Well, we talked a lot. My father is in Lundein for business and Joshua is only coming back on Sunday, thus it was just us girls and so a lot of talking is expected. Anyway, it went late and covered everything from Evan and Cyril to Violet, but not my waitressing job. My mother didn’t tell Clarice about it, I suppose. I guess it should be obvious Clarice doesn’t know as otherwise she would have come to tease me.

That was yesterday, now being my first morning back. It’s strange not waking up as early as at school. Breakfast served from seven there, I would go to eat while dawn hadn’t quite yet dawned for the last month or so. Today, it’s (somewhat) light outside, my room warm, clothes laid out for me while I stretch and yawn. There’s a cup of tea on my bedside table and a flowery scent from fresh pot-pourri (a strong lemon and orange peel smell, accompanied by the heat of allspice).

Ah, I’m spoiled.

Although Georgie is around to help me dress and such, I’m accustomed to doing it myself. Once I’m finished and have drank my morning tea and brushed my teeth and all that, I let her lead me through to the sitting room. (I know the way, I promise, but I don’t know if my mother and Clarice like to use the sitting room or some other room these days.)

I’m mildly surprised to only find my mother there. With how late it feels, I expected to be the last to rise. Well, Clarice has always been more of a proper aristocrat….

“Good morning, mother,” I say, lightly curtseying.

She smiles. “Morning, my little snowdrop.”

I didn’t pay much attention yesterday, but she’s wearing a wonderful dress today. It’s… humbling. An off-white adorned in intricate lace that sparkles in the dim light, small ruffles and bunching to add shape and texture, the layering of different fabrics, a complex neckline and sleeves—not to say anything of the quality of the fabrics, the base a fine velvet and the outer-most a glossy satin, surely silk. Every bit a work of art. Maybe even that is selling it short, being something that’s both beautiful and practical. (My mother would hardly wear a ballgown when just sitting around the house.)

“Are you finally at the age to take an interest in fashion?” my mother asks.

I giggle, lightly shaking my head. “Not exactly. For embroidery club, Ms Berks has suggested we make an exhibit of dresses. I really appreciate how much work goes into a dress like yours now I have a bit of an understanding.”

My mother sips at her cup of tea, and then waits a long moment before asking, “A green and a pink dress, is it?”

I can’t help but wince, those words hardly promising for what’s coming. “Yes,” I say, knowing better than to feign ignorance.

She smiles, so very amused. “Lottie was rather praising of them both. You must have put in a lot of effort,” she says.

“I did,” I say softly, a little off-balance from hearing that Lottie really did think they were good. I mean, there was a thought in the back of my head that said she was being polite, that everyone was, an unspoken caveat of, “It’s good—for something an amateur made.”

“Then I shall be looking forward to the exhibit. It will be open to family, will it not?”

Remembering how Ms Berks phrased it all, I giggle. “I am not exactly sure if the exhibit has been arranged yet, so I’ll let you know when I do,” I say.

My mother doesn’t say anything to that, going back to her tea, and the humour slowly fades from me, leaving me back in that unsettled feeling, anxious of what’s to come. Her promise long ago of, “We’ll talk about this later,” finally being fulfilled. Deep breaths, preparing myself for—

“And your… job, how is that coming along?” my mother asks, not waiting for me to steel my heart.

It hits me harder than I thought it would, a burst of childish anger behind my calm voice as I reply, “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s somewhat difficult, but I’m happy.”

And she says, “Is that so?”

My conscience isn’t guilty, yet those three little words cut deep, belittling me. What does this look like to her? I’m just a child playing pretend, aren’t I?

Can she understand me if I reach out to her? I don’t know, and that hurts.

Nails digging into my palm, I try to control myself, not someone who overreacts. “It’s rewarding for me to work hard and be praised for it. And being able to talk freely with girls my age, to be accepted for my personality, means so much to me. They’ve become important to me, friends I look forward to seeing every week.”

I can’t bear to look at her. I can’t bear to know what face she’s making, what her eyes show. For all these years she’s cared for me, it feels as if she’s betraying my trust, none of my mental preparations readying me for this.

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Because there’s no way a duke’s daughter can play waitress, can she? My mother has already been more than kind to let it go on this long. But, you know, my mother’s perfect, isn’t she? She’d never hurt me, she only wants best for me. So, if I make her understand, then she has to let me keep working, doesn’t she?

If only life was that simple.

“I do appreciate that there are certain merits to it,” she says, her words careful. “However—”

“Don’t drag it out,” I say, hiding my face in my hands. “Just, just tell me I can’t. I’ll be a good girl and sit in my room, alone like I always was before. Maybe Violet will come now and then to keep me company.”

I hear her sigh. “You aren’t making this any easier.”

“Good. I want you to know how much you are hurting me,” I say.

That was petty, I know, but… I don’t want to give up my precious friends. I know she’s my mother and I should be respectful and believe she has my best interests at heart, but… she doesn’t know, does she? She’s watched over me, but she doesn’t know how I feel.

I’m not a princess in her high tower, waiting for a prince: I’m a lonely girl, desperate for friends.

Speaking more softly, she says, “I have always believed in giving you your freedoms, and I have always been so proud of what you do with them. The kindness you show, the humility, never greedy nor cruel. However, it is my duty as your mother not to hide behind that freedom as an excuse to not guide you. When you make a mistake and do not know how to address it, or you do not realise you have made a mistake in the first place, then it is my duty to intervene.”

Such nice words (as expected of my mother), and yet so bittersweet. I know she loves me, but she sees this as a mistake, right? I’m wrong, I just don’t realise it because I’m such a good person.

But I’m not. I’m selfish. I don’t care what happens to our reputation if people find out about it. It might hurt Joshua and Clarice, my mother and father, and I don’t care. I’ve already made up my mind that the risk is worth it.

Stubborn for the sake of it, petulant out of spite. Cowardly driven by the fear that this is my only chance to make friends with girls my age. I’m sorry, mummy, but I’m greedy, I want to hold on to these friends no matter what.

Speaking softly but clearly, I say, “I haven’t made a mistake, I made happy memories, and I won’t ever regret them.” A kind of relief floods me with those words spoken, settling my roiling emotions.

With that bit of clarity, I stand up, only to be asked, “Where are you going?”

I gather my determination and look my mother in the eye. “I’m sorry, mummy, but I’ve said everything I want to say, and if I have to stay any longer then I will say something I regret, so I’m going to my room.”

What does her expression say? Is she angry, upset, disappointed? I don’t know. She holds herself behind a blank look.

After a curtsey, I leave—the spoiled brat I am, making a mess and running off to sulk. She doesn’t call me back. As high as I held my head before, it drops once I’m outside the room, rubbing my eyes while I shuffle back to my room.

“Right, miss.”

I stop, turn, carry on. In my defence, I’m a little busy trying to keep myself together.

Georgie doesn’t have to correct me again for the rest of the walk, and she waits outside my room. I go sob pathetically into my pillows. Oh I might be nearly as tall as Clarice, but I’m still a child.

All this time, I knew that it would come to an end sooner rather than later. Those weren’t so much Yule presents as parting gifts. Making a fuss over something I knew was coming, that’s just childish, right? Worse than childish.

But what hurts the most is that I don’t regret acting like that. I sure talked big to Gerald, huh? How low my standards have fallen. I’m just… all over the place. A hypocrite. What’s it when you hold contradicting opinions… cognitive dissonance? I’m so dissonant right now. Hating myself, yet not hating myself.

And my mother… I just can’t. I can’t bring myself to think for a moment she hates me, but I’m certainly testing her, aren’t I? That’s all I can say, really. I know she doesn’t understand me, so I can’t understand her either, can I? Maybe I’m just making that up so I don’t have to think about her.

I’m stupid, so very stupid.

Without the pressure to keep me together, I fall apart into a mush of emotions I can’t even describe. Wallowing in pity.

Who knows how long it has been when a knock on my door rings out. I clear my throat, and then ask, “Who is it?”

“The Queen.”

Smiling to myself, I say, “Then you will have to wait for me to fetch a guest first.”

Clarice’s laughter flutters through the closed door, a different laugh to my mother’s. If my mother is elegance, then my sister is grace, someone who could charm water to let her walk on it. Her laughter has that sweetness to it, the sort that makes you want to join in.

Someone who has never lacked friends and acquaintances.

“May I enter?” she asks.

“Yes.”

The door opens with a mild creak, heavy on its hinges like all the doors here. I have often wondered if it’s intentional or just a side-effect of the heavy oak that the doors are made of. My thoughts are cut short by her appearance, for the second time reminded of my lack of skill, her dress exquisite. A simple dress of thick velvet that’s then been detailed, red flowers on black oh so eye-catching.

If she notices where my attention is, she doesn’t mention it, coming over to sit beside me on the bed. Without saying anything, she hugs me—just the one arm looped around my shoulders, pulling me tight against her side.

It’s… funny? She knows exactly what to say except when it comes to comforting me. Or maybe it’s that she knows to say nothing, that simply being here is what I need. I don’t really know. It’s not like I’m an expert, struggling to comfort Evan over his grades, and she might not know what she’s even comforting me over.

Rather than bring up what happened, I enjoy the silence.

“Do you remember, let’s see, you must have been four when our nanny left,” she quietly says after a while.

“No?” I say, my oldest memories from around six, I think.

She leans her head over, resting it against mine. “You cried so much, and you told off father for it, and you promised you would never forgive him.”

Well, today of all days, that certainly sounds like me. “Did I really?”

She makes a sound of agreement, and then gives me an extra tight squeeze. “I thought it was so silly back then; however, as I’ve matured, I find myself envious of that little girl who loved others so easily.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Did you… hear?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “but I know you well, and mother, and I can only imagine what could get the both of you in such a state. Well, unless you’re… with child.”

Snorting, I double over, desperately covering my mouth. “I’m not, I swear.”

“Ah, I was actually hoping it was that—nothing better to distract everyone from my debut.”

“You’re terrible,” I say, smiling.

Yes, she’s much better at comforting people than me. So much better.