For the first time since I started coming to this school, I don’t feel like getting up on a Saturday morning. I eventually do, but my heart stays behind in the bed, a knot of anxiety in my chest to replace it. I’m worried what I said last week was strange enough for Len to realise who I am. That this might be the last chance I have to see everyone, I can’t think how to say goodbye. I’m not sure if I can even smile.

Those thoughts still trap me when I arrive at Lottie’s house. Fortunately, just hearing her say, “Please wait!” is enough to loosen the knot. No matter what happens with the café, I can always come back here.

“Hullo, Lottie,” I say, slipping inside to keep the cold out.

“Oh good morning, Ellie. You didn’t run here, did you?” she asks, the tone light.

I wonder if she’d believe me if I said yes. “No, I wanted a change of scenery is all,” I say.

No matter how many times I visit, I can’t stop her from taking off my coat and hanging it up. Old habits. She lets me hang up my handbag, though. But I guess that is also a habit—only certain servants are allowed to touch a purse. Ah, by purse, that is any bag with money in it.

“Is the issue with Miss Tailor’s wedding upsetting you?” she asks.

“Not exactly,” I say. Before, I was worried she’d stop me, but it’s too late for that now. “I made something of a selfish request to my father, so waiting for the reply is….”

She laughs, a pleasant smile on her face. “Your father cares for you so much, I doubt he would refuse if you asked for a hair off his head,” she says.

Was that a phrase Ellie’s world had? It’s somewhat common here, especially when talking about children asking for something from their parents. A painful yet pointless request or otherwise unreasonable. Like, buying a pair of shoes for twice the price because the other pair isn’t the right shade of red.

I suppose that’s pretty much what I’ve done. “What about a tuft?” I mutter.

Her gentle laughter follows, yet quickly dries up, my gloomy expression no doubt all the evidence she needs to put the case together. She was always rather sharp, after all.

“You… didn’t ask him to do something about the wedding, did you?” A timid question.

I smile, albeit a hollow smile, and I turn to the doorway to the lounge. “Is Gwen not around?”

“Ellie, please tell me you didn’t,” Lottie says, stepping closer and tugging my sleeve.

“Despite what expectations everyone has of me, I can only be myself,” I whisper.

She lets go of my sleeve, sounding confused as she says, “Pardon?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s… I am sorry. I hope I don’t drag your family into anything unpleasant because of my recklessness,” I say, walking towards the lounge.

I can always come back here, huh? The snowball of lies continues to grow.

Leaving behind Lottie, I find Gwen deep in concentration. That’s good, she didn’t hear the little bicker we had. I make it to right behind her without her noticing and look over her shoulder at what she’s doing. Cards. Valentine’s cards, to be exact.

Of course, Snowdrop and the Seven Princes could hardly be a teen romance without some weird Valentine’s Day scene. It happened about a quarter of the way through the book, so that meant Eleanor was courting… Gerald? Maybe happy prince? It was just some fluff full of, “Does he really like me?” and buying chocolates and struggling over what to write in a card. I think it ended in a kiss? All in all, so completely forgettable that it would have happened the same way for any of the princes.

Anyway, I guess it meant that Valentine’s Day has to be awkwardly forced onto this world too. It’s such an out of place concept that it has mostly ended up as a childish thing. You know, young girls giving their fathers a card. (I did that until I was eight.) It does come up in books, but it’s more of a “I love you enough to do something so embarrassing” thing.

At Queen Anne’s, there was also a Valentine’s Ball. Rather than romantic love, it was admiration, and second-years would invite a third-year (or be paired up at random) for a dance. The most awkward night of my life—both times. I swear, the poor second-year that got assigned to me looked ready to cry. Honestly, some traditions just need to die. I didn’t hate dancing with another girl, but they don’t do that at the boys schools, do they? Wouldn’t force a boy to take on the girl’s roll. In other words, just another layer of sexism veiled by harmless tradition.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

My own cynicism aside, Gwen has several cards in front of her, and it looks like they’re for other girls. I recognise a couple of the names as friends she has mentioned.

Finished with one, she turns to get another piece of paper and catches sight of me, gasping. Yet her fright barely lasts a second before she’s scrambling to her feet. “Ellie!”

“Hullo, sweetie,” I say, squeezing her back as she hugs my waist. “Making Valentine’s cards, are we?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, her smile blinding. Another one too precious for this world.

My gaze sliding over the cards, I ask, “None for the boys?”

Oh her little mouth scowls, a cute pout. “No. They’re all mean and stuff,” she says, wise beyond her years.

I giggle, drawing a little of her ire. Before she can ask me what’s so funny, I pat her head, and I say, “Have you told them that? Maybe they don’t know how to be nice because no one has taught them. I’m sure that, if you talk to them properly, they’ll understand.”

She looks doubtful, yet she thinks over what I say. “Well, that might be so,” she mumbles.

A phrase she’s memorised from Lottie, out of place coming from her. Adorable.

“What if we made some cards for them that say, ‘I would like to be your friend,’ and we could tell them some of the things you like doing—how does that sound?” I ask.

Her face scrunches up for a long moment, and then she nods, her expression serious. “Okay.”

You never know, maybe one of these boys will keep the card for ten years and bring it with him for courage when he proposes, or some other kind of rom-com fantasy. But Gwen probably won’t move anywhere, so whoever she ends up dating probably will live around here, be someone she’s known all her life. It’s funny to think of that. Right now, she could be writing her future beloved’s name, a harsh scowl on her face as she concentrates with all her might.

Memories only come from the past, so you have to make sure you’re making the right ones in the present.

It’s perhaps unfair of me, but I stick to Gwen, using her as a shield so Lottie can’t carry on the conversation from earlier. I don’t even know if she has anything else she wants to say, but my emotional burden is already heavy enough. Any more and I’ll stumble. There’s… no one to help me with it. That’s what happens when you keep secrets and do things that others don’t approve of.

What was the old story of a sad clown? I can’t remember it now, but I guess a similar story would be like: Who in the audience could know that the actress’s tears were real?

Well, I knew what I was getting into. No point wallowing in self-pity.

The café is subdued when I arrive, even Iris not as cheerful as usual. I ask her if there’s any news from Len, but all she says is, “She took a couple of days off to go see the church, so I guess we’ll find out today.”

I get confused for a moment before remembering that I’m the only one who only works weekends (Len probably took Thursday and Friday off). Well, I think that’s the case. Whether because of my expression or just carrying on, Iris clarifies that Len promised to drop by at the end of the shift. Ah, so we’re one waitress down today. I’m not worried about that, everyone (including me) more than capable.

Starting work, it’s actually quite relaxing. My mind can’t just sit there and stew in anxiety. Even if there is some stress to the job, it’s less than the stress I put on myself, pleasant by comparison.

All too soon, Neville discreetly changes the sign in the door, the last customers finishing up. While I stand straight with my back to the wall, the calm I enjoyed fades into an emptiness that starts to suck me in. I’m broken out of my stupor when the door clicks shut, luckily. The other waitresses relax, falling into conversation as they head towards the back, me timidly following.

Before I even get to the dressing room door, I hear the cry of, “Len!” from Millie.

My stomach squeezes so tightly, I’m worried I’ll throw up, and that worry only makes the dreadful feeling more intense. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Shuffling into the room, I go over one of the exercises Ellie was taught, counting numbers in my head. Not a cure, but it helps.

The other three are crowded around Len, practically standing on her toes. “So? How was it?” Iris asks.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” Len says, her voice level.

What sort of face should I be making? I’m worried she’ll look at me and—no, keep counting. Just count.

“The bad news is the church will be unusable for at least a month,” she says.

Impatient, Annie asks, “But you’ve found somewhere else?”

Len smiles, her gaze glancing up to me for a painfully long moment before dropping back down to Annie. “The Duke of Kent has offered to help.”

While everyone else is lost to the joy, pressing her for details, all I can do is keep myself from crying. I… did it. This self-inflicted suffering wasn’t for nothing. I helped my friend, even though there was nothing in it for me, even though it cost me so much. This proof that I’m a good person, I have to desperately cling to it. If I don’t, all I’ll remember is the pain. I have to look her in the eye and see how happy she is and make sure to sew that smile atop the loneliness that will come tomorrow.

As stuck in my head as I am, I don’t miss it when she says, “Ellie, Missus Grocer walks you back some of the way, doesn’t she? Can I come along to ask her some things about the estate?”

“Sure,” I say, hoping I’m smiling.

She doesn’t rush me to change despite me taking longer than the others, my fingers awfully clumsy, cold, numb.

“Oh, that dress is lovely—another one you made yourself?” Iris asks, nearly toppling me over in fright.

I look down and it’s the blue dress I didn’t get to show off last week. “Yes,” I say softly.

Not known for being reserved, especially the longer we’ve known each other, she has no hesitation in, well, lightly groping me. Okay, groping is too harsh a word, but she pinches my waist while checking the loose fit of the top half, runs her hand down the outside of my thigh. I mean, I’ve given her (and Terri) permission for this when they asked before, so I shouldn’t complain. Anyway, I’m uncomfortable about the attention to my handiwork rather than the harmless touching.

And while she takes a minute to go over the dress, warmly complimenting me as she does, Len still doesn’t say anything. I almost wish she would, desperate to just get everything all over with.

Iris does let me go eventually, and I quickly put on my coat and gloves. Pick up my handbag.

“Ready?” Len asks.

“Yes.”