The lunch doesn’t warm up at all, and I excuse myself once I finish. If it’s too forced, Ladies Horsham, Hythe and Minster are only going to resent me, and subtlety isn’t exactly Violet’s greatest strength. If I was more charismatic, I’m sure I could do something, but all I’m good for right now is killing the mood.

Back at the classroom, I settle in for the afternoon. When Evan comes, we say a couple of sentences to each other before minding our own business, which, for me, is reading another chapter of a book. Between Cyril and Ellen, I’m on quite the reading binge.

This story in particular is because of Ellen, something I found in the library at my manor: A Love By Another Name. It’s a sort of teen romance thing, a roller coaster of emotional developments as a minor noble is elevated to princess when the king’s infidelity comes to light. Oh this poor girl, subjected to a tainted prestige that makes her the focus of all kinds of the wrong people, from those who suck up to her to those that are all too eager to remind her of her issue.

I’m in two minds as to whether I want to recommend it to Ellen. It’s not smut or otherwise too adult for her, the infidelity no more graphic than the word itself, yet it’s heavy. The princess herself is a strong and capable woman who is a most wonderful role model, but it’s as if the author only made her so strong to make the impact of her breaking all the harsher.

Well, it’s something I can talk about with Evan after I finish it—he knows his sister better than me.

The afternoon lessons aren’t so bad now I’ve had a break, and I’m kept in a good mood by thoughts of embroidery club. I didn’t want to impose on Ms Berks too much before, but surely I can show her my ideas, hear what thoughts she may have. This is, after all, ostensibly for the exhibit she decided we would put on, so she has no room to complain, right?

Bell ringing out, I’m stuffing my things into my bag, barely avoiding a catastrophe as the lid for my ink pot isn’t on properly; luckily, I notice while it’s still upright. So I fix that, slot in my geography book, and stand up.

And I catch sight of Violet milling around, glances sent my way. Well, how can I resist?

“Lady Dover,” I say, coming over and bowing my head.

“Lady Kent,” she replies, and there’s a hint of a question there (even though she practically called me over).

I mean, I do have something in mind if she’s asking. “Say, would you care to see the embroidery club?” I ask.

“I have no interest in such a mundane hobby.”

Ouch.

But I giggle, a very Violet response. Even the way she said it made it sound as if I was foolish for asking such a thing, her tone flat and no pause before she gave her answer. However, I appreciate her honesty, now knowing well that there’s no need to invite her again. (Better this than asking her every week and getting a half-hearted excuse.)

There’s surely a little wiggle room, though. “It’s not a strict club. If you wish to come along and just read or do homework, that wouldn’t be a problem, and I would much appreciate the company.”

Her mouth pulls to the side ever so slightly, scrunching her nose a touch. (So she is thinking it over.) Of course, she thinks quickly, only a few seconds before she gives her answer. “I shan’t at this time; however, I will consider it for next week.”

“Oh thank you,” I say, smiling sweetly.

She gives me a small smile back. Too cute, really.

Evan is waiting for me, but trying not to make it obvious (like it takes this long to pack your bag). How precious. “Come on, then,” I say in passing, carrying on to the doorway. He hurries to close his bag (I assume), his footsteps then quickly catching up behind me.

My little chat with Violet means the corridor isn’t horribly busy and we slip through the thinner crowd to the far end, the usual quiet for the rest of the walk to the clubroom. There we wait, no sign of Ms Berks or Cyril, and it only now occurs to me that the club may not be on today. It’s just that, well, she always turns up.

As if summoned by my unshakeable belief, the door at the end of the corridor opens and there she is. She taps over, shaking her head, and she asks, “Did you miss the announcement that clubs and magic lessons will only begin next week?”

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“Is the staff meeting not on today?” I reply.

She lightly flicks my forehead before opening the door. “Such cheek,” she mutters, more complaining to herself than chiding me. Well, I guess the flick was enough of a chiding.

It wasn’t mentioned in Snowdrop and the Seven Princes, but Ellie knew that Victorians were big on corporal punishment. (Rather, a lot of older societies and cultures were, including the Victorians.) Maybe it happens at the boarding schools the boys go to, or maybe we’re too upper-class for it. I think it’s more the author’s influence, though. Would be quite the weird juxtaposition, a vegan caning a child. But there’s still plenty of little “punishments” here. For example, slapping a hand that tries to take a hot biscuit off a tray fresh from the oven. (Not that that ever happened to me, purely a hypothetical example.)

All that said, I would say a flick to the forehead is more teasing than reprimanding. The sort of thing older siblings do. I’m not saying Ms Berks thinks of me like a little sister, but I think it’s fair to say she doesn’t hate me.

While we all get settled, I take out my notebook, each sketch just as bad as I remember them to be. Ugh. Maybe I should ask for an art tutor over the summer holiday? I keep thinking it’s too late to start, but it’s only really too late to start if I’m dead. I mean, my first dresses barely look like they’d fit on a human, but my latest drawings… aren’t any better, to be honest.

“Ms Berks?” I say, before my courage gets swallowed up by doubt.

She looks up from her book with a bit of a squint, and I can imagine her thinking something like, “This better be for a good reason.” Ah, that’s not helping. I shuffle forwards, clutching my notebook, trying to put on a nice smile.

“Would you look over some ideas I had? For the exhibit,” I say.

Though she rolls her eyes, she gestures me to come closer and plucks the book out my hands when I do. Considering she’s an art teacher, I’m sure it must hurt her to look at my rubbish, but she at least doesn’t look to be in physical pain as she flips through the handful of pages I’ve drawn on.

After what feels like five minutes but was probably only four, she holds it out for me to take back. “Do you have a paint set?” she asks.

I freeze up, her question entirely too unexpected for me to process. Eventually, I manage to say, “No?”

“If you come by my room tomorrow, I can lend you one. Once you have the colours decided, we can finalise the material and weave. If I have the time to put the order in this weekend, the fabrics should be here in… two, no, three weeks. She visited her sister, so there is bound to be some delay.”

The more she speaks, the more I think I know what she’s saying, and the more sure I am that I must be misunderstanding. “Miss?”

“Oh what is it now?” she asks, moany rather than snappy.

“You are saying… you will buy fabrics for me to make these dresses?” I ask.

She flips her hand, a gesture that says, “Of course,” before she actually says, “Is that not why you showed them to me?”

“No, well, um, I wanted your opinion. I mean, I know they’re not very good, so…” I say, trailing off as I realise my composure is slipping.

I don’t get the chance to pick up where I left off. She lets out a sigh, and then says, “I have always been of the opinion that art is done best, not by one being told what to do, but rather by one failing over and over until success is the only route left to take. Beside that, those drawings tell me nothing of the idea in your head. If you wish for my judgement, then present me with art, yes?”

Not for the first time, her words land heavily and will certainly echo. Oh no, I’m remembering the time we met again, those embarrassing words I said…. Trying to shake them out my head, I nod. “Yes, miss,” I mumble.

“Then let us say no more on this today. Tomorrow afternoon is good for you?” she asks.

“I have, no, the magic classes aren’t on this week, so yes,” I say, speaking aloud my thoughts. She’s left me just a little off-balance, you know.

“Very well,” she says, and that’s all she says, returning to her book.

Okay, well, I’ll just go back to my seat and, well, hide behind my hands and take deep breaths and hopefully Evan won’t laugh at me too much. It must be awfully funny for him to see me on the receiving end of (more or less) a telling off.

However, he just has a curious look when I turn around. Oh he really is too good for this world.

Nothing else coming to mind, I start thinking ahead to tomorrow, looking at my sketches and contemplating colours. Most of them do have a colour noted down already, but it sounds like I’m going to be mixing up the exact hue and tint. And decide on the fabric itself. I really wasn’t thinking about the texture, sort of naturally imagining them all to be like satin, but I should try to use other weaves too.

My meandering thoughts are eventually stopped by a timid knocking on the door. At first, I think Cyril, but he’s not one for timidness, and certainly not Violet either. It’s only then I realise who it probably is, but I settle for loudly saying, “Come in.”

The door opens ajar, a familiar face appearing in the crack: Lady Horsham. Her eyes dart about, seeing that Evan, Ms Berks and I am here, and then her gaze falls to the floor, and then she sort of looks at me. I feel like she’s staring more at my shoulder than my face.

“Lady Kent, if I could have a moment,” she says, her voice as timid as her knock.

“Of course, have two even,” I say. The room not all that large, a few steps and I’m there. “If you would refrain from peeking at my sketches,” I say to Evan as I disappear through the doorway. It’s nice to see his reaction when I tease him, but sometimes imagining it is just as good.

Considering I’m leaving him alone with Ms Berks, I leave the door open, but Lady Horsham wants some privacy and leads me a little away while staying in the corridor. It hasn’t escaped my notice that she looks somewhat distressed. Not upset exactly, but distressed, nervous, and she keeps going to speak only to stop herself.

I wait, patiently leaving her to find the words she’s looking for.

“Lady Dover told me everything, and I feel just awful—for what you have been through, and that I, I contributed to it, and—”

Okay, I can’t wait; I cut her off with a quick hug and two words that I don’t have to look for.

“Thank you.”