So we end up studying.

I mean, I don’t want to, but how can I turn Violet down after that? At the least, I’m not going to stoop to her level and write it all out. There’s no highlighters in this world (that I know of), and I tried watercolours in my younger years (to soggy results), so I do a mix of underlining or lightly shading over in crayon (a funny thing more like a pastel than the waxy sticks Ellie knew). If all else fails, I write out an abridged version—not exactly taking notes, only dropping useless words rather than putting it into my own words.

Oh it’s tedious and mind-numbingly boring. I barely hold out for the tea break I cunningly scheduled earlier. Then, once we finish our drink and snacks, it’s back to studying. Ugh.

While Violet is rather capable at talking and writing, I am… not. Never mind holding a conversation, I probably can’t hold a glass of water and write at the same time. So it’s quite quiet, the only disturbance to the silence a wintry wind rattling the windows now and then, the spattering of rain when it gets blown against this side of the house.

Eventually, I’m put out of my misery by supper. I feel half-dead, my head full of fluff, yet Violet looks as attentive as always. Practice, huh? What’s the saying… genius isn’t a virtue, but laziness is a sin? Well, diligence actually is a virtue, so I always felt that saying was more about avoiding calling someone dumb. “You’re not stupid, just lazy.” Don’t want to be rude, after all.

Anyway, supper. Not that I noticed she was uncomfortable before, but I think she’s used to my family again, a little more talkative. With what she said today on my mind, I take note that it’s my father she speaks to most—of course waiting for him to ask the first question. Far from a political drama, it’s nothing more than a: “The carriage here okay?” “Yes. How are you?” “Well, and you?” “I’m well, thanks for asking,” (with a lot more words and layers of politeness). And she speaks to Joshua, but it comes out more patronising than pleasant. “Are you excited for Yule?” Great question for little kids, not so much for eleven-year-olds. Even though he’s a late bloomer, he’s already trying to act more grown-up at times (and mostly failing).

Well, he’s polite enough to fake a smile and nod; I don’t think she realises, looking all too pleased with herself. Oh bless. She really does have the cutest quirks, right?

After supper, she’s kind enough to not put me through any more studying. We talk instead and I get the chance to ask some of the things I thought of earlier.

Again in my room, she’s sat by the window while I’m lying on my bed, chin resting on my hands. (She gave me a displeased look at first, but didn’t say anything.) The drum of rain and whistle of the flue makes the room feel smaller, cosy, and the warm light of the enchanted lamps only adds to it.

“What are your friends like?” I ask.

She tries not to show anything, but the corner of her mouth pulls to the side a little, her eyes sliding to the side as her head stays where it is. She doesn’t want to talk about them? “Who in particular?”

“Well, Ladies Horsham, Hythe and Minster,” I say.

She doesn’t shrug, but it’s not a dissimilar gesture she gives me. “There is much I could say and yet not much to say.”

“Do you like them?” I ask, worried.

“Of course. They are pleasant enough to talk to, and we share some interests,” she says.

And I hear something stuck in her throat. “But?”

She clicks her tongue, turning her head to the side. “They have said some unpleasant things about you in the past.”

For a long moment, I just stare at her, and then I burst into giggles, burying my face into the blanket. Bless her, really.

“If I may ask, what is so funny?” she says, fed up with my laughter.

Bringing myself under control, I roll over onto my side and look at her like that. “So what are those interests you share with them?” I ask, blatantly changing the subject.

She lets me, pinning me with a stern look before answering my question. One question after another follows, the time between now and evening tea racing by, and I find more things to ask to take us to bedtime.

From the sounds of it, she’s made some wonderful friends. A little spoiled (who isn’t at this school) and at times moody or childish (again, who isn’t), but they all get on well, visiting each other in the holidays, studying and doing homework together. Lady Horsham has fit right in, no problem at all. (Violet doesn’t say or ask if Lady Horsham has been visiting the embroidery club and I don’t bring it up.) Ladies Hythe and Minster, I knew they sort of were under the wrong impression of me, so I didn’t hold their actions against them in the first place. That Violet says they only acted that way because they thought I’d done something to her, well, I’ll forgive them again.

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However I feel, she emphasises that she will ask them to apologise to me after telling them the truth, so, um, I mean, it’s pointless to tell her she doesn’t have to do that, so I just nod. It’s not like I feel vindicated, but I do feel… reassured. She has been thinking about me and wants to make me happy, or something like that.

I sleep well.

Despite my medium efforts, we spend the morning studying. I drag her out to see the snowdrops after lunch, happy to see them taking well to the soil here, happy to hear she likes them. Since we’re all dressed up anyway, I lead her on a walk around the manor (sticking to the paths, yesterday’s rain leaving the grass muddy).

Halfway through that walk, I remember the “revelation” my sister shared with me the other day, barely able to get through telling Violet that I rescued Evan all those years ago without bursting into laughter. And she laughs, because how can you not?

“Have you asked him if he remembers?” she asks.

I shake my head. “My sister only told me the other day, and I can’t ask him in a letter,” I say.

“Why not?”

Looking at her with a smile that’s perhaps a little bit wicked, I say, “Because I want to see his reaction.”

And she laughs again, reprimanding me between giggles.

We spend the afternoon studying some more, my resistance to it worn down to the point where I don’t even groan. Well, I’ve done all my homework for the holiday, so that’s one thing less to remember later.

Then it’s supper, and she’s going to go once the meal finishes. That makes it hard for me to eat, but I keep going, chewing the pasta far more than pasta really needs to be chewed. I’ve spent so long missing Violet that I forgot how sad the goodbyes are. I wouldn’t say it’s me being overly clingy, but rather honest with my feelings. Everyone is at least a little sad when they say goodbye to a friend, aren’t they?

There won’t be time to see her again before school starts. Ah, I suppose Yuletide ends on a Monday this year, so there will be a week between that and term starting…. But she would have said, right? I’ve invited her twice, so she would have invited me if she had time for me that week, right?

Yes, I trust her. Maybe it’s an oversight on her side, but I doubt it, more likely she does already have plans. The four days she’s given me is far more than I could have wished for.

Resolving to see her off with a smile, I manage that, as well as a hug for good measure. “Ah, I can’t wait for school. How strange is that?” I say, letting go of her.

She ducks her head, hiding a giggle behind her hand. “That makes two of us,” she says lightly.

Okay, one more hug and then you can go, I promise.

Without her or Cyril here, it becomes a usual holiday for me. I spend time with my family for half the day or so, the rest of the time holed up in my room reading or sketching ideas of dresses, flicking through my own wardrobe and finding it lacking, still mostly full of “childish” dresses that don’t really have anything more than floral prints to decorate the fabric (hardly inspirational for embroidery).

All too soon, it’s the night before Yule. Since Yuletide lasts twelve days, there’s not any specific “Yule eve” traditions beyond spending it with family. As most families do, we have our own little things we do, which in this case is our mother reading a story to us kids while our father sips at a drink (I think whiskey, or is it whisky) and there’s warm milk spiced with nutmeg for us to drink.

It’s a bit outdated for me and Clarice, but that’s okay, right? You can’t return to your childhood once you let go.

Then the night turns and it’s Yule itself. The manor is rather quiet as most of the staff are on break, the bare minimum staying over (for significantly extra pay) to keep fires lit and meals prepared. Things like cleaning and laundry, outside of emergencies, can be left for tomorrow or the day after.

Our morning starts with breakfast and then opening letters from friends and family, and I’m so very glad that my pile includes more than just those from cousins and aunts and uncles this year. Presents are a more subdued affair than in Ellie’s world. I mean, it was mostly about kids, and most toys aren’t “invented” yet. A rocking horse or a doll, that’s sort of the high point most commonfolk can wish for. New clothes, maybe a book, something sweet—these are more usual. It is more extravagant amongst the nobility, but not exceedingly so, I would say.

I mean, my childhood was mostly clothes for my dolls or little furniture and stuff like that. No ponies, no… what other stereotypical rich girl presents are there?

Anyway, what I’m saying is we each have a handful of presents, and they’re nothing special considering our status. There’s a new dress Clarice bought me (chose for me), and perfume from my mother, a book from Joshua. Nothing crazy, right?

“Just father’s present left,” I say, inspecting the table where the unopened gifts happily sit. “Which one is it?”

He chuckles, and I see he has a rather smug expression. “At the end—be careful with it,” he says.

I narrow my eyes, dubious, shuffling over to where he said and feeling the present before I open it. A bit heavy, and sturdy. Glass? I tap it and that seems a good guess. A decoration like a paperweight, maybe? Oh but, is it me or is it cold….

I hesitate a second and then carefully tear at the wrapping paper (a red tissue paper with silvery-white snowflakes stamped on). It is glass, in fact a glass cup. There’s something inside it, too, something pale pink.

“You may need this,” my father says, appearing at my side with a spoon.

“Is this…” I ask, trailing off.

He chuckles again, a deep and rumbly laugh. “Do try it and tell me.”

So I do, dipping the spoon into the pink stuff and finding it soft, smooth. Then I taste it. Ah, it spreads on my tongue, a chill to it, and it’s deliciously strawberry-sweet. It’s not exactly like Ellie’s memories, but I say, “You found ice-cream!”

“Well, in a fashion,” he says, patting my shoulder. “I provided start-up capital for a café recently and rather selfishly asked the chef to come up with a recipe. Unfortunately, it likely won’t make the menu due to the cost, but I can have a batch made whenever you would like some.”

I quickly stuff another spoonful into my mouth before putting it down and hugging him. “Oh papa, thank you,” I say.

He chuckles again, and then says, “Sorry it took so long.”

“What matters more is that you still remember after all this time,” I say, giving him another quick hug.

It’s just a shame Violet already gave me the best present, so this one has to come second.