With the exception of history class, Tuesday skips by in the blink of an eye. When it’s all done, I try to get out of the classroom quick (easy since it’s a self-study lesson) and head to that strange room at the back of the school, time for water magic class.

Like last time, the room is full of chairs. Some people are already here. I pick a spot at the edge halfway from the front where I won’t get in the way. Ms Rowhook arrives amidst the trickle of other students, the room mostly filling up all the seats. I’m not checking everyone, but it’s like my last school, more juniors than seniors (about two-to-one).

Even though I knew nothing would happen in the first class, I still end up disappointed when Ms Rowhook starts and it’s a lecture-style lesson. Well, at least there’s no expectation of taking notes, so I just listen.

I’m sure I’ve said before, but magic classes really are mostly history classes. Faeries are strange things, so every culture has their own understanding of them, and chants only work if you use the right language. That is, this country (Anglia) has faeries that speak something like Gaelic, while French faeries tend to be rather picky, different regions sometimes having different accents.

Ms Rowhook is happily telling us about Anglish faeries and how they’re not as well suited to water as other faeries and how the Romans failed to adapt to the island because of that and blah blah. I mean, it’s impressive I listened as long as I did, especially considering it’s mostly stuff I know from my time under Ms Oare.

By the end, I’m half asleep, but I’ve had a lot of practise staying on the edge of sleep without succumbing. Seeing everyone standing up, I get the picture and wait for most of them to clear out before joining them.

Now, Junior Lily…. I head upstairs in the main school building, and have to decide whether to go left or right. I say that, I just go left and walk past Rose and Crocus and, phew, there’s Lily. After a deep breath, I gently knock on the door.

“You may enter.”

I swallow my hesitation, somewhat nervous at just what could possibly await me, and open the door. “Pardon the intrusion,” I mutter. It’s not required or anything, since I’ve already been invited in—more for my own peace of mind.

Ms Berks looks diligent, sitting behind the desk with a stack of papers. Most teachers live on campus (split into their own sections of the boys’ and girls’ dormitories), and so their bedrooms would be their “office”. But, if they need to see a student, they just take a free classroom, usually whatever room their last lesson is held in.

With something between a sigh and a groan, she puts down her pen, rubbing her eyes. It’s a gentle sight. Really, I’m still finding it a bit hard to not judge her by her looks.

“Close the door,” she says.

I quickly readjust my expectations to the aloof lady she truly is and do as I’m told.

Standing up, she moves over a step, and I only now notice the… box? It’s a plain wooden box, about the size of a briefcase. She opens it in a pair of clicks, lifting the lid. Then she pulls out a dress. Once it’s all the way out, she holds it up in front of her. I can tell at a glance it’s an expensive fabric and an exotic colour, no doubt a precious dress.

“What would have been my wedding dress.”

Oh.

It’s, um, wedding dresses aren’t white here. I don’t think it came up in the book, but I’ve been to a few weddings. Rather than white, brides simply wear the most extravagant dress they own, regardless of colour. That said, if having it made, green is popular as a sign of nature (and so fertility), black or purple for a widower remarrying.

No, wait, she… said something important, didn’t she? I, I don’t know what to say. Her face shows a tender expression, no doubt lost in memories, familiar feelings. What do I say? What can I say? I should give my condolences, but they would hardly be sincere when I don’t know why the marriage didn’t happen. But I can’t just ask her that.

Laughter breaks me from my panic, and it’s coming from her. Soft, almost like my childish giggling, but more tittering.

“Come, take a look,” she says.

So I do, walking towards her and looking at the dress. From where I was, I thought it had lace and embroidery—and I didn’t doubt it was impressive, considering the quality of the dress it was on—but I was so very wrong.

“He had an affair with my sister, and married her in my place when she became with child,” Ms Berks says, simply stating the facts. “While I had feelings for him, they had yet to blossom into love. However, even if I didn’t yet love him, I still keenly felt the sting of betrayal. From him, from my sister. From my whole family, in fact. History has been rewritten to accommodate that child. As far as the world is concerned, my engagement… never happened.”

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The dress is covered in sewn scars. There’s wilted flowers with withered petals, and broken hearts, and faces (outlines of silhouettes in profile) that… are hard to look at. That is, I can feel the loneliness without seeing the details of that person’s face. Her face.

It’s, it’s too tragic. I can’t bear to keep looking, and can’t look away. Some of the details are only a few stitches—what I guess would be her initials if she had married, now crossed out—and there’s one part that runs down the full length of the dress—what I guess are the vows she wrote but never spoke.

I reach out, only to stop myself.

“It’s fine, you can touch it,” she says.

With her permission, I feel the stitching of her vows. It’s strange how I can almost feel the words, but there’s no way I can actually tell what letters are under my fingertips. Still, I can feel how neatly they were sewn, every stitch I can see so incredibly neat. I can’t imagine how that’s possible when she must have felt so awful.

I mean, if that happened to me, I… I don’t even want to think about it. Even if I don’t have any particular hope to fall in love, I can still sympathise, and just doing that is enough to make my heart ache.

What should have been a memento of her happiest day.

“This is… the expression of all the pain, the anguish, of everything I felt. A manifestation of my feelings so that I never forget them, and so I no longer have to carry them with me.”

A memento far darker than the youthful shade of green.

For a while, I simply continue to feel the stitching with my own fingers. It’s hard not to notice the small stains covering it—teardrops, I think. Such neat stitching. Such beautiful stitching. I never thought a wilting rose… could be so mesmerising.

“I trust you understand that this is not something to be spoken of to anyone,” she says.

“Yes, miss,” I softly reply. And yet, that only makes me want to ask, “Why me?” But I can’t bring myself to say those two words.

Maybe my face shows the question on my lips.

“The embroidery you brought that day, something about it felt off. However, when I heard what you said yesterday, thoughts clicked into place,” she says, gently folding the dress back up as she speaks. “You have sewn as much as a seamstress in her apprenticeship. Hours, day after day, far more than just a hobby.”

I don’t really know about apprentice seamstresses, but the latter part is true, so I nod.

There’s a tender smile on her face. Except, rather than fragile, it looks warm. “Don’t make the same mistakes that I did. All I have to remember is the unpleasantness, and not the moments of happiness. When I reach out, I am reminded of the pain and not the joy of being with others.”

The box closes with two clicks, her feelings once more locked away.

“You are also someone who hesitates, aren’t you?” she asks.

Her gaze doesn’t just see through me, it sees me. With every pulse of thought, her words seep deeper in my mind, pulling out the memories. I thought… I was doing the right thing. Aren’t my social instincts too “friendly”? I have to hesitate, hold myself back, otherwise I’ll stand out for all the wrong reasons.

A touch, her hand patting the top of my head for just a moment. “Hesitation comes from being conflicted. You say you’re fine, and yet you clearly show that there is more to it than just that.”

I thought I was fine.

She softly laughs, covering her mouth. “If I tell you to forget everything I said, will you tell me again that you shan’t?”

Oh god, I’d forgotten about that. Hiding behind my hands, I feel the flush creeping up my neck.

“Well, don’t take my words as the honest truth,” she says. “This is… merely an old lady speaking as if her past self was here. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I nod, still unwilling to show my face.

A silence settles for a handful of seconds, maybe half a minute—time unbearably slow right now. Over this time, I become willing to show my face again.

“If you sew something you would like me to see, please do bring it to the club.”

Despite everything that’s happened, I can’t believe what I’ve heard.

“Those surprised eyes, do you think that poorly of me?” she asks, half accusing and half laughing.

I hurriedly shake my head.

“Go on, then. I have clearly said too much already,” she says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

Before she gives me even more to think about, I curtsey and say my thanks and leave.

When I get back, my room is fairly cold. I should remember to keep my curtains closed, and ask the maids to warm my bedding. Having a fireplace in all these little rooms would be, well, not exactly feasible. Enchantments for heating would be too extravagant even for us. There’s a communal area like a lounge on the ground floor that is heated and, as I just said, maids can swap out blankets and sheets with fresh ones from a heated linen room. Can’t expect us rich kids to sleep in a cold bed.

Oh, I’m, um, avoiding the topic. My mind likes to wander.

I guess I am hesitating. If I think about the “me” she sees, then it’s me and Evan, and I always have to stop myself. If I open my mouth, I want to tease him. But also, when I’m helping him sew, I want to sit next to him or guide his hand, and I can’t do that.

Maybe she thinks I’m in love with him. Her story, it wasn’t exactly about friends. When she sees me, does she see someone afraid to get hurt? I guess it might look like that.

Ah, I’m slowly getting off topic again.

Whatever she thinks, it’s true that I’m hesitating. I think it’s a natural hesitation, though. I’m… not comfortable here. That’s my fault, always running away. I ran away from my own birthday parties, from all those times when I was supposed to be learning to get on with my peers. So now I’m childish, and I’m naturally simple-minded and stuck in my ways.

In an almost literal sense, if you consider Ellie, I’m always in two minds. Even though I called myself Nora to clearly separate myself from Ellie and Eleanor, it’s only natural I’ve ended up similar to Ellie. Her memories were such a big influence on me growing up.

I suppose I’ve been neglecting “Nora”. When I was young, I guess I didn’t really know—didn’t understand—the pain Ellie went through, so it was easy for me to behave however I wanted without a worry. Growing up, I thought I should behave more properly. I cared more for what other people thought of me, thought more of how my actions reflected on my family, thus I’ve become someone proper.

Ah, but I’d rather be happy.

Little Nora, she was happy, wasn’t she? She could do whatever she wanted because she had a good heart to guide her. And Ellie, after everything she went through, she still made those difficult first steps at university, didn’t she?

Rather than just Ellie or just Nora, I should remember to be Eleanor—my own Eleanor.