Though I talk some more with Cyril, it’s nothing important and more a way to the pass the time than anything else. I thought about trying to become closer with my friends, but I also have to think carefully, secrets the sort of thing better kept by fewer mouths. He doesn’t need to know that I work as a waitress in town or that I go see Lottie and Gwen. However, I can talk about my dresses, mentioning that Ms Berks suggested making an exhibit for the club—if he misunderstands the two aren’t exactly related, that’s not my fault.

Still, I don’t really know what it means to be closer. My sort of intuition puts it as how willing to share your feelings you are, yet the culture makes that difficult. Even among the commonfolk, there is a sense of prudence when it comes to the topic. The way I speak with Clarice and my mother, and Lottie and Violet, is because I do feel close to them and trust them deeply.

However, I’ve known them all for so many years; what are the steps to get there?

It reminds me that, while I consider Iris, Millie, Len and Annie friends, it’s probably a one-sided friendship. I am sure that I’m more of an acquaintance to them. I’ve naturally become more used to them, able to talk better with them, but… am I really getting closer to them?

So I pass the afternoon in those thoughts, sewing something to try and take my mind off the topic and failing miserably. But the house is too busy for me to get depressed, Clarice regaining her energy by supper and Joshua eager to escape his homework, those two alone enough to distract me for years on end.

Then we all quickly settle into the holidays. It becomes hard to be alone (not that I particularly want to be): Cyril nagging for walks around the grounds and particularly to see the pond; Joshua wanting to read books together; dressing up with Clarice and her endless wardrobe (including makeup and perfumes). When I manage to find a break, I take the time to neatly write out a Yule letter for Gwen. My drawing skills may leave much to be desired, but my penmanship is neat and young girls here love elegant handwriting, calligraphy a rather popular club at my old school. Of course, I include a (more hastily written) note wishing Lottie and Greg a happy holidays as well.

Other than that, I don’t exactly have any homework to do. Because of how the exams are at the end of the terms, the classes sort of wrapped up, just humanities and English literature assigning reading over the holidays.

In other words, it can wait until I’m on the carriage back to school.

Regardless, I don’t have the time to grow bored before Friday finally comes. Clarice especially and to an extent Cyril tease me all morning at how excited I am. (There’s more than one comparison to a wife awaiting the return of her husband from my sister.) But I laugh with them, nothing able to ruin my mood as I sit by the window, staring out at the distant gates. Though I’m there all morning, it’s early afternoon when Violet’s carriage trundles down the driveway.

“If you would excuse me,” I say in passing to those two, a snickering their reply.

I’m at the front door before Simons (the butler) is. Too cold to run outside, I stay in the entrance hall. Seconds trickle by until the door finally opens and I burst into a giddy smile.

She’s here.

Matt steps aside to let her through and then takes the luggage from the footman that accompanied Violet. She lets Simons take off her coat (the actual hanging up of it left to Keith), and Simons apologises that the master and mistress aren’t here to greet her, and she deftly dismisses it, asking him to thank them on her behalf for having her to stay.

You know, the needless niceties of nobility.

It feels like an eternity (but more like half a minute) before I finally get to say, “Hullo, Lady Dover.” A curtsey accompanies my words.

“And hullo to my lady,” she replies, returning my curtsey.

Then our eyes meet and I can’t help but giggle, and she quickly breaks, not laughing but on the verge of it, her smile straining.

“Come, there’s no time to waste,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her towards the stairs.

“I can walk by myself,” she says, not that she’s fighting me.

My tone light, I ask, “What if you get lost?”

“How would I get lost here?”

I hum a note, slowing the pace as we go upstairs. “Well, I might get lost,” I say.

“But you live here!” she says, tone sharp.

Giggling, I lead her around the landing and towards the (family) bedrooms. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

She clicks her tongue, a rather childish habit of hers that I may or may not be responsible for. “There is nothing impressive about your sense of direction—or lack thereof.”

As if to prove her point, I nearly take us into Joshua’s room. In my defence, that was my room until I started attending school and the one I would always take Violet to. Hoping she doesn’t notice, I go on to the next one along, which is mine.

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“You’re too kind,” I say.

She huffs, but, when I look at her, she’s still smiling.

“What have you been up to, then?” I ask, plopping onto my bed, while she makes a more dignified figure on the chair from my desk.

So we spend a while catching up on the little (and not so little) things that have happened in the short time we’ve been apart. Even if she disapproves of my waitressing, she’s happy for me that I can keep doing it. She apologises for not having a birthday present for me (not that it was actually my birthday on Sunday), but of course I tell her that being friends again is the best gift I could have asked for.

And she tells me how her parents are and all that. I don’t know them well, only visited her once when we were children. They’re a lot stricter than mine. I didn’t get in trouble or anything, but I certainly felt the pressure to act perfectly around them, and even when we retired to her room I still found myself tense.

I mean, I’m sure they’re lovely people and all that. Violet never had a bad word to say about them (from what I can tell, not out of fear). My mother didn’t (doesn’t?) get on with her mother, but I’m pretty sure that says more about my mother than hers, not the most sociable of Ladies.

Anyway, they’re pleased with her results. Requiring a mild prodding from me, she also divulges her plans for the holiday, a few tea parties scheduled with some friends. I don’t ask if I can come and she doesn’t offer.

This age, attending school, the awkwardness of change is paralysing at times. I’m not going to rush her.

It doesn’t take Georgie long to come with tea, Liv accompanying her. I’m not privy to all the staffing (due to no need for me to know more than not allowed to know), but I guess Liv is being trained to take over duties as my personal maid. I like her, somewhat similar to Lottie and Rosie in personality, not that it matters much. I’m still more chatty with maids than the rest of my family, but far from how I was as a child.

By supper, Violet and I are nearly at gossiping, those first conversations coming to their natural ends. But with the meal comes everyone, my mother and father posing polite questions to her before Clarice comes in to chase after romance—I’m rather impressed at how unfazed Violet is when asked if there’s any young lord who has caught her eye, not so much as a blush or a stutter.

Well, I always knew Violet was cool, calm and collected. It wouldn’t do for the perfect Lady to show embarrassment.

Joshua keeps quiet. I’m not sure if it’s out of respect as someone younger or because an eleven-year-old boy probably doesn’t have anything to ask of a sixteen-year-old lady. As for Cyril, he’s oddly silent. Though I wonder what he’s thinking, his expression gives nothing away, a mask of mild grumpiness while he steadily eats through twice as much as me.

Growing boys and all that.

Rather than have her continue to make polite conversation with everyone, I excuse us away when the meal finishes. I think nothing of it, what we always did as children (she didn’t come here to see my family, right?), yet she lets out a sigh and a quiet, “Thank you,” once we reach my bedroom.

Halfway towards my bed already, I stop and turn around. “What for?”

She has an almost timid expression, shyness something I’ve not really seen her show. “Well, it is a little uncomfortable for me to be around your family.”

I don’t remember that being a thing when we were younger. “Is there something I can do to help with that?” I ask.

Shaking her head, her polite smile looks troubled. “It is just… they must despise me,” she whispers.

Slowly, I put things together, feeling awful I didn’t realise sooner. Has she been anxious this whole afternoon? The whole week? Poor thing. I gesture for her to follow and she does, joining me on the couch under the window. Ah, we used to read here together, didn’t we? (On the one in my old room, at least.)

It’s funny. All things considered, we didn’t spend that much time together, but I have so many fond memories of that time that it’s like not a second went to waste.

“Say, do you know how many times I’ve been in trouble?” I ask, my gaze on the fire across the room.

“If our times together are anything to go by, far too many to count,” she says, light yet with a certain tone—her usual harshness. That’s good. It means she’s not feeling too bad, right?

And I giggle at her answer, certainly not a wrong assessment. “Yet they have forgiven me every time. Why then would they hold your mistake against you, especially after you properly apologised for it?”

I don’t know if it’s the best approach, but she’s always been quite the logical thinker (which I used to use to convince her to join in on whatever no-good I had planned). At the least, she thinks over what I say. Rather than say too much, I wait for her, the fire keeping me occupied.

After a minute or two, she rises to her feet. “If you would excuse me a moment,” she says.

“Of course,” I say, glancing at her before she leaves to see her looking okay. You know, not upset.

To give her some mental privacy, I don’t speculate on where or why she’s going. None of my business. Instead, I think about tomorrow—the tea party. It’s equal parts exciting and intimidating, no idea how Ellen and Florence will be. I mean, they’re Evan’s and Julian’s little sisters, so I’m sure they’re just wonderful, but wonderful comes in many shades and some shades might not complement me.

Sooner than I expected, the door opens once more. I turn that way, sure it must be a maid, but it is Violet.

And she’s holding something.

“I… thought to wait until tomorrow, yet I find myself unable to,” she says as she walks over.

Smiling, I ask, “Who’s this, then?”

“This is Pinkie,” she says, and holds out the pink teddy bear towards me. “In all honesty, I asked the maids to make a teddy like the one you made for me; however, I did learn enough to sew the face.”

Yes, it’s a rather well-made one, more so than mine, but with one eye already a little loose and the stitching for the mouth not exactly evenly spaced. “Hullo, Pinkie,” I say, shaking the little thing’s paw.

Violet softly clears her throat. “Her full name is… Pinky Promise.”

Not Pinkie? Oh, but. “You know of pinky promises?” I ask, sure it wasn’t a thing in this world.

“You weren’t what I would call subtle with that display of yours in front of half the class,” she replies with a certain bite to it.

Ah, she’s back to normal. That’s perfect.

“No, I can’t say I was,” I say, still idly playing with the teddy bear, moving her arms and fiddling with her ears.

Almost a whisper, Violet says, “She is my Pinky Promise to you that I shan’t make the same mistake twice.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, the feelings finally catching up with me. “You’re going to make me cry,” I say, mildly whiny.

“Well, I am glad this time it will be for a good reason,” she says, and I catch her showing a tender smile.

My precious friend.