I don’t know when a good time to apologise to Gerald would be, that clever prince always surrounded by people. So I haven’t, not on Wednesday or Thursday. Heading to earth magic class, I do have Julian’s handkerchief, finishing that last night.

With the little sewing projects done, I started on my next dress. Since I have the green dress for reference, I’m more confident in my measurements for the pattern. However, I am adjusting them nonetheless, this colour more suited to something pretty. The embroidered “belt” gives the impression of a narrowed waist on the green dress, but this pink one will pull in, and it’ll accommodate my bust better. Not exactly sexy, but mature, a more adult dress to go with the lace-like pattern.

Anyway, earth magic class. It’s another lecture on flowers and ends with a bit on the cress—we’ll harvest it next week. I fade in and out the whole time, interested in the growing of different flowers, but not in as much detail as Mr Churt gives.

It’s as everyone files out that I set about looking to talk to sneezy prince. Though he often stops by the flowers, he chooses not to today, and so I have to quickly shuffle to catch up to him.

“Lord Hastings,” I say when near.

He slows to a stop and turns to face me. His expression is fairly flat, not even a polite smile, yet it doesn’t feel cold. While I wouldn’t call it unguarded, it seems honest. “Yes, my lady?” he says.

Rather than dally, I go right for why we’re here and take out the handkerchief to offer to him. “Is it to your standards?”

There’s other people around us, and it’s hard not to hear our names come over in the whispers. I’d been somewhat paralysed by those at the start of the year, hadn’t I? Worried how I looked and sounded talking to clever Gerald. Flirting with the future king.

Is this flirting? Yes, I guess it is. A woman giving a man a gift she made by hand, can it really be anything but indicating her interest in a relationship? Is it fair for me to put him on the spot, to say it’s a gift for his mother so that he may help me with a gift for my mother?

It’s funny, if you stop and think about the world, it becomes an awfully complicated place.

While those thoughts run through my head, he has his own. “It is nice, I suppose,” he says, closely inspecting the embroidery.

I’m pleased with how it came out. The stem stitches (for the stems) have a good, natural shape to them, and the fishbone stitches really pop-out, making the leaves look curved, then careful fly stitches and back stitches to get a good shape for the actual flowers.

Wait, is my whole life going to become sewing? Maybe I should pick up reading again….

“You… made this yourself?” he asks.

“Yes.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though not at his eyes. “It’s impressive. There is nothing like this that I could do,” he says.

“When you consider how many hours of practice I have put in, it would be embarrassing if I had no talent.”

“Then it’s impressive how many hours you practised. There is nothing I could consider devoting myself to so thoroughly.”

Yes, it takes more than a pretty face to make a “prince”, doesn’t it? Still, I don’t let myself be carried away by his words. “You accept it, then?” I ask.

His comfortable posture stiffens, gaze climbing to meet mine. “There is… a price to this, is there not?”

I gently shake my head. “This is, well, my thanks for putting up with me. I am sure my antics have rather intruded on your peace of mind.”

“You need not think so highly of yourself,” he says, giving me the most negative reassurance I’ve ever heard.

After a few giggles, I lower my hand and turn to face the school field. Even in this season of muddy weather, the grass is trimmed, markings and markers for cricket and football and athletics. The audience we had earlier has dispersed, not enough interest to stick around and watch us.

In a rather quiet voice for me, I ask, “Say, are we friends?”

“Why do you ask?”

Hey, Lottie, it’s scary to be weak, isn’t it? This isn’t like casually telling Evan about the bullying I went through and the silence that still lingers around me. That was basically badmouthing others, even if it was just the truth, and not at all about me.

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To not just ask something of someone, but to give them some measure of power of you.

“I would like to be your friend.”

It’s such a simple statement, no nuance, no hidden meanings. And it’s entirely up to him whether to meet or reject this simple desire of mine. Even though I know friendship is itself an almost ethereal thing, less a label and more a feeling, I’ve chosen to make it explicit so that I can better understand how he feels about me.

Though not a romantic confession, it’s fairly similar. I’ve made it clear I like him as a person. Does he like me? If he doesn’t, well, it would hurt to hear that from someone you like, right?

I could have just left things as they were. Kept up my silly game, telling him more about me every week. But, really, I don’t want him to just put up with me. He should know me well enough now to decide whether or not he wants to be my friend.

His reply isn’t a quick yes or no, the seconds tallying up before he asks, “Why would you even want to be my friend?” A soft voice, weak, not cracking but rough.

Unlike him, I don’t need to think about it. “I enjoy talking with you.”

“That is all?”

Turning to face him again, I’m met by an expression that looks as unsure as he sounds. An almost childish appearance like that of a lost boy.

It’s… a good reminder that people aren’t so simple. Just because he has a past doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a present. Ellie suffered, and she recovered, but it wasn’t an instant thing. In the same way, he isn’t “broken” nor “fixed”, he simply “is”. And I don’t know what that “is” is. What Ellie read in Snowdrop and the Seven Princes were just words; what’s in front of me right now is a tangle of emotions and beliefs.

What emotions, what beliefs, I’ll slowly find out the more I tease at the loose threads.

“That alone is enough for me to want to call you my friend,” I say with a smile. “If you wish to hear me talk of your good points, though, you will have to pout.”

Oh my words give him such a conflict, his lips wavering as they resist pursing together, somewhat reminiscent of a baby sucking on a pacifier. Fed up with the situation, he turns away. I can’t see his face, but his voice is just as soft as before, yet not so weak, not so rough. He asks, “Is that so?”

“Say, have you heard of a pinky promise?”

He lets out a long breath, and then shakes his head. “I have not.”

“To be concise, it is a custom where you make a promise by shaking pinkies. If you break the promise, then it is said faeries will pluck your eyelashes out one by one.”

He lightly snorts, the sound unfortunately rather unpleasant coming from a somewhat snotty nose; a sniffle shortly follows. “What of it?”

“Shall we pinky promise to be friends? Nothing more, nothing less than that.”

“Doesn’t that sound rather childish?”

“Yes, it does.”

He doesn’t snort this time, but his hand shoots up to cover his mouth, something of a cough escaping him. Slowly, he turns around. His nose is red, eyes watery, but that could be due to the pollen.

I’m not so sure myself.

Holding up my pinky to him, I ask again, “Would you be my friend?”

In the silence, I try not to overthink. A few seconds pass like that. Then, I don’t know if it would be easier for him to shake my pinky or say yes, but he goes for the former. Such a small finger compared to Evan’s. Cold, from the chill in the air.

And unlike when I made the promise with Evan, there’s no sudden appearance of fluttering lights. One of my stray thoughts had been that pinky promise were, well, real, and I saw the faeries who witnessed it or something like that. (It didn’t happen when I made one with Gwen, so I already doubted this theory.)

Oh well, I don’t need any witness other than him and me for this.

With how he looks, I don’t want to draw the moment out too long, so I shake his pinky three times before letting go. “The promise is made, then.”

It’s not that he’s upset or anything (I would even say he looks a bit happy), but… he looks tired. I really am a lot more trouble than I’m worth, thankful that no one has quite realised that just yet. Really, of all the things to happen, I bet he didn’t wake up this morning and expect this.

Would he have been happier with Eleanor? I don’t know. Love, it probably has the power to heal. I do have this fundamental belief that people are happiest when together, and love is a way for those afraid of people (in one way or another) to be, well, pushed forward, to learn to trust and all that.

If it was Eleanor in front of him, wouldn’t she find a way to open up his heart?

I guess I shouldn’t think of it that way. Regardless of what conclusion I come to, it can only be Nora in front of him. I can’t love him like Eleanor did. I can’t be someone he loves like he loved Eleanor (in the story).

But I can still be important to him.

“Say, now we’re friends, would you help me get a snowdrop for my mother?”

He doesn’t laugh, or shake his head. All I notice is his lips making a gentle smile. “You said her birthday is early February, is that right?” he asks.

“Yes. Though, it would be a fine gift for Yule, would it not? There are cultivars that flower earlier in winter.”

His gaze slides to the floor beside me. “You haven’t been idle,” he says.

“I read up on some flowers for embroidery and thought to check, that’s all,” I say truthfully. Before deciding on the rabbit for Evan’s sister, I looked at the flower (flowers, in this case) for her birth month, but daisies are a bit plain and sweet peas a bit fiddly. “Is that a yes, then?”

He gestures with his hand something like, “Sure,” or, “Whatever,” before he finally asks, “What use can I even be?”

“Well, I have little spare time on the weekend. If you could find a place in town that sells snowdrops, I would be thankful. Or if your mother knows a good seller and would reserve one on my behalf. Anything you can think of, really. I am somewhat brushed up on caring for one, so I simply need to actually purchase it.”

He nods along. “I see.”

Smiling to myself, I think it’s nice to have him be a little gentler with me. He was so quick to retort before. However, it’s also nice when he retorts. Is that strange? It sounds strange to me, saying I like someone however they treat me. Maybe that’s because I’m phrasing it wrong.

I mean, I’ve already thought about this: I like it when he listens and is honest with me. Whether that honesty comes in sharp words or gentle tones, I don’t mind.

The cold getting to me, my musings are interrupted by a shiver, rubbing some warmth into my hands. Then I put everything we’ve talked about into one little sentence.

“I will take my leave, but I hope to see you next week.”

After a short pause, he says, “And you.”

How much nicer those two words sound compared to normal.