After dinner, I go watch the bonfire be lit. There’s not much to do but talk in the evenings, so there’s a small crowd, maybe forty or so of us—about a fifth of the students. Of course, they’re all here with friends while I’m huddled by myself. I didn’t ask Evan if he was coming, so, well, I doubt he’d come by himself. Would anyone else? Grumpy Cyril might, looking for inspiration for his poetry, though the light isn’t great for writing (same reason I’m not sewing out here). Sneezy Julian, can’t say one way or the other (other than, like Evan, he probably doesn’t have any friends to come here with). Sleepy Leo…. Considering he naps all day, does he stay up late doing something?

Well, my thoughts help me pass the time while the last of the wood is put on, straw stuffed into the gaps. There’s no petrol or anything, but there’s a type of oil pressed from nuts that’s used for lamps (becoming outdated because of light magic enchantments), and that oil is liberally poured on top as the final touch.

A quiet falls.

Lights from the school building keep away the darkness where we all are, yet the field is pitch black, all the darker for our eyes adjusted to the dim light around us. So it’s easy to see when a flaming torch emerges. From what I’ve picked up, there’s a tall hill just outside the town where the first bonfire is started (using only yew logs and kindling); the school, town and church then have their own bonfires which are lit from this fire. Then there’s the relighting of all fireplaces (in the dormitories, in the houses in town) from these three main ones.

I’m well dressed for the cold. As “Nora”, I have expensive gloves and thick stockings and full-length coats. However, there’s nothing for my nose, not until that flaming torch reaches the bonfire, flames taking to the oil in a rush, a burst of heat that (as far from it as I am) feels hot on my face, and I hear the woosh of the fire, crackles and pops.

For such a dense pile of wood, it catches quick. Once most of the oil has burned, the flames calm down, and they let us shuffle nearer—near enough that I can once more feel the heat on my face.

I take off my gloves (no pockets, but I brought my handbag and keep it at my feet), hold my hands out, and go through the little song and dance of having one side get so hot it prickles while the other cools, turning them around when it gets too much, or rubbing the warmth into my cheeks.

Fire…. My mother would read to us, her sitting in an armchair while we huddled around the fireplace. A cup of warm milk. Hard to keep big houses warm, especially in the middle of winter. I don’t spend any time in the dormitory’s lounge, so I’ve not sat in front of a fire since the Yule break last year.

Ah, it’s nice. Calm and relaxing.

I end up hanging around until the teachers send us in for curfew (the nine of us still here). And I sleep well.

Wednesday, I wake up to mail from home. I mean, it’s not the first time, me sending a letter one week and the family (my mother and Clarice usually, adding in what Joshua has told them in his latest letter, a few words from my father) sending one back the next week.

However, today’s is special. It’s my birthday!

Well, I say that, but I mean: It’s my birthday. There’s nothing particularly exciting that can be done since I’m at boarding school. Still, the warm words are… nice.

“Thank you for being our precious child.”

I could read that all day, my mother’s flowery script, father’s squiggly signature.

A routine from my time at Queen Anne’s, we’ll have a “birthday party” when I go home for the winter break. (I guess wait for Joshua if his term dates are different.) So there’s no presents for me right now. That’s fine, though. I’d much rather open the gifts in front of my family anyway.

Otherwise, it’s just another day. Though, my gaze often ends up sliding to the window, to the distant glow and smoke.

“Will you be going out to the bonfire?” I ask Evan at morning break.

He sort of sighs. “I suppose on Friday,” he mumbles.

“Well, if you decide to go sooner, I’ll probably be there tonight and tomorrow,” I say.

I’m rather kind, you know? Asking him this way to not pressure him while still letting him know my plans.

He doesn’t say any more, but does end up joining me there when evening comes. We don’t really talk much. I mean, we never do—he’s not all that talkative. But… it’s nice. I’ve been thinking that a lot recently, and I think that means I’m doing the right things.

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Memories. Some happy, some warm, some funny. I guess even the bad ones. When Lottie and Beth and Rosie left the manor, the sadness I felt was because I liked them, you know? If I went my life without liking anyone, then I wouldn’t ever feel hurt, but I would miss out on all the little moments.

The fun tea parties I had with Lottie, the tasty snacks Beth baked me. I was a bit too old to be as close to Rosie, too aware of my status, but she brushed my hair really gently, and picked out such nice clothes for me to wear. I remember feeling so pretty.

And Violet. I’ve never really thought of it this way, but I guess I should have expected us to grow apart? She and Eleanor were on such bad terms in the story. Yet I wouldn’t do anything different if given another (a third?) chance. Oh she said the most nasty things and looked down on me all the time, but isn’t it just adorable when a child does that? Too embarrassed by her own feelings, tongue dishonest, unable to say what she wants to say, awkward in how she says things.

It’s funny, she’s grown up so much but that part of her is still mostly the same.

Thursday brings me to the earth magic class. As Mr Churt said last week, our groups take it in turns to “harvest” the cress. It’s not quite like the cress Ellie grew. By now, it’s twice as tall as that cress and, rather than just a stalk with a few leaves at the end, it’s, well, more like a bush, the stem splitting a few times, making the whole thing a tangled mess.

We, that is, Julian uses a small sickle to cut the stalks near the soil. After rinsing it in clean water, he gently splits the bush-like thing into half (one half for him, one for me), and we tear off the leaves into a pot. From what Mr Churt says, the leaves are dried out and then crumbled to make one of the commonfolk’s basic spices. Ellie’s cress was kind of planty and a bit mustardy, but (apparently) this cress is more like pepper (as in peppercorns). The leftover stalks are added to sandwiches or soups. Well, I don’t know what’ll happen to our stuff, either be thrown out, or maybe the kitchen will use them. I don’t know.

It only takes a short while to do, and then we’re left to wait in the outside chill as the rest of the groups have their turn.

The silence doesn’t settle.

“I asked my mother if she happens to know a seller,” Julian says, not exactly looking at me. No, he is (as nearly always) looking at flowers nearby.

“Wonderful, thank you.”

“Thank me after you get your flower,” he replies, a wry smile on the half of his face I can see.

I giggle at that. Ah, you know, I always think of it as giggling, but I’m old enough now I should mature to something more befitting. Chuckle sounds so boyish, though, as does chortle. Do they have thesauruses here? Snickering or cackling, no, I guess titter isn’t too bad a fit, but it’s not too good a fit either.

Well, it doesn’t matter. I know what sound I make when I laugh, and it’s an elegant laugh, a few short notes, a little higher of a pitch than my normal voice. Not a childish giggle.

Moving on, I say, “Surely I should thank her at that time?”

I lean forwards a bit to better catch the twitch at my words.

“Though I didn’t specify, I am sure she will think it is for a male friend of mine, and I would rather it stayed that way,” he says, his tone flat.

“Oh.”

That sound hangs in the air for a long moment, until he can’t help but ask, “Pray tell me you haven’t already sent her a correspondence?”

“No, no, of course I haven’t,” I say quickly, gently shaking my head.

He lets out a long sigh, the relief evident.

“I sent one to your sister.”

His eyes snap closed, face twisted into a grimace, and his hands come up to try and rub away the expression to no avail. “What did you write to her?”

Oh it’s just too cute, makes me want to pat his head and tell him everything will be okay. He’d probably hate me if I did that. (Not really hate me, but he’d say he hates me and go off in a grump. Probably.) Really, I might have to tell my mother I’d like to marry someone shorter than me when the time comes: he just looks the perfect height for me to hug and rest my chin on top of his head.

Anyway, I put on a polite smile—not that he’s looking at me.

“Nothing much. I simply said I was an acquaintance of yours and that I hoped she and I could have the chance to meet over the break, offering hospitality if she too wishes so.”

His deep breath this time looks more pained than relieved. “And you sent that when?”

“Well, the morning after I asked after her, so two weeks ago tomorrow.”

“And you sent that to my estate?”

I shake my head. “No, of course not. She’s at Queen Anne’s, yes? I sent it there.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and I really do worry he’ll leave a mark. “How do you know she attends there?”

“Well, it would be strange for her not to,” I say, tilting my head. “Or rather, when you told me she was two years younger than us, I thought over the first-years I had seen last year and one of them did look quite similar to you.”

For some reason, he looks paler than just the cold would do.

Mumbling to himself, he says, “She wouldn’t say anything to mama, would she?”

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh—mama, is it?

Since he’s likely doing the maths, I do too. Say I sent the letter two weeks ago, and she got it after a few days, and then wrote home (mentioning my letter) a few more days later. And say he sent his letter home last week after talking to me. That would mean that both letters got to his home around the same time, wouldn’t it?

Oh Julian, this is going to be a fun holiday for you, isn’t it?

“If it would help you feel better, you can write a letter to my sister. I should warn you, though, she rather enjoys teasing others—far more than I do.”

Ah, now that I think about it, what is her type? It would be an incredible sight to see her dote on Julian. Well, it might look more like mother and son (if he doesn’t grow much taller, her already being on the tall side).

“I shall decline,” he says, his tone measured. “My luck runs thin from the little we see each other as is, I would hardly risk the little left.”

After nodding along, I say, “That is probably for the best.”

“Finally, something we agree on.”