Now that I’m settling into a routine and always have something to do, time seems to pass in the blink of an eye. One moment, I’m looking over Evan’s stitching and sketching ideas for his sister’s present, the next it’s Tuesday afternoon, being put into a group by Ms Rowhook for water magic practice.

It’s not the same group as sleepy prince, perhaps because he didn’t turn up. I make a mental note to check the junior classrooms at the end of the lesson (in case he fell asleep). However, it’s a nice group, I think. Ladies Challock and Ashford (both also in my class) are with me, and a pair of seniors, Ladies Yalding and Walmer.

Really, I only think it’s a nice group because Ladies Challock and Yalding come to the café, and so I afford their friends the benefit of the doubt. At least, I think Lady Walmer is Lady Yalding’s friend. It might be they’re just familiar with each other. That said, that two of them visit the café is somewhat… uncomfortable. I feel like I should try and act in a way to not arouse suspicion.

“That reminds me, there is a wonderful little store in town: Café Au Lait,” Lady Yalding says.

Oh ladies, did you have to become friends so quickly?

“What a coincidence, I often visit there myself,” Lady Challock says, talking quick with excitement, her hands coming together in a light clap. “The uniforms are so pretty, aren’t they? I often think to invite my mother to see them.”

Lady Yalding giggles, lasting longer than just a moment. “My Lady Marden did just that. When her parents came to visit, she insisted on meeting them there so she could ask for her attendants to wear something similar.”

Terri would be happy to hear that. I am too, in a way. Despite being the usual one to serve them, they’re not even mentioning “me”, properly fulfilling my role as but a mannequin.

Before their conversation goes any further, Ms Rowhook comes to our group and sets us to work. Well, loosely speaking.

“It is theorised water magic started from teas made by brewing nettles and other plants,” she says, placing two teacups beside each other on an empty seat. “Boiling the water made it safe, yet ancient peoples would have had no way to move the water until it cooled.”

No, miss, I’m sure ancient people weren’t that useless.

“So water magic became an essential part of ancient cultures, along with brewing herbal teas.”

To punctuate her (alleged) fact, she chants and moves the water from one cup to the other in a stream—about as thick as a finger. Being normal teacups, it doesn’t take her long.

With her show finished, she says, “Lady Kent is…” and looks at us.

“That would be me, miss.”

She focuses on me with a smile. “Are you familiar with the chant?” she asks.

Ah, I’m getting where this is going, I think. I say no, and so she goes back and forth with me a few times to get it right, and I try it out.

And then she leaves.

Wonderful.

I look at the other ladies in the group and, well, they look as thrilled at the situation as I am. Both Lady Yalding and Lady Walmer also went to Queen Anne’s finishing school, and so probably remember hearing of me. Maybe I’m being arrogant. Surely not every lady in the land knows to avoid me or otherwise treat me awkwardly, right?

Politely bowing (as much as I can while sitting), I say, “I hope we can get on.”

“And I,” and, “Of course,” are two replies, the other two lost to my ears as they all chose to talk at the same time.

“Well then, would anyone like to go first?” I ask.

Like a yo-yo, I go between thinking teachers have no clue what they’re doing to worshipping their incredible insight and ability (okay, I’m exaggerating a bit), and this is one of those times. From just that little time last week, Ms Rowhook managed to sniff out my ability to remember a few words and grouped me up with four people who… can’t.

It’s not really their fault. As I’ve half-said before, education is a man’s pursuit in this world. I guess women outside of the upper-class might have to learn some basics for their family job or general living, but these ladies (and I) were mostly subject to etiquette-orientated classes. Calligraphy, a spot of napkin folding, fine dining, proper greetings.

I suppose our French classes were similar to this. For historical reasons, English does have some French influence, so it’s not entirely alien. But the thing about these chants is that they’re in a completely foreign language; it’s very much like memorising a handful of random syllables.

Well, we have the best part of an hour, so I do my best. I can’t say if they do their best, but they get the hang of it. Whether we will all still remember the chant by next week, I have no idea.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Taking a detour on the way back, I check the junior classrooms. Right at the end, I spot Leo sleeping, a group of ladies sitting nearby and somewhat watching him. It’s not like they’re staring, but, in the few seconds I’m here, I see a couple of them glance over at him.

I sort of understand them. A little tall and slim, he has an elegant air about him that only seems more graceful when asleep. It’s a strangely fascinating sight that, really, reminds me of a cat stretching. (Not that I have seen a cat before.) His face is definitely on the handsome side too, doubly so when his expression is so unguarded. The way his lips sit slightly apart, his eyelashes emphasised—I would say the only reason he hasn’t been taken advantage of is that the ladies always travel in groups, thus keeping each other in line.

Of course, I wouldn’t do anything to him. Even if this world is backwards in some ways, I wouldn’t say it’s okay to kiss a boy without his permission. Besides, while he is handsome, I don’t find him attractive.

Ellie, I think, really had a block when it came to these things. The bullying began because of a boy fancying her, and she was put off the boys at her school by how they objectified her. It’s not that she was a lesbian, she just… didn’t really develop a sexual identity, I guess. She didn’t look at boys that way, she wasn’t interested in love stories, no desire for romance. That probably would have changed once she settled in to university life. Friends were her priority, everything else could wait until afterwards.

As for me, it’s not exactly that Ellie’s block has been passed on. I think I have my own. To me, love is something that happens to other people. I’d rather talk about it with Lottie, a little with (café) Len. Though single, Clarice has a lot to say too, tales of her engaged friends and such. I want to hear about all those feelings even if I might never feel them myself.

Heart beating faster, blush rising, sweaty hands, furtive glances. An idle gaze drawn to his face, a comfortable feeling at his side. The knotted tangle of desires that cannot be reasoned with.

So far, no one has moved my heart an inch in that direction. As handsome and gentle and lovely as Leo looks sleeping, as sweet with his words as Evan is, as much as Gerald has at times shown me an intimidating face, none have moved my heart, none have woven fate’s red thread around my pinky.

That’s fine by me. I’m not a big fan of leaving things to fate, after all.

“My ladies?” I say, getting the attention of the room’s other occupants. “Please do wake my lord up for supper—it is rather unpleasant to go to bed hungry, no?” With that said, I carry on back to my room.

Once again, time escapes me, one moment sewing my dress and the next heading to the earth magic class.

It’s a fairly standard lesson today, Mr Churt reminding us of our cress (I haven’t missed any of my days) and then moving on to talk at length about flowers. I guess the first lessons were general introductions, this the main course. Flower language was a thing in Victorian times, and it’s a thing here, but I don’t know if it’s the same.

For example, in this world the snowdrop is a flower meaning death—a plant that blooms when all other plants wither. It shouldn’t be brought into the house and, if you see a lone snowdrop, it’s said to foretell your soon-to-be grave.

(What a pleasant flower to be called after, mother.)

However, that “language” is more or less a hobby for rich girls, I think. My mother and Clarice have never made much a fuss of it. Ah, though, in the café, the white roses are quite fitting—meaning purity, or innocence—but maybe not so much the tulips—passion.

Maybe it’s just that I don’t have a suitor. Half the flowers are a way to convey various “flavours” of love, after all.

The lesson ends and the others file out, chatting amongst themselves. I wait for the way to clear before heading out myself.

“Lord Hastings.”

As Julian always seems to do after class, he stands by the flower garden, his nose red and eyes a touch watery. Rather than sneezy, sniffly might suit him better all things considered. I haven’t even seen or heard him sneeze once yet.

“Lady Kent,” he softly says, nodding to me.

The weather has taken on a chill recently that I worry won’t leave until spring. However, the uniform is resilient to the breeze since it covers near enough all my skin, just hands and face bare. That doesn’t save me from the cold, though, merely means I won’t freeze so long as I don’t dawdle.

You know, like I’m doing now.

My empty mind quickly filling with random thoughts, I end up asking him, “What is your sister’s name?”

“For what reason do you wish to know?”

I hum in thought, idly rubbing my hands together. “How old is she? A tea over the winter break might be a nice occasion for her and me to get to know each other.”

“And for what reason do you wish to get to know her?”

It’s funny how, even though he talks to me more harshly than Gerald, I only find his petulance endearing. I guess… it’s because he’s both speaking his mind and listening to me. That’s what annoys me about Gerald, how insistent he is on leading the conversation.

Though, maybe I’m not one to talk.

Smiling to myself, I answer Julian honestly. “Being your sister, I am sure she is a wonderful lady, and I would like to see if we may get on and become friends.”

“Are you sure this is not simply another ploy of yours? To ingratiate yourself with my sister and have her nag me to do that… chore of yours.”

I gently laugh, the wind tickling me with my own hair. After smoothing it down, I say, “I am nothing but open with you and yet you would accuse me of using ploys. Have you not run out of shame by now?”

It takes him a long moment to muster up two little words: “My apologies.”

“So you can apologise.”

“Only when it is deserved,” he mumbles.

Stray thoughts come and go while we look over the flowers in silence, until one sticks. “Say, what is your mother’s favourite flower? I shall embroider it onto a handkerchief for you to give her.”

Before his reply comes, I wonder if he’ll tell me off again, or deflect the question, or even ignore me entirely. He’s somewhat hard for me to read.

“Campanula,” he says.

“Ah, bellflowers? A rather fitting choice.”

In the flower language, they mean: gratitude.

“My sister’s name is Florence. She’s two years our junior,” he says.

“Is she cute?”

“Very much so.”

I smile to myself, wondering if Clarice would say the same if asked about me. Such doting brothers, the lot of them.

“Aren’t you going to tell me three facts about yourself?” he asks offhandedly, not really sounding at all interested.

“As if I would so easily divulge my three measurements,” I say, and take the opportunity to ready to leave. At first, I’m not sure if he even understood what I meant, but there’s a certain lack of reply, a certain tension to how he holds himself. “Well, boys your age are certainly curious about such things, so I shall forgive you this time.”

While I walk away, he says to my back, “As if I would look at you that way.”

Ah, it’s good to be young.