I come into Monday unsure what the lessons will be like for the rest of term. At Queen Anne’s, we only had end-of-year written tests and some practical exams during the year. It’s a lot better to watch us have a meal to ensure we have the proper manners, right?

Evan (and most of the class) look to be in better spirits at any rate. Mr Milton, on the other hand, looks rather tired when he comes in for registration, his voice even softer than usual when he calls out our names and marks us present. The morning lessons end up “cancelled”, teachers telling us to quietly amuse ourselves while they spend the session marking papers. That’s how most of the day goes, the only exception being Mr Leicester who decides that we’re all rather terrible at writing openers and has a few “good” students read out the first paragraph of their creative writing exams.

Obviously, I’m not chosen. It’s silly to think that reading books makes you a good writer and I’m hardly creative to begin with. My family might think I am, but all that stuff I “made up” when I was a kid was just borrowed from Ellie’s world.

At the last bell, I wonder if embroidery club will still be on. Last time, she didn’t cancel it and, when I went on the Wednesday to do my dress, she marked work there.

Well, it’s not like Evan and I have anything better to do, so we go and we wait and we happily go in when Ms Berks turns up with a briefcase. Inside the room, she quickly opens the briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers, taking up the second table as her own. I hope Cyril doesn’t mind sharing (if he comes).

At a sort of mental block with my Friendship piece, I get started on designing other patterns for the (if she remembers to book a room) exhibit. I haven’t exactly decided on making dresses for it—I could ask her to buy some and then embroider them. The club probably has a budget that’s at least a pound and that can go a long way for plain, simple dresses. I’d rather embroider flat pieces of cloth and then stitch them together, though, so I guess I should ask her to buy large enough fabrics for that.

Working on my green and pink dresses has helped me somewhat understand how embroidery looks on clothes. I can’t (or rather shouldn’t) think of it as just a different shape than a square or a circle. There’s also what she suggested I do: go and look at dresses in town. Am I making dresses or artwork? That is, am I making patterns that look good to wear or that look good to see? It still sounds weird to ask myself that. Um, a better way…. Do I want to make pretty dresses or make pretty pictures that happen to be on dresses?

I’m sure I want to do the former, but I only have (nearly) two dresses of experience. I should try and remember to ask Lottie to show me some of the posher clothes shops this weekend. At home, I have some embroidered clothes, but it’s mostly adding frills and such, the fashion at the moment more to do with patterned fabrics—at least for “children”. Maybe Clarice and my mother have some I can look at?

Lost in my work, I only notice Lady Horsham when she enters my peripheral vision, not hearing the door open and close. Brightening up, I say, “Hullo, my lady.”

My greeting catching her before she sat down, she politely curtseys first. “Good day,” she says.

I look at her closely. She hasn’t really experimented any more than that small braid, but it is still a pretty braid. Though, now I think of it, even after some thirty years of combined life experience I’m not entirely sure what the purpose of prettying ourselves up is, a sort of mess of wanting to feel attractive and wanting those we find attractive to look at us and, well, I don’t know.

Ellie wanted to hurry and grow up so she could escape the bullying and used her appearance to, like, fulfil that desire. To me, it’s similar to how I don’t want to trip or to stumble over my words in front of other people. It feels good to go through a day without making those kinds of mistakes, and I like it when I see my nicely groomed appearance in the mirror.

I shake off those thoughts. As long as I don’t cross into vanity, I should be fine.

We naturally fall into a sort of watch-and-teach routine. She combs out her hair (her own brush) and then starts to neatly braid it like I did for her the first time—a Dutch side braid. I just offer tips and hold her compact at a good angle while she does.

She’s a bit slow, but because of that she’s not clumsy. I think she has it near enough mastered (and I’m feeling rather useless), so we start incorporating spirit magic into the braiding. She may only have a little talent for it, yet a little goes a long way.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

A thought occurs to me that spirit magic was perhaps for weaving to begin with. It’s not much help with sewing, but good at braiding and that’s close to weaving, right?

At the end of the hour, Lady Horsham leaves as promptly as always and oh does she walk swiftly. Can’t be seen with me, or something petty like that I morbidly think. I check the library for Cyril and see he’s not there either. Well, everyone takes a day off from their hobby now and then—except me.

Evan accompanies me back. I’ve taken to wearing the hair clip he gave me, and I’ve noticed him noticing it, and I’m reminded of old thoughts. What Iris said, I would like to marry a man I consider a friend. There’s certainly worse men I could marry, probably few better. But the worry that itches in my head, small yet irritating, is that it may hurt him if I can’t return his feelings.

I don’t know. That seems to be a very “Ellie” problem, or perhaps it’s better to call it a modern problem. It’s hard to put to words, but it’s like there’s an emphasis on actions over emotions here. That I love him so long as I “go through the motions” as a wife.

Even though it sounds wrong to me, maybe I am the one who’s wrong. It makes sense that we of a certain status can only ask for the appearance of love.

Anyway, I should put it from my mind before it makes me depressed. The short of it is that I’m still years from such a problem and Evan hasn’t really done anything to indicate he’s broken our “promise” not to fall in love with each other.

I finish the embroidery work on the dress over the evening. All that’s left is to stitch it all together, neaten the seams, sew a few posies for Gwen. Nearly the end of term, I have to make sure I spend enough time with her to tide me over Yule.

The next day ebbs and flows, one minute lasting an hour and then an hour lasting a minute, my head in all sorts of places. Evan hasn’t said anything about it, but I see him eating lunch with Cyril. I’m a little envious. Although there’s not a rule against lords and ladies sitting together, there might as well be. I could maybe get away with joining Cyril since we’re family, but a meal is awfully intimate, far different from a man and woman chatting as they stand by a buffet table at a ball.

Not wanting to interfere, I don’t ask Evan about it after lunch.

Come the end of the day, I shuffle over to the water magic classroom. While the weather is miserable, the room is actually quite nice. It’s not quite a part of the main building, even though built against it, and so the rain falls on the thin roof to make a mild sound that’s rather soothing.

“Perfect weather for a nap,” I think as sleepy prince Leo sits down next to me.

“Good to see you again,” he says lightly.

“And you,” I reply, smiling.

He sits with somewhat poor posture, but it’s the sort of posture a parent would only frown at. I imagine that’s not by chance. While I may not know much about him or his life, I would say he devotes a lot of effort to being effortless.

“Say, you said you sew?” he asks.

“Embroidery,” I say, correcting him. “While I could sew a button back on or fix a tear, that is certainly a job for a maid.”

He waves me off. “What of a pillow, or blanket?”

“A maid would happily oblige you,” I say, unsure what he’s getting at. Blanket? You’d only sew the edges to keep it from tearing and even that isn’t really necessary.

“I think something made by your hands would help me sleep more soundly.”

“You should perhaps think a moment longer as that thought is quite unsound,” I reply, tone dry.

Oh he grins at that, the flirt. “I meant no offence. You see, the weather cold as it is, I wondered if I could have a few words sewn onto a blanket or quilt.”

I try not to laugh and fail, a titter slipping through my lips.

He doesn’t look offended by that. If anything, it only spurs him on as he continues speaking. “While I am sure the maids could do the job, I am rather taken with your handwriting.”

He likes my style, huh? Or is he just using flattery to have me do the work? “If you get to me a blanket, I can mark out the words for a maid to sew over,” I say. Let’s put the onus on him.

“Ah, is that so? Then I can soon sleep even more easily thanks to you.”

Gosh, just the tone of his voice is enough to make me blush, something about hearing him thank me suggestive to my ears. No wonder Eleanor got swept up by his sweet words.

“And what compensation would you like?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“For writing a mere few words? None is necessary,” I say.

He clicks his tongue and gently shakes his head. “That won’t do at all. A lady’s time is more valuable than gold, is it not?”

I would say that’s a rather generous interpretation of why upper-class women don’t work. (Besides, my time is only worth a tuppence an hour.) “Then what do you have to offer that is better than gold?” I ask, tilting my head.

It might be me reading too much into my ability to read expressions, but he looks like he’s enjoying himself. I wonder if that’s why he’s talking to me. For Eleanor, he seemed to pursue her because of her beauty—she couldn’t speak well with him since he always made her so flustered.

Well, it’s not much different from when I first met Evan. Oh I did enjoy teasing him. However, I do prefer how we are now. I wonder if Leo is feeling the same way with me? There’s no end to ladies he can tease, but how many can talk back?

I shouldn’t get too full of myself. I’m happy if he wants to chat with me and I’m fine if he moves on, so let’s enjoy the moment.

Ms Rowhook spares him from answering my question right away. At the end of the lesson, he simply promises me I will like my “payment”.

A surprise, huh? I wonder what it could be.