The last day of school. I say that, some have already left by breakfast, the morning lessons missing a third of the class. Well, we’re not being taught anything, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? With classes only running until lunchtime, I finish packing after eating and await a maid to summon me.

While I wait, I try to read only to find my attention constantly slipping. I’ll miss this room. You’d think it would be claustrophobic after living in a spacious manor for most of my life, but I guess it’s a leftover feeling of comfort from Ellie. A safe place, quiet and calm, where I can relax.

Since I can’t focus on reading, I play with magic instead. It’s quite annoying how my talent in most of the types has changed these last few months, but I guess they have improved, so I shouldn’t complain. A light breeze follows my fingertips, a warmth just hot enough to make my skin prickle. I fill a glass with water from the bathroom and make it swirl, able to pick up a tablespoon or so, maybe a bit more than before? I don’t really have the best eye for distances or areas or volumes. Spatial awareness, is it? Or, no, that’s more to do with imagining where things are around you… maybe.

Anyway, I try cooling the water as well. I’ve never been able to freeze it, not anything more than a drop at least, but I could make a cup of water cold to the touch. Again, I can’t really tell if I’m any better than before.

What else is there? Well, I can’t exactly try earth or metal. I already know I’m pretty good with spirit magic now, but I might as well. With a yawn and a stretch, I get up from my chair and shuffle over to the nearby chest of drawers. From it, I take out some thread and then return to my seat, plopping down. Rather than sew, I’ll just do a little braiding.

I chose the seven colours of the rainbow. Braiding with more than three strands was something I did now and then as a kid, but not often. It’s pretty much the same as normal: alternating between left and right, take the outside strand and move it to the middle. There’s definitely other ways to do it, maybe (probably?) better ways, but I can’t imagine braiding hair with more than three bunches, so I haven’t looked it up or tried or anything.

Halfway through, I stop to look at the braid. It doesn’t look that good. I mean, rainbows are pretty with all the colours in order, but this is too hectic. Most of the colours don’t complement each other either. I guess I should go for shades if I try again, like go from a light pink to a dark red.

Well, it still passes the time and shows me my talent for spirit magic is (still) pretty good. Not as good as Evan’s, but pretty good.

A knock on the door puts an end to my braiding. I lost track of time a little, but I think it’s one o’clock, probably not yet two. “Yes?” I say loudly.

“If mistress is ready, we may depart,” replies a maid.

“I’ll just ask her,” I say as I stand up.

There’s a second before she hesitantly asks, “Pardon?”

After a little giggle to myself, I reach the door and open it. “Let’s not dally.”

It’s… a relatively junior maid, I think Izzy or Lizzy. I only know her name because she was being told off the one morning by another maid. Maybe clumsy, maybe slow, maybe rude. Those are the usual reasons a fresh maid is told off, at least.

Whatever the reason was that day, she doesn’t show it today and walks me to the carriage in a maidly manner, a footman behind us carrying my luggage. And I’m greeted by familiar faces, the carriage driven by a manservant from my estate (Burt, I think) and then Georgie and Liv as well.

“Good day, mistress,” both maids say in unison, lightly bowing for me.

Unable to help myself, I turn around in surprise. “Oh my, you didn’t tell me you were the mistress,” I say to (L)Izzy.

Oh the poor thing, she goes white as a sheet. I burst out laughing, which is rather cruel of me, but she’s too precious.

“I’m just having a bit of fun, my apologies,” I say, resisting the urge to pat her head or otherwise comfort her. She might well die of fright if I did something as outlandish as hug her.

“Of course, mistress,” she whispers, the pitch of her voice so very high.

If only I had something sweet to give her.

Georgie and Liv used to my antics, they usher me into the carriage before I cause any more trouble. It’s for the best.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I read for the little while it takes to load up the last of my luggage, and then turn my gaze to the view when we start moving. Tuton, it looks so different from up here, the people shorter and shops smaller. No less beautiful. The river sparkles, children smile and laugh. A lively town.

We’re soon past the buildings and only countryside greets us, rolling fields (barren in winter) and half-dead forests. Another aspect I’m sure the author never thought through, the lack of predators means that the little rabbits hop freely, squirrels scamper and birds bird about. They generally still have a wariness of humans, but I wonder if that is because the author didn’t mention them? That is, the author would have mentioned them if they lived by the school, but, because they weren’t mentioned, they must not have, and so they—

I stop myself there, my random thoughts getting the best of me.

The birds in particular take my attention. They only eat seeds and insects, so they’re all small birds, pretty little things that flutter about in the wintry winds. It reminds me of Gwen, the little greenfinch she is. I won’t be seeing her and Lottie tomorrow and that strikes a melancholic chord in my heart. Yes, rather than sad for a reason, it’s more that I know I’ll be missing out on that bit of happiness—if that makes sense. I’ve finished my favourite cereal, so it’s toast for breakfast. Something like that.

Of course, I’m happy to see my family. But, well, it’s a different happiness. Seeing them won’t make me not sad about not seeing Gwen and Lottie. I don’t know, maybe I’m just being angsty.

To keep myself from spiralling into introversion, I focus on a light meditation—clearing my mind, that’s all. I’m not actually sure if it’s something I picked up from Ellie or someone else, but I cycle through my senses. First, I try to put all my attention on sight, and then hearing, and then smell, and then touch. (No tasting, not quite eccentric enough to lick the window.) By giving my mind something to occupy itself with, I find it easier to keep it clear of thoughts. It’s hard to do when I’m anxious, but, when I’m bored like I am now, it helps keep me from overthinking.

Though not a long trip, the sky still turns dim by the time we arrive at the estate. The sunset is around four o’clock these days, so some time a bit after then.

As always, the manor is absurdly big, making me worry for the poor maids who have to clean it. Drawing room, billiard room, parlour—even a ballroom. While only two stories tall, it manages to fit everything in through its breadth. I say that, there’s a few bedrooms in the attic for the maids; the butler and housekeeper each have an “inside” room at the back of the manor, while the manservants live in a separate building built against the stables.

In the Victorian (and Edwardian) era of Ellie’s world, I know the servants were treated rather horribly by “modern” standards. I don’t think it’s so bad here. I guess the author really romanticised this period? My family treats them well, but it is still a hard job. Early to rise, late to end, plenty of work to do. However, there is a sort of culture for not overworking them. I mean, like, it’s seen as stingy or greedy to not employ enough servants to properly look after a property, or to not feed them properly, or to have them sleep on the floor, and so on.

But it is still very hard work that I doubt I could do for a single day.

As the carriage comes around to the manor’s entrance, Clarice and my mother appear in the doorway. I wave to them, already feeling my mouth settle into a smile, my heart lighter.

Burt helps Georgie down, who then helps me down. My feet on solid ground, I wobble a couple of steps before finding my strength.

Home at last.

“Hullo mother, Clarice,” I say, drumming up the handful of steps to the front door.

“Welcome back,” Clarice says, while my mother says, “Welcome home.”

With a last step, I’m close enough to pull them into a hug, and they’re so wonderfully warm and soft. The scent of afternoon tea—of the tea my mother loves and cinnamon biscuits. The tickling of their hair on my face.

“I’m home,” I whisper.

Pulling away before I start crying, I clear my throat and then blind them with a brilliant smile. But it only lasts a second, my mother cupping my cheeks and tilting back my head to get a proper look at my face in the fading light.

“You’re feeling thin, are you eating enough?” she asks.

“Yes, mummy,” I say, trying to squirm away; she holds on for a little longer before letting me escape.

Clarice takes that as her chance to measure herself against me, checking our heights. “Ah, nearly,” she mutters, a little wistful.

Giggling to myself, oh I remember our younger days where she was a head taller than me. She would always tease me for it, ask me to get her books from high up in the library or use me as an armrest.

Rather than let out the heat, we get ushered through to the sitting room and sit opposite a roaring fire, and it feels so nice. I do love a good fire. Our brief conversation about my trip back reaching its end, I let out a long sigh and settle into my seat. I’d like to say I’m not spoiled, but I do quite like the pampering, knowing that any moment a hot cup of tea will make its way to my hand.

Yet two certain someones make it clear I’ll hardly have time to sip.

“So, do tell us about Sussex,” Clarice says, her tone conspiratorial and attention very much focused on me.

I glance at my mother, finding her pointedly not looking at me, yet she’s certainly leaning over my way, the ear turned this way practically wiggling.

“Is there something going on in Sussex I should know about?” I ask. You can’t make this easy for them, right? You have to work for your teasing.

Clarice clicks her tongue, lightly slapping my knee. “Lord Sussex.”

I idly bring up a hand, tidying some loose hair behind my ear. Everything that happened with Violet was, well, I sent a letter back about the snowdrops (for my father and Clarice to read), but I didn’t want to say anything about Violet, not until I better understood the situation. I also need to ask if she can stay over next week.

Still, I can drop that on them later when it will be most amusing for me. “Lord Sussex and I are just friends.”

“Is that so?” my mother says, not sounding at all doubtful, but those words certainly sound accusative to a guilty conscience. How many times did I hear that as a child?

Ah, it’s good to be home.