I spend quite the while listening to my mother, feeling quite the fool once the burst of happiness wears off. If I’d kept my mouth shut, she would have told me yesterday that she wanted to speak to me first before talking to my father; I had one-sidedly decided she was going to tell me to quit, but that wasn’t the case at all.

No, she just wanted to make sure I wasn’t overlooking the risks. I’m such an idiot…. It’s all so very humbling, a reminder of how much more I still have to grow. Even if she doesn’t understand me, she’ll listen to me, and I should always try to do the same.

When we finish talking about this, silence settles. I’m too drained for another conversation. Maybe she feels the same, or she knows how I’m feeling, because we have a quick hug and then she sort of lets me leave, a quiet, “Good day,” dismissing me.

The afternoon still young, I head back to my room and flop onto my bed. Not exactly sleeping, I rest my eyes, the time ticking by while my mind sorts itself out.

Evening creeps up, a maid coming in to turn on the lamps and light the fireplace (probably Georgie, but I don’t look and can’t tell just by the footsteps). Ah, Georgie is probably going to leave soon. Three years working here, no four, so I guess she’s twenty years old now (or will be soon). Two to three is the usual. My father’s status means we only hire the “best”, and they’re the sort who have no problems marrying.

A little after sunset, I’m once again brought to the attention of a knocking on my door. “Come in,” I say as I sit up, not particularly choosy now I’m no longer in the midst of a tantrum.

To my surprise, it’s Clarice. Well, there’s only three people who it could have been (or a maid, but there isn’t a reason for a maid to come at this time).

“Good evening,” she says, giving me a most splendid curtsey.

I giggle, bowing my head for her. “And to you.”

She flutters across the floor in graceful strides, certainly a soon-to-be debutante. Only, she practically throws herself next to me, mattress sinking in to the point I nearly topple over—it’s more soft than springy.

As everything settles, I keep lightly laughing. “And what is that practice for?” I ask, a teasing note to my voice.

“The wedding night, I suppose,” she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows, still lying down. “A man who would throw me onto the bed, impatient with my timid shuffling, and then begin to strip me down—”

I clear my throat, desperately trying to stop her.

She luckily does pause, but her laugh does little to stop the uncomfortable heat to my cheeks, nor does her poke in my side. “You are at the age for such fantasies, you know. Oh how you loved the books I used to lend you, yet now you spurn them,” she says, almost wistful.

Of course, the reason I don’t read the books she recommends to me these days is that they’re, well, very much in the same genre as Snowdrop and the Seven Princes. I’m not entirely sure what that genre is (unless “smut” by itself is a genre).

But this does all remind me of, well, Eleanor. Over the years, I have become more sympathetic to her and this is one of the reasons why. Clarice is… certainly an influence. I can easily imagine poor Eleanor listening to Clarice and reading the recommended books and thus having her values “misaligned”.

I mean, I’ve never exactly thought poorly of Eleanor for her promiscuity. It was more that she wasn’t honest with the princes about what was happening and that I doubted their reactions to it were authentic. In this world, if I kiss a man (in a fit of mutual passion), then I would expect him to propose and he would expect me to accept. What Eleanor did was quite a bit more than kissing, so I can’t imagine any of the princes would have been happy for her to turn around and say, “Oops, never mind.”

It’s just a story, I know, but it’s called suspension of disbelief, not expulsion of disbelief. Did the story really need seven princes? Did it need her to actually seduce them? Did it need to be in a Victorian-like setting? Now that I think about it, did it even need magic?

“Say, since it’s just us now, how are things really between you and Evan?” Clarice asks, jerking me out of my thoughts.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

When I catch up with what she said, I don’t blame her. Because Evan and I have club together and sit next to each other, I do mention him at least once in every letter, and at this age…. “Do you think men and women can be just friends?” I ask her back.

It’s a question I don’t know the answer to. Obviously, they can, but can they really? The closer I get to Evan, the greater the pressure to conform. It wasn’t all that noticeable when I was by myself, but Lottie asks, Violet asks, Clarice asks. In a couple of years when my parents start properly preparing for my debut and all that, they’ll ask. If I become interested in someone, he’ll ask.

So far, it hasn’t bothered me since I understand, but what about Evan? Can he put up with it? Do I mean enough to him? And if I do mean something to him, does he truly only see me as a friend? Old questions I can never quite escape. The only answer I have for them is trust, a trust that has so far been well-placed.

I don’t really expect Clarice to give me much of an answer, but a part of me hopes she has some magic bit of wisdom that makes everything simple.

She doesn’t.

In a rather roundabout bit of talking, all she adds to my existing puddle of thoughts on the matter is that it is the sort of thing that usually happens after marriage. It makes a certain amount of sense. Sure, there’s muttered rumours of affairs and divorces due to adultery, but I guess there’s also a very real shift in how people see you when you’re married compared to when single. Not every conversation with a man is flirting when you already have a husband.

Easy, all I have to do is quickly get hitched and then no one will bother me about Evan. Where’s Gerald?

While I am joking, that too-clever-for-his-own-good prince sticks around in my head. Sort of feeling a glimmer of guilt, I awkwardly tell Clarice of what happened between him and Violet and then what I did, filling in the gaps I skipped over on Friday night. (I don’t tell her it’s actually the Prince, though, not quite ready for that news to make it to my mother and father.) And I try to be impartial, sticking to facts and such.

By the end, I do think I’ve given a proper account of things, eager to hear what Clarice thinks. While a bit eccentric in her own ways, I do respect her opinion and I do think she has good people skills; this is very much her strong point and my weakness.

And this time she doesn’t disappoint.

“All in all, it sounds like you’re probably being too harsh on him,” she says.

I pout, but otherwise keep my petulance to myself. “In what way?”

With a push, she rolls onto her back. “Well, you have to remember that recognising you’ve made a mistake isn’t the end but the beginning,” she says, her hands gesturing along. “Especially for the sorts who go to Rupert’s, getting them to admit they’re wrong is pretty miraculous.”

She’s not wrong.

“Oh, are you sweet on him?” she asks, eagerly sitting up.

I turn to look at her, finding a rather too-sweet smile there. “No?” I say, maybe a little hesitant.

With a sigh, she deflates. “Really? It’s just, now I think about it, aren’t you thinking too highly of him? That he did apologise to Violet, he is surely a good man, but the standard you’re holding him to is quite extreme. I mean, isn’t it more likely he doesn’t realise that the rumours are actually hurtful? He knows that Violet knows they aren’t true, so he might think it doesn’t bother her—in the same way that he wouldn’t be bothered by a rumour he knows to be false. After all, the easiest mistake to make is to think that others are the same as ourselves.”

I’m not entirely sure if that last line is directed at me or Gerald. Well, either way it sits heavily on my shoulders, weighing me down.

“Anyway, what is important is that he is willing to better himself, right? Change isn’t something that happens overnight, so it should all work out if you give him time. Or you can ignore him. There’s no sense in putting up with people you don’t get on with if you can help it,” she says.

Quiet in my thoughts, she doesn’t hang around for long after saying that, leaving with a goodbye that I do at least return.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her more, but I’m mildly overwhelmed by what she said. So ready to be upset with him, I don’t think I ever put myself in his shoes—not properly. She only saw him through the glimpses I shared and yet she seems to have a better understanding of him than I do. Too busy thinking he’s perfect, huh?

Still, this is why I want… close friends. I want people I can talk with to better understand myself and those around me, more views than my own, someone to tell me when I’m being silly or I’m wrong. I love Violet and Lottie, but neither of them could have told me this. Other things, sure, but not this. I think I influenced Evan too much on this matter, but maybe if I’d spoken with Cyril or Julian.

I don’t know. It’s not straightforward, not at all. However, I guess the first step is trusting them more. It’s not too late to ask them what they think, to listen, and I should try to keep them in mind when I (inevitably) run into other problems.

Cyril’s coming tomorrow.

A knock on my door is followed by Georgie saying, “Supper is ready.”

“I’m coming,” I say, but I’m really not, struggling to shuffle off the edge of my bed. So busy thinking, the rest of my body fell asleep. Although the first steps are shaky, my stride settles into the usual rhythm, life returning to me as my heart gets pumping.

To the end of the hall, go right (not left), down the stairs, go left (not right), dining room second on the right (not left), and—

“Surprise!”

I don’t jump, but only because I’m too shocked to do anything, frozen to the spot. Slowly, the people in front of me filters through my brain: Clarice, Joshua, my mother and father, and Cyril. There’s a cake at the centre of the table, along with the dinner itself, and there’s some decorations in the form of coloured placemats and flowers—baby blue, my favourite colour.

“Happy birthday,” they all say in (a near) unison.

It truly is.