By Saturday, my new dress is done. The embroidery took up most of the time, but I made sure to properly do all the stitching, seams strong and neat. Just in case, I have a small sewing kit with me. A dark green, brightened by apple blossoms. It comes down to my ankles and goes all the way to my wrists, the neckline high, yet still shows off some of my shape. Modest, I would say. A modest dress.

I’m excited to wear it and can’t help but leave for town early. Though it’s thinner than my old dresses, the cold isn’t a problem as long as I’m moving. Fortunately, (maid) Len is better with directions than me, able to lead us to Lottie’s house.

Early, I said, but it’s still after eight, and so I worry as I knock—Lottie is usually a rather busy person.

“Coming!”

Smiling to myself, I take a step back so she can have a proper look at my outfit when she opens the door.

“Ah, Ellie?” Lottie says, her head poking through the door. “Please, if you would.” She gestures inside, opening the door that little more.

But… my dress?

Pouting, I shuffle inside, dismissing Len with a quick, “You may go,” and a bow of my head in thanks.

“May I get miss something? A hot cup of tea?” Lottie asks, tapping through to the kitchen in short, quick strides.

A compliment for my dress, with a topping of praise for my sewing, please—as if I could ask for something so self-indulging. “I am fine for the moment, thank you.”

“Then a seat? I am afraid I wasn’t expecting company, so—”

The way she’s talking, how she’s dithering, I can’t help but interrupt her and ask, “Lottie, is something the matter?”

She stills, finally takes a moment to collect herself. “No, miss. Sorry to worry you.”

I’d like to give her a hug, her denial far from believable. It’s strange, though, since I can’t think of what could make her agitated like this. Really, it reminds me of when I dropped a glass, and I went to tidy a piece up, but she shouted at me—proper yelled—to leave it alone lest I cut myself. It left quite the impression, the only time I ever saw her so upset and frightened, pale as a ghost.

Wait. “Where is Gwen?” I softly ask.

Lottie cringes, awkwardly smiles. “Ah, I’ve been seen through so easily,” she says, more to herself than me. After another deep breath, she carries on. “She stayed over at a friend’s house last night. Honestly, I barely slept, watching the fire burn to embers and ashes, knitting by the light of the moon.”

Oh gosh, she’s adorable. Her mannerisms and the nervousness to her speech, it’s like she’s a schoolgirl talking of love, and the unusual blush to her cheeks makes her look ten years younger. It’s no wonder Gwen is so cute, simply taking after her mother.

“Is this the first time?” I ask.

Lottie shakes her head. “She stays with his parents now and then. And we’ve been back to see my folks a few times and she gets on well with my sister and nieces, so a couple days we went to pick her up only to find her already asleep.”

My, I can imagine that. Little Gwen running herself ragged and passing out while sitting by the fire.

With a sigh, Lottie moves through to the lounge, and I follow her. While she sits on the couch, I take the armchair. My eyes wandering across the décor, I ask, “Do you knit much?”

“Ah, not so much these days. Your mother actually recommended it to me—before I left,” she says lightly, a nostalgic smile left behind.

“She did?”

A flush creeping up her neck, Lottie talks to her knees. “She said that I would surely find myself with too much free time when with child. Indeed I did, so I took up knitting, and it became something of a… reassuring hobby. Something to keep my hands busy when my mind can’t stay quiet.”

While what she said was very sweet, I do wonder about that blushing. “Is that all my mother said?”

As if I am too bright, her head turns away. “It seems that every maid who leaves for marriage enjoys a certain… talk with your mother. No doubt, when it is your turn to leave the house, you will hear what she has to say on those matters.”

“Ah, so it was that kind of talk,” I say, nodding.

Slowly turning back, she has a wry smile. “Like mother, like daughter,” she says.

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I giggle at that, the sentiment all too true. Then, wanting to make the most of this good mood, I ask her something that’s been on my mind recently. “Say, what’s it like to have your heart beat fast?”

“Pardon?” she says, I guess what I said not at all clear.

But it’s not like I know what I’m asking either. “When you fell in love, and you saw him, your heart beat quicker, didn’t it?”

“Yes?”

“What was that like? Like, did it ache, or was it like you could feel it pounding against your ribs?”

Her gaze drifts away from me, settling on the fireplace opposite her. Rather than laugh at me or give me an offhand answer, she looks to be seriously thinking, her hand coming up to lightly press against her chest.

“For me at least, it was a lot like anxiety. I don’t think my heartbeat was all that noticeably different, but I became self-conscious, drawn into myself. My vision narrowed, thoughts turned hectic and messy, and I was aware of my pulse beating in my ears, my breathing. I felt hot and cold at the same time. As much as my hands fidgeted, they couldn’t find a comfortable position, and I worried for the sweat no matter how much I wiped them. I wanted to look at him, yet became all too embarrassed when I did—worse still when our gazes met. I forgot how to smile as I normally did and my tensed throat couldn’t speak like normal either.”

Yes, I would know if I felt something like that, wouldn’t I? “It doesn’t sound all that pleasant.”

She softly laughs, covering her mouth. “It’s rather refreshing, actually,” she says. “When the moment passes, your body feels so light and your mind so clear. All those little worries are swept aside, any lingering tiredness gone, like a cool breeze on a summer’s day.”

After a moment of thinking over what she said, I ask, “Do you often read to Gwen?”

So the morning goes, just the two of us talking about whatever pops into my head, and sometimes hers. Usually, the only things she asks me is how my family are doing and (since I often poke my nose into her love life) how Evan is. She’s not particularly subtle with her insinuations in asking me about him, but I’m not at all flustered or bothered. I mean, I threatened sneezy prince with introducing myself to his mother precisely because I know how it looks for a teenaged boy and girl to be friends, so this is, in a way, my just desserts. (Not that I planned on going through with my threat.)

By the time for us (well, me) to go, she’s calmed down to her usual self. “Wait, you are going out like that?” she asks, both of us by the door.

I look down at myself. “Yes?”

“It is a lovely dress, but you must be freezing,” she says, already halfway to the stairs.

Knowing the battle is already lost, I leave her to whatever it is she’s doing.

A short time later, she quickly taps down the stairs. “Here we go,” she says, handing me something knitted. It’s not quite a scarf, too wide, yet too narrow for a blanket?

“What is it?” I ask.

“Gwen’s baby blanket,” she says, plucking it back from me only to drape it around my shoulders. “However, I have rather taken to using it as a shawl.”

It’s a nice colour and I say as much, the same dark shade as Gwen’s eyes and highlights and not all too different from my dress. When I think of it like that, maybe it wasn’t a coincidence I chose such an earthy shade of green.

“I like it too,” she says, her hands lingering on the corners of the “shawl”. After a moment, she lets go and lets out a sigh. “You know, I think you should have it.”

“Oh I couldn’t possibly,” I say, only to be silenced by her look.

“She has no need of it now while you rather do, and it goes well with your dress, and it is nearly your birthday, so think of this as an early present from us this year.”

As always, things sound very convincing coming from her. “Really?”

“Of course,” she says, smiling. However, barely a moment passes before she gasps. “Don’t tell me, is this the dress you made?”

I want to laugh, but it’s like the laughter is too big to fit out my mouth, stuck in my throat. “It is.”

Without any reservation, she tickles my waist with her light touches on the embroidery before moving onto my arms. “Ah, little Nora really has grown into an incredible woman, hasn’t she?” she mumbles to herself.

Despite hoping to hear that praise all along, it’s awfully embarrassing, my face heating up, more so with every extra second she spends inspecting the embroidery.

“Even the stitching?” she asks, testing the seam at the side.

“Yes. Though, it’s hardly a difficult thing to sew.”

She steps back, showing me a gentle smile. “That may be true, yet how many go out their way to so carefully measure and cut and stitch?” she asks. “When miss Nora decides to do something, she surely puts her all into it.”

I’m sure I must be red enough to glow in the dark, cheeks painfully hot. “We should be going.”

When we reach the café, it’s still early for my shift, but Terri’s here to check the uniforms and Iris is setting the tables and Neville’s inspecting the kitchen.

However, the girls’ work is quickly interrupted.

“Oh my, let me see,” Terri says when I enter the changing room, and her excited tone draws in Iris from the other room. “I haven’t seen this dress in any of the stores—did you buy it in another town?”

“No. I, um, sewed it myself,” I say quietly, finding their stares a lot harder to deal with than Lottie’s.

Those words really grab Terri’s attention. Rather shameless, she has no issue with tugging at this bit and that, testing stitches with her nail, just about wiping her nose on me as she runs her eye down the seam at my side. It’s only when Neville (I guess coming to see what the fuss is) coughs in the doorway and closes the door that Terri pulls herself away from me.

“Professional curiosity,” she says politely.

I giggle, a kind of relief flooding me now the strange moment has passed. I wonder if this feeling is like what Lottie mentioned? Light, clear-headed, a bubbly happiness.

“You never mentioned you can sew,” Iris says, still inspecting the embroidery but from a more reasonable distance than her mother was. “I’m pretty envious, since I take after papa.”

Ah, I didn’t really think of her as a clumsy person before, but maybe she is? But she’s never dropped a plate or anything….

Before I can get changed, Len joins us—here rather early for a change. So I’m treated to another bout of staring and questions, another burst of mild embarrassment and shyness. It… really does feel nice to be praised, praised for something I really tried hard at.

For all that clever prince’s talking, how did he feel when the teacher called his name, when he saw that mark on his paper? I’m not saying he didn’t feel this way, just wondering. If I felt proud of my marks, I wouldn’t mind studying, but I don’t so I won’t. I’d rather sew dresses and embroider handkerchiefs, and work here at the café, and be Evan’s friend.

That’s what makes me happy.