After breakfast on Sunday morning, I spend some time looking over the cloth I bought and the designs I’ve sketched out for them. With the season in mind, I chose fabrics better suited to the cold, but that means they’re quite cumbersome. A skirt might not be the best decision. Well, if I do make a skirt, it will still have to go down to my ankles (can I get away with to my shins?), so maybe it would be okay. No, I should stick to dresses for now.

The morning getting on, I change and head out. Only, there’s a maid waiting for me outside my room, her face familiar. It takes me a moment to recall her name. “Len, is it?” I ask. (Not the same Len as at the café, but the one who changed my bedding the first Sunday.)

“Yes, miss,” she says, lightly bowing.

“You are here for….”

“I am here to accompany you, miss.”

Surely the school wouldn’t approve of my job? I mean, my mother is pretty eccentric, so I can understand her cutting me some slack, but the school? Or maybe the school doesn’t know…. Well, there’s not really any point me worrying, is there?

“Then let us proceed,” I say, taking the lead, her footsteps following behind me.

That’s that.

With her, and having become a familiar face myself, there’s barely a pause on the way through the gate. She says nothing for the whole walk to town, and she only leaves me when I go through the staff entrance of the café. I let out a sigh of relief, no one I know spotting us together.

My tension melts away as the day goes by without any incidents. After yesterday, I expected something else to come up, but the other waitresses move on quickly to the next topic of gossip, and Neville seems content to just give me an amused smile when I catch his eye.

So work comes to an end. I say my goodbyes, leaving quickly in case there’s a maid from the school waiting for me. However, it’s Lottie and Gwen, the two of them on the street once I come out the alley. On the walk back, Gwen happily shows off her latest cross-stitch. She’s improving quickly. I guess, at that age, you do.

It’s sneezy prince’s turn to water the cress, so I don’t have to take a detour after supper, and there’s no homework to occupy my evening. Instead, I start work on the first dress. Well, all I can really do without scissors is measure and draw out the pattern, but that’ll take me half the week to do properly anyway.

Fabrics in this world are mostly the same as Ellie’s, I think. Of course, there’s no synthetic stuff, but on the costly side there’s wool (because the sheep are treated so well) and cotton (still mostly imported); on the cheaper side, there’s flax and, for certain uses, hemp. Those are all fairly within budget for commonfolk, unlike silk. (I guess moth murder is okay, or maybe silk comes from plants here? I haven’t thought about it.)

However, the material is just one part of the fabric and the other part is the weave. Satin and velvet, even if both made from silk, come out completely different, right? So the cost of a fabric also depends on how difficult the weave is to do. Generally speaking, at least. Capitalism isn’t so straightforward. Is this world even capitalist? We’re still kind of feudal, after all….

Anyway, the fabrics for my coloured dresses are made of (cotton) poplin, which is, well, I guess it looks like a regular shirt fabric. It’s not shiny, and you can’t see the weave unless you look closely, and it feels like normal cloth rather than slippery or fuzzy.

For the black fabric, it’s bombazine. I’m not sure what it was used for in Ellie’s world, but here it’s mostly sold in black and is used to make clothes for mourning and the clergy, yet some people also wear it for regular churchgoing or other religious events. The weave is a bit more noticeable and, really, the look and texture reminds me of school trousers—not that I’ve ever worn them. I don’t plan on becoming a widow this year or next, but, if I’m invited to church or to a funeral or anything like that, it’s better to have it than not….

The end of the month can’t come quick enough, already regretting the choice and wanting another pretty dress instead. Oh well.

Monday morning, I pick myself up and slog through to class, slouching in the corner. I say my hullos to people as they come, but it’s a struggle to stay awake. At least when Evan gets here I have someone to distract me.

Registration starts as promptly as ever, Mr Milton reading through the register in the most monotonous voice. Once attendance is taken, he moves onto announcements and then, still plenty of time, he announces something of his own.

“Rather than have you wait until Friday, I will be returning your mock exams now,” he says, neatening up a pile of papers on his desk. “As will be the case for all classes, I am returning those who scored the highest first, and those who scored the lowest last. However, do keep in mind that this exam has no bearing on final grades for the term.”

Stolen novel; please report.

It’s not quite pinning up the results for everyone to see, but it certainly has its own dark charm, a bit of mild humiliation mixed with having the worst students stew in anxiety as they desperately hope their paper is handed back next.

Or something like that.

I don’t get much time to think about it because Mr Milton stands up and says, “First place, Lady Kent.”

Huh.

He walks all the way down to hand it to me, only to then have to walk all the way back to the front for clever prince. I stop following him and glance through my exam. It’s nearly entirely ticks, so I guess it’s not a mistake. Well, like I’ve said, the accounting lessons are basically arithmetic with money. Okay, there’s interest rates, and stocks, and comparing daily / monthly / yearly leases (and some similar stuff), but that’s just adding simple multiplication and division on top.

Honestly, I would have gotten full marks if I double checked my answers and wrote out all the multiplication steps. Education here is big on verbosity and wordiness.

Finished with that, I only pay attention to Mr Milton to see when Evan gets his back. (He looked pretty upset with himself after the exam.) I’m not going to make fun of him or anything, but I am curious. The book only went into detail about clever Gerald because being top of the class was kind of his thing.

As an aside, Eleanor and Gerald “did their thing” during a study session. It included Eleanor saying something like, “Would you help me discover why my heart beats quicker the closer you are?” It also included taking a certain measurement with a ruler, which I won’t divulge out of respect for (real) Evan’s privacy.

Oh and, because of course, the act itself took place in a classroom on a table. Distracted by that, I eye up the small table I’m sat at, trying to work out how exactly such a scene doesn’t end in a concussion (and a rather hasty marriage once the teachers walk in).

I’m pulled out of my imagination by Evan receiving his exam back. Though I missed most of the handing out, it’s not exactly difficult to realise how poorly he did by how Mr Milton only has a couple more exams left to return.

Leaning over, I whisper to Evan, “Good thing you can pay someone else to keep track of your money.”

Despite his gloomy expression, he has to stop himself from chuckling at that. It’s a better look for him. I mean, if he says I should smile more, can’t I say the same about him?

Geography starts the same way registration finished, Mr Duxford returning the exams. Gerald is first this time. For some reason, he turns around to look at me after he gets his paper, so I wave to him. He doesn’t wave back. How rude. My result is somewhat on the lower side of middling, a couple ahead of Evan. The rest of the lesson then goes over the questions and how we’re supposed to answer them and all that blah.

Geometry next and, once again, Gerald comes first. I’m on the upper side of middling this time, but, when Ms Didcot hands back my paper, she says, “Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to stumble on the right answer every time.”

“Sorry, miss,” I reply, bowing my head.

She takes my apology in stride and carries on. Skimming through the exam and, yes, I’ve not actually got anything wrong, just used techniques or approaches that she didn’t teach me (or skipped over calculations). Ellie didn’t take A Level maths, but she studied it for her GCSEs at sixteen and got decent results, so there’s a lot of that still floating around in my head. Anyway, it’s silly stuff. Like, I dropped a mark because I used the formula for area of a triangle rather than making it into a square or rectangle and then halving it. Come on, there’s working from the basics, and then there’s just wasting time.

Like with the last lesson, she starts going through the exam once she finishes handing the papers back. I make good use of the time and doodle some ideas for dress embroidery.

When the break finally comes, I get ready to settle in for a quick nap. It’s not that I actually want to sleep, but closing my eyes for a bit, like, makes me less sleepy? If the rest of the day is going to be the same, then I’ll need to be in top condition.

Only, Evan interrupts me with a whispered, “Lady Kent?”

I open one eye, looking at him while still slumped on my desk. He looks back at me, and then glances towards the front of the class, so I do the same.

Gerald comes to a stop in front of my desk.

I close my eye.

“Lady Kent?” Gerald says, perhaps a little sterner than usual.

I debate snuggling into my arms, but he’s not the sort to let things go, is he? Putting it on a bit, I stretch and yawn as I sit up. “Yes, Sir Ventser?”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was wondering if you would let me see your results as—”

Before he can finish, I slide the papers across the table. “If you would excuse me,” I say, and then close my eyes.

“Lady Kent?”

I blindly wave him off, saying, “I am merely resting my eyes, not my ears.”

Whatever his reaction, I can’t hear it, but I do hear papers rustle, noises of thought. It’s nearly a minute later that he huffs, my papers landing on the desk with a soft thap.

“Did you even study for the geography exam?” he asks lightly, maybe meaning it to be a joke?

“No,” I reply honestly.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then, “What?”

“My apologies for not making it clear: I did not do any revision.”

His reply quick this time, he asks, “Why in the heaven’s not?”

I shrug. “There are better ways for me to waste my time.”

And this time there’s no reply, just the sound of footsteps going away. However, there is a familiar chuckle, and I rest my head on my arms again, facing the side.

“Did I amuse you?” I ask.

Evan catches himself, and says, “You did.”

“Not jealous of me talking to other men?”

“If anything, I prefer it.”

Lightly giggling, I leave things there for now, using the rest of the break to recover my mental fortitude. That proves to be crucial, the rest of the day indeed as dull. Somehow, I hold on, and go with Evan to embroidery club. Though I dare to hope, Lady Horsham doesn’t come back; thinking over the day, I didn’t notice her hair, so she probably had it in just a ponytail rather than the braid I did for her. Never mind, it was a long shot in the first place.

The day not entirely wasted, I collect a few things I’ll need for my dresses, and I have a few words with Ms Berks. Unfortunately, I can’t take a pair of fabric scissors away (too big and sharp), but she says she doesn’t mind opening the room for me Wednesday afternoon, so I might be able to get the first dress done for the weekend, fingers crossed.

All that’s left for the day is watering the cress. Well, not that it really needs it, the dirt still a bit damp.