It ends up being a quiet week. We do a little water magic practice for a change, Ms Rowhook noting down what each of our talents are. I guess she might group us by that in future lessons. Sleepy prince is around, but there’s no reason for me to talk to him, so I leave him be.

Wednesday, I barely stay awake in class. Since I don’t have spare fabric to test the dress pattern first, I stayed up late checking measurements. Not to mention all the double-guessing I did, still not entirely satisfied with the shape I’ve drawn out. I often think of what Terri told me when she did the adjustments for my outfit. This dress is, in a way, a manifestation of my feelings.

Sort of.

I don’t have a good grasp on what I’m trying to say, so I’m a bit muddled. Like, I want a pretty dress, but do I want the dress to make me look pretty? I’m sure that sounds really strange. However, it’s what Terri said about my work uniform, isn’t it? I just want a dress that makes my friends say, “Wow, what a pretty dress!”

Or something.

Mostly, I just want to make sure it’s a comfortable fit and that I can grow a bit without needing to adjust it. This month, I’ll be spending my pay on a coat, so I don’t know if there will be enough for any more dresses until the end of November, which is the end of the term. Any other dresses I make probably have to wait for the new year.

Back to the present, I don’t waste any time after classes and head back to my room, getting what I need, and then go to the club room. Ms Berks beats me there for a change. Rather than a book, she has a couple of canvases and a pile of papers.

“Try not to be too distracting,” she mutters to me as I come in.

It’s hard not to stare, finally seeing her do actual work. I was right thinking she’s an art teacher.

Anyway, as much as I’ve thought about my dress, I’m not an expert at dressmaking. All I really know is the general shapes to cut out and how to stitch them together. So that’s what I do. Slowly, carefully, I follow the patterns I drew out. I mean, I probably could have done it all in five minutes, but I don’t want to make a mistake.

When I’m done, I start loosely putting it together with pins and check the general fit. A relief, it’s good and definitely a size that would fit me.

And when I look up, Ms Berks is watching me closely with a smile.

“Miss?” I ask, feeling rather exposed despite being fully clothed and holding the dress in front of me.

“I didn’t want to pry, but is this to be your canvass for the exhibition?”

Oh, I haven’t thought of that, but… oh, does she mean like her wedding dress? Oh gosh, I hope I haven’t put my foot in it. Trying to hide behind the dress, I mumble, “Ah, do you think that’s… a good idea?”

She doesn’t look upset, so I guess I’ve not brought down her mood—she did say she “locked the memory away” in that box.

“Embroidery is ultimately meant for clothing. Indeed, we could borrow some maids for the day and put on a living exhibition, couldn’t we? That does have a certain charm to it,” she says, talking more to herself than me by the end.

Well, I guess I’ll be making a few more dresses than I thought.

“Have you much practice with sewing onto dresses?” she asks, her focus back on me.

“Um, not really,” I say honestly, up until now always just working on handkerchiefs or similar bits of loose cloth.

She makes a strange face, mouth pulled to one side and cheek puffing up, and her hand comes up to rest under her chin. A few seconds later, she says, “Well, I do not mean to instruct you, this being your exhibit, but you may wish to take a trip to town to see the way dresses are decorated. Whether you want to embroider your dresses similarly or to make up more fanciful patterns is up to you.”

Ah, she has a point. I was busy drawing up things that look cute, but posh dresses (if they have any embroidery) usually have large and extravagant designs. Well, it’s not like Nora is going to wear this, so I won’t worry myself too much more over things that aren’t important.

With the conversation ending, I tidy up my things and say my thanks and head back to my room. It’s more comfortable to work here. Before I sew the pieces together, I start work on the embroidery since it’s easier to sew onto these smaller and flat bits. If I want to later, I can add more, but it’ll be awkward is all.

Stolen story; please report.

It’s the green dress I’m working on first, a sort of moss or olive green on the darker side, while still a natural shade. I thought adding some black details would give it a more mature look, but, now, I think lighter might be best. Though nearly seventeen, I suppose I should cherish these last years of childhood.

So I get to work. Rather than anything too grand, I decide on something like a tree with blossoms. I’d like to do cherry blossoms, but I think that’s better suited to a pale blue dress. (Once again, I wonder why I thought I needed a formal dress.) Apple blossoms are white and pretty, but with pink buds so that there’s still a touch of colour, and a better fit to this colour dress. At least, I think so.

Ah, I say tree, but it’s more a branch—one trailing down each sleeve. I think that’s a good place to be eye-catching while also not so much about me. Then another branch around the waist (so it looks like a belt). I can do most of that embroidery before sewing the dress together, but I’ll have to finish it after, making it all line up once the seams are done.

Smiling to myself, it feels good to be sewing something again—to be making something.

Thursday goes by quickly and I get to the earth magic class, sewing turning to sowing. After a reminder at the start to keep our cress watered, Mr Churt brings us outside.

The weather’s been hesitantly nice of late. Though it has rained, that has been at night, and the sun has shown itself most days. Rather than the greenhouse, he leads us to the (back of the) flower garden, gravel path not that muddy. A few small boxes of plant bits(?) are out and a flowerbed has been emptied.

“For those who wish to try using earth magic, I have prepared some heather cuttings. If properly established, we may well see some flowers in the early months of the new year—something you wouldn’t see without earth magic.”

Ooh, heather does look quite nice. I wouldn’t think we’d grow something so common.

Other than me, it seems his little speech hasn’t exactly swayed anyone. I mean, rich girls and mud—not exactly a match made in heaven. He carries on speaking, pointing out a box with aprons and gloves, and explains about plant cuttings. I guess it’s still a lesson even if you don’t actually plant anything.

Eventually, he gets around to asking for volunteers. No one is eager, so I go for it, getting dressed for the occasion.

As I’ve learned (from him), earth magic can be used to sort of sift soil, or something like that, but I haven’t actually seen it before. When he kneels down (so that’s why he always wears those strange trousers with knee patches), I’m actually quite excited to see what happens. Like normal, he makes a hole in the soil and then places the cutting in before sort of filling it in. Next, with his hands on the ground and touching the plant, he starts chanting. I’ve read the words, but not heard them before. Hearing it reminds me of a lullaby. Even though I don’t know how the old language translates to English, I imagine it’s like a mother telling her baby to grow up big and strong.

Probably isn’t that, but I imagine it is.

Then, like magic, the soil seems to… squirm? I don’t know. Nothing has prepared me for this. It’s vibrating, or something, all those small bits moving about. The already small chunks break down into something like sand, and bits of… root come to the top, followed by other stuff, a layer gradually forming.

I don’t know why he stops when he does, but, when he does stop, he picks up a trowel and scrapes off that layer, revealing normal-looking soil underneath. “Chalk, or limestone,” he says. “Heather prefers acidic soil, so the magic….”

Blah blah, I get it, now is it my turn?

He talks longer, mentioning the weeds removed and how the soil has been aerated and more stuff that I stop following, too much to take in without seeing it in writing.

Then it’s finally my turn. I copy him as best I can, making a shallow hole with my finger that half-buries the cutting. He repeats the chant a few times, correcting me as I try, until he’s satisfied it should work.

Taking a deep breath, I place my hands on the soil around the cutting and barely touch it. In a warm and gentle tone, I sing a lullaby to the plant, wishing it grows up big and strong. And under my hands, the soil turns. It’s all I can do to keep my hands there, almost ticklish but very gross. Imagine being licked by a tongue made of dirt and that’s probably not far off how it feels.

However, I can tell it’s not as “magical” as when he did it. He managed to magic a circle about two rulers across, the cutting in the middle, while mine’s probably half the size, barely further than my hands.

He eventually tells me to stop. I expect that, the soil not moving much under my hands any more. After me, only sneezy prince (his nose a little red) and two other ladies try. Of course, Julian is incredible and manages a spot as large as Mr Churt. I mean, he does host a faerie king in his heart. (Or something like that—I don’t exactly know how to check if it’s true, or if it’s even possible in the first place.)

For the rest of the lesson, us four plant a few more cuttings each and Mr Churt talks a lot. His topics meander around. How often earth magic should be used on plants, and to take care when planting plants close together (faeries can’t tell what we think are weeds), and then he falls into more of a lecture mode, so I can’t find it in me to pay attention to him and the planting.

When the bell goes, us four planters get to stick around as we put back the aprons and gloves and take a detour to rinse our hands. The two ladies seem to be friends, chatting happily. Seniors. Not sure what made them want to take the class this year, but I guess they like gardening? They did actually help plant some of the cuttings.

I belatedly remember Julian is also here, mostly forgetting him because he’s behind me and walks quietly. Turning to look at him, I catch him looking at me, and a wry smile comes to my lips. He quickly turns away, but the damage is done.

“My sister Clarice is three years older, and my brother Joshua five years younger,” I whisper to him.

Though he’s still pointedly not looking at me, I can see his frown. Really, it’s a pout, and it’s quite adorable.

For today, nothing else need be said.