. Despite living in the same building and seeing each other across rooms every day, it feels like she’s a distant friend, the times we can meet precious and fleeting.

“Come in—you can help me take off this dress,” I say. (When the opportunities are so precious and fleeting, I can’t not tease her, right?)

“Ah?” she says.

Giggling, I walk over and open the door, and I show her a bright smile. “It is just a joke,” I say.

“Ah.”

There’s already a touch of pink to her cheeks, and a bit of a pout at having been teased. She really does remind me of a child who seems to grow up every time we meet. “Do come in,” I say, gesturing.

She hesitates, but does step through. I close the door behind her to make sure she can’t escape. I mean, to give us privacy. Yes, definitely that.

“Sit, sit,” I say, encouraging her deeper into my lair. “What may I help you with?” I guess it’s for another maths lesson, but best not to jump to conclusions.

Although she looks awkward, she doesn’t look uncomfortable. Her posture is good and relaxed, yet her eyes dart around, eager to avoid my gaze; she ends up staring at the dress.

I smile, picking it up. With great care, I turn it inside out (or rather, I work on it inside out, so I return it to inside in) and hold it up for her to see. “Does it look nice?” I ask.

Her eyes widen, mouth opens, and she simply stares at it for a long moment. Seemingly without thinking, she reaches out to touch it only to stop herself.

“It’s okay, you can,” I say.

So she does, her fingers caressing the embroidery. “This is incredible,” she whispers.

“Thank you,” I say, my heart throbbing with pride.

Her head snaps upwards, staring right at me. “Y-you made it?” she asks, imploring.

“I did. For the last… two months? Yes, I started a bit after we returned from spring break. That is, I have been making the dress for nearly two months, some time over the break spent on designing it.”

It’s a shame she didn’t come a bit earlier, the summer sun not quite set, yet not quite bright enough to really make the dress shine. However, it does look stunning. The purple threads blend together to give off the kind of smooth and velvety texture of a real petal, and the white fabric makes the snowdrops shimmer as if made of snow, together such a captivating sight. I’m fond of complementary balancing, and there’s such a beautiful balance of light and dark, of realism and simplicity, and even the flowers themselves represent spring and winter.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Of course, it will look even better when Iris wears it. What Florence said has really stuck with me, reminding me of how brilliant Gwen’s dress looked when she wore it, the way it seemed the flowers swayed and the greenfinches fluttered.

“I really loved your other embroidery, but this is… I cannot believe someone my age could make something so beautiful and elegant. When I compare this to what little I have accomplished…” she says, trailing off.

As lovely as the first half was, I’m struck with a painful twinge by the latter half. I carefully put down the dress, and then turn to her. “What good is it to compare yourself to someone who has lived a different life? Rather, tell me I have inspired you and, in five years time, you can show me how incredible you can be too.”

The words sort of just fall out, but I think they sound good. At the least, it changes her bittersweet expression to something more thoughtful. “Five years?” she asks, looking up at me again.

I nod, but then loosely shrug. “Well, I started nearly three years ago, but I spent twice as much time sewing as any lady should, so I would say I have five years of experience.”

For a moment, she continues staring at me, and then she ducks her head as she bursts into laughter. It’s very sweet sounding and quite amusing to me at first, but I slowly find myself feeling like I really didn’t say anything that needs to be so thoroughly laughed at.

“Did I say something strange?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, it is just that… you are a bit like a prism. Even though you are so clear with who you are, there are all these sides to you, and the world looks to be so very different when I find a new one to peer through.”

Oh gosh, I can’t stop myself. Reaching out, I pull her into a hug and squeeze her super tight, but I restrain myself to not hurt her. “That is the most kind and beautiful thing anyone has ever said about me, and a few people have said many very kind and beautiful things about me.”

She giggles; instead of trying to escape, she melts into my hug, making me feel like a mother hugging her daughter. (The height difference certainly reinforces this.) After ten seconds or so, I let go of her. And I feel thoroughly refreshed.

“Um, may I ask something?” she says.

“Right now, I would even tell you the measurements for my undergarments,” I say—never squander the chance to tease her.

She lets out a couple of giggles and her cheeks certainly take on a more pronounced pinkness, but she keeps herself together. “That is… who is the dress for? Lady Dover?” she asks.

I shake my head, but I understand why she’d think that, Violet being my best friend and, for an amateur, violets and purple irises easily mixed up. Yet I find myself with a difficult decision: do I tell her the truth? All this year, I have known that no one from the nobility can understand me, that Violet and my family merely tolerate my eccentricity. Maybe my school friends and my pen pals could tolerate me too, maybe also the princes.

But does that mean I shouldn’t ever give them the chance to know me in all my flaws?

When I look at Trissy now, all I can see is someone who will adore me no matter what. Will she really abandon me so easily?

It’s hard to open up, I know that. To be afraid of being hurt is only natural. But I know that bravery isn’t about a lack of fear, that to be brave is to move forward even when afraid. To be willing to be hurt for what you believe and for what you believe in.

How must Ms Berks have felt when she showed me her would-be wedding dress? When Lottie told me about her difficult pregnancy with Gwen? And my mother, how hard was it for her to decide between her personal beliefs and letting me have this freedom—how easy would it have been to say nothing?

At the start of the school year, I was always busy looking back, worried over everything I said and how others may have interpreted it. I wasn’t good at judging emotional distances, unsure how close to act with my people my age. I might be wrong to think so, but I like to think I’ve learned and grown a lot this year.

“Can you keep a secret?” I quietly say.

“A secret? Of course?” she says.

I smile, and turn to look at the dress, finding some peace of mind from seeing the irises and snowdrops together. “There is a young woman in town whom I consider my friend. Much like you, she is quite the admirer of my embroidery, so I have made her this as a present. I am rather looking forward to seeing how happy she is when she receives it, surely worth the many hours I spent thinking of her as I sewed.”

Those words hang in the air. I can’t see her face with where I’m looking, so I have no clue what her reaction is. Now I’ve given her my trust, all I can do is wait, hope that she keeps it safe.

A couple of long seconds pass, and then she says, “Oh, that is wonderful. I would love to have a dress like this of my own. N-not that I want you to make me one, I mean, I do, but I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”

I softly chuckle. “Do you understand what I said? She’s… just a commoner. Such a dress isn’t fit for people like us to wear.”

“Oh,” she says, and then says, “Oh,” again, sadder this time.

“Indeed,” I whisper.

Another few seconds pass, but they feel a lot lighter this time, most of the worry gone. She didn’t snap to a disgusted reply or anything like that. It probably is weird to her, yet in keeping with my weird personality. Another quirk.

“I could still wear it in private, couldn’t I? If you and my friends came over, that would be fine, wouldn’t it?” she says.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind, but your friends may take issue with it.”

She huffs. “They can take whatever issue they want, I would still wear it.”

I have to giggle at that reply. She really loses her timidness when she gets comfortable, huh? Yet I still feel like she missed what I said. “What do you think about my friend being a commoner?” I ask.

“She, well, must be someone special for you to take an interest in her,” she says, some of her bravado replaced by nervousness now she’s on unfamiliar ground.

“Not really. She’s a good person, but not really special,” I say, my tone flat.

Trissy clears her throat. “Um, did she do something for you? Help you find something you lost, or….”

“No. I simply met her at her job a few times, thought she seemed nice, and we eventually became friends.”

“That, that is…” she mumbles.

I lose myself and say, “Let me put it frankly: do you think we are better than commoners because of our status?”

A second, and then she says, “I, um, well….”

After another second, I finally catch myself. Shaking my heard, I turn back face her, guilt flooding me. “I apologise, I am taking out my own frustrations on you. Please pay no heed to such an unnecessary question.”

Her head bowed, she whispers, “N-no. If it is something that… troubles you… it must be worth asking.”

Half a laugh slips out before I can stop myself, her words somewhat reminiscent of those (unfortunately) unforgettable words I told Ms Berks so long ago—no wonder she was so amused.

I reach over and gently pat Trissy on the head. “You are far too good for me,” I say.

Another friend I’ve welcomed into my heart.