Friday morning break, I prepare for a quick nap only to see clever prince stand up. Despite hoping with all my heart, he turns around and looks at me. Oh well. I gather my dwindling determination and sit up straight, readying a pleasant smile for him.

“Sir Ventser,” I say, bowing my head.

“Lady Kent,” Gerald replies, bowing his head.

There’s an air of reluctance around him, his focus not entirely on me as his gaze settles on an empty spot, and it’s as if I can see his ears perking up. I don’t exactly pay attention to much of the goings on in the class, but I’m fairly sure he usually keeps to his group of friends. Yet here he is. I doubt the others have failed to notice this, no doubt that they know about the bet he put forward last time; the class was mostly empty, but not entirely so, on Tuesday. Though I say that, I think they weren’t actually people from our class, just making use of the room in the break since it’s on the ground floor.

Anyway, I am sure he will be more behaved today. It wouldn’t do to start undue rumours. Well, that’s his problem, not mine. Or, no, I don’t want to upset Violet, so I guess I should behave too. Never mind, there’s plenty of other lords to tease.

He sets himself with a breath. “In regards to our wager,” he says, his stern voice notably not carrying across the room for a change.

“In what regards?” I ask.

His mouth pressing into a thin line, I guess I wasn’t supposed to speak in that little pause he left. Oops.

“I have the tests. Shall we take them at the end of the day?” he asks.

Don’t make a joke about being taken. Don’t! “Can we not do them over the weekend? I have embroidery club and, to be honest, I would rather not sit around for another three hours after lessons any day of the week.”

He was a lot better at controlling his expressions at the start of term. I can’t imagine why that changed. “What merit is there in a test where you can simply copy out the answer?”

I click my tongue, here another guy as careless as Julian. “If you are to accuse me of cheating so readily, then I feel entitled to point out that you have already seen the questions. However, I am not so petty, and instead will simply say either I do it over the weekend or not at all.”

Though I can’t see Evan, I can hear his stilted breaths of held back laughter, no doubt covering his mouth. He really is very entertained when he himself is not the one I’m talking to. Can’t imagine why.

Gerald has a deep breath before replying. “I simply feel that such conditions do not show ones ability.”

Not only do I look him in the eye, I cross my arms. “I made my position explicitly clear.”

“However, a compromise—”

“No.”

It takes him a second to process that, and he looks more surprised than angry when he says, “Pardon?”

“Is it you or I who came to the other’s desk and asked for them to put aside three hours of free time to satisfy personal feelings?” I ask, a weight to my voice that it usually lacks. “Do not forget I am doing you a favour.”

If looks could kill, well, I can give back as good as I get, staring him down. More of an audience this time, his self-control is more easily remembered, and his resistance quickly crumbles, the annoyance on his face scrubbed off.

“Very… well,” he says, spitting out both words with great difficulty.

“Then, if you could get me the papers by the end of the day, and good day to you.”

I don’t get any parting words in reply, but I still send him off with a sweet smile. To him, it may look sickly sweet, but that’s all in his head.

He does do what I ask and drops off the exam papers (without a word) at the end of lunch. For now, I stick them in my bag, sort of folded in half. Then, as always, Friday afternoons are like a bad joke taken too far, an hour of walking around the campus (on my own while all the other ladies chat away in their groups) before an hour of trying to stay awake in accounting. Considering that Mr Milton is only going over the exam and that I got every question correct, you’d think I could be given permission to skip.

Well, I’m not going to ask him that. My only goal in class is to avoid detention, so I behave, I do the homework, and I make an attempt at exams. Particularly as a lady, it’s not like I can be held back a year for bad grades. My family doesn’t care either, so, like I’ve had to say a few times already, what’s the point? No university to apply to, no jobs. It really is a better use of my time to sew than study.

The bell tolls, sixth period finally over. I pack up and wait for Evan, the two of us shuffling through the rush to the reference building and waiting outside the clubroom for Ms Berks.

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Though I thought about bringing the dress pieces to work on, I decided not to. A disguise works best when no one knows about it. Besides, I won’t finish the embroidery today, never mind stitching it all together, so a little break is fine.

And that choice is somewhat rewarded, a timid knock on the door coming a few minutes after we sat down.

Smiling to myself, I loudly say, “Come in!”

The door opens ajar, Lady Horsham poking her face through. “Pardon the intrusion,” she mumbles, stepping inside, and she closes the door behind her before awkwardly standing there.

There’s a lot of different things I could say, but the only thing I want to say is: “Welcome back.”

She smiles at that.

I pat the seat beside me and she indulges, neatly sitting down while her gaze avoids Evan. I wonder if there’s anything to that or if she’s simply as shy as him. For ladies raised in girls-only schools, I am sure men appear to be something of another species—especially if certain romance stories are used as reference material.

Anyway, I pick up a delicate thread of conversation, winding her up in it. “Are you here to practise braiding some more?” I ask.

“Oh, um, yes,” she says, her hands fidgeting.

I idly pick at the few spools of thread I have out, wondering what little handicraft we might make this time. She didn’t put the strap on her bag (unless I missed it), but perhaps a bookmark? Two black threads and one gold, that would come out nice.

“That is,” she says unprompted, pulling me from my thoughts. “I have… practised with the, um, string you gave me last time. I tried to do my hair, but the results….”

“Oh yes, it is something else entirely,” I say. Bringing my hand up, I undo the ribbon holding my ponytail in shape and then lightly comb through my hair with my fingers. “Here, do watch, but bear in mind I have been doing this for most of my life.”

Even without a mirror, I have a lot of muscle memory for this and a good feel for how it should feel. Setting the parting, making the bunches—I breeze through it, only to realise I should probably slow down and let her follow it. Or, no, I’ll do it and she copies me? But it would be easier for her to practise on my hair and then do it on her own hair when she has the hang of it and a mirror.

Rather than explain anything, I’m busy thinking the whole time and finish off quick, notably so considering I didn’t use spirit magic. Well, it happens.

When I look at her, she has a strangely serious expression, and I can only imagine she wore it the whole time as she watched me braid my hair. It’s a funny thought.

“Should I do it again more slowly?” I ask. “Or, should we start with a simpler braid? Perhaps just a strip.”

“I… don’t know.”

After a short chuckle, I start loosening my hair. I guess I should bring a brush with me from now on. Small steps, I choose to start with showing her how to braid a small strip of hair. Though her hair is long enough for her to practise on herself fairly easily, there isn’t a mirror here and I want her to start from the roots, so that makes things tricky. As such, I let her practise with my hair.

She only tugs a little before learning how much strength to use.

Focused on the job, she barely speaks more than soft apologies. However, I think this is, in a way, bringing us closer than any talking could. If we had to talk, wouldn’t she be overly conscious of how she has treated me? As I’ve said, I don’t mind about that stuff, but that doesn’t mean she knows that—that she’d believe me if I told her. It’s the sort of thing anyone would say because they don’t want to seem weak.

So, what we’re doing now, I think is better. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but there’s… a bond, right? There’s something between us that’s the foundation on which we can build trust. Even if she can’t trust my words, I am still sitting here, helping her.

And even if I shouldn’t have trusted her to begin with, here she is, working diligently. There’s definitely much easier ways to make fun of me. She’s still just a beginner at braiding, but I can tell how much effort she’s put in since the last time. Using me… isn’t really possible. I mean, I’m helping her because I like helping people. Being a helpful person is something within my control. Being liked is different, dependent on other people. So, to me, it doesn’t matter if she learns to braid and then treats me badly.

Or even simpler, I miss spending girl-time with my sister and mother, so just having my hair braided is enough to soften some of that loneliness. I could ask a maid to do my hair, and that may also help these feelings, but there’s still Ellie’s “voice” in the back of my head like a conscience, making me not want to overly rely on maids.

That’s another reason why my weekend job is so precious to me. I can talk with other girls, and, now my pride has settled down, it’s nice when Terri puts on my makeup for me. The little chats with Lottie, the hugs from Gwen are also important.

At my old school, I had to make do with chatting to a few of the maids that sometimes came to the handicrafts club. Maybe that’s when I started to really admire Lottie (and Rosie, etc.) as I started to better understand what it actually meant to be a maid. I knew about the long hours and having to sometimes attend to people who really didn’t deserve it, but, well, I realised the maids were only as old as my sister. Now, they’re my age. Even with Ellie’s common sense, it’s pretty incredible. At sixteen, she maybe heard of one or two other students working, and that was only (very) part-time.

My job, well, it’s challenging, but it’s been fair so far. Nice customers and co-workers, not, like, super intensive work. Only a little like actually working as a maid. Besides, I’m pretty much doing it for fun since I could just ask my father for an allowance.

Fun, huh. Bettering myself…. Unlike most, I am fortunate enough that I can choose what I think is best for me to do.

My thoughts fizzle out there. I pay more attention to Lady Horsham, properly helping her for the rest of the hour. She really is getting better and it reminds me of Gwen and her cross-stitch. However, they both have a long way to go, but, for now at least, Lady Horsham says she will continue practising. There’s a mirror in her room, so she can practise with her own hair whenever she wants.

Looking over at Evan, his gaze set firmly to the table and not my loose hair, I wonder if he feels neglected. On Monday, I should have a proper check on how he’s doing. We can start thinking up what designs his sister would like and look for those sorts of patterns. A favourite animal or flower, or maybe a food—that might be a funny present. Pull out a handkerchief and, rather than a beautiful rose, there’s a pasta-and-veg dish on it.

Silly thoughts aside, I leave the club happy. I’ve been happy for a long time, pretty much my whole life except when I started the finishing school, but it’s feeling like a fuller happiness these days.

I’m looking forward to see just how full it can get.