Lottie knows something is up when she sees me come out with Len, and doesn’t say anything. Despite the reason Len gave me, she doesn’t say anything to Lottie either. How nice it is that we all understand what’s going on. Except for Gwen, of course, but she remembers Len from the party and so isn’t overly shy. That said, she still walks on the other side of me to Len.

I don’t really know anywhere good to talk, so I just follow the river past the road up to the school and go on a little towards Lottie’s house, the trickle of people quickly becoming nearly none now we’re in the residential area. Coming to a stop, I look out over the river. At least that won’t change, not in any real way, not in my lifetime. Probably.

“Ah, Gwen, can you see the swan there?” Lottie asks, and Gwen excitedly runs over to her mother, the two of them a little distance away from me and Len.

I really don’t deserve Lottie.

While it’s tempting to wait for Len to say something, to try and play dumb and desperately cling to this lie, I want to be a better person than that. “You’re right,” I say.

“What?” Len asks, as if she didn’t quite hear me—or couldn’t believe she heard me properly.

“My name is Ellie Kent,” I say, quiet, my throat reluctant. “However, my full name is Lady Eleanor de Kent.”

She says nothing. I’m looking ahead, so I can’t tell what face she’s making, but her hands are woven together, and I think her shoulders hunched. Normally taller than me, she’s slouching right now and that evens us out. Her breath hovers in front of her, the day cold, but not bitingly so.

“I just,” she says, a whisper that I barely hear over the river’s hum, “don’t know.”

Maybe that’s an invitation for me to try and convince her. What I’d convince her of, I can’t imagine. Maybe I’m supposed to give an excuse, come up with some explanation that makes a duke’s daughter working undercover at a quaint café reasonable.

Well, I knew from the start how unreasonable I am, so I know there’s no hope. Anything I say now is meaningless. When you start with lies, everything sounds insincere.

“May I ask if you really did make a request to your father… for permission for me to have my wedding there?” she asks, her formal way of speaking painful to hear after being friends for months.

“I told him I’d heard about the church and that some weddings might have to be cancelled because of it. As I’m being honest, I didn’t actually say you, or to use the estate itself. If anything, I expected him to arrange for the weddings to be held at nearby churches,” I say.

A white lie, really. My mother loves weddings, and I mentioned it would be auspicious to show consideration for love with Clarice’s debut fast approaching. I’m far from a political mastermind, but I have a bit of knowledge for how to put ideas in people’s heads, or at least Ellie (and her experience with creative and persuasive writing exercises) did. So I didn’t say outright, but I knew it was a possibility and a likely one at that.

Besides, the venue isn’t half as important as the groom, right? I knew that Len would just be happy to have her wedding.

I’m not the only one who has been thinking, Len breaking the silence. “Even after a whole day to, to think, I don’t know how I feel,” she says, and she sounds rough, not far off from crying.

“It’s okay,” I say, speaking to both of us. “You can just forget about me.”

“I, I…” she whispers, trailing off.

Smiling to myself, I bow my head and look at the bricks that make up the top of the low wall we’re standing beside. “If you have any complaints, please speak them freely. After lying to everyone like this, goodness knows I deserve a scolding,” I say.

A handful of seconds trickle by before she speaks. “I want to hate you, but I keep thinking of little Ellie who works so hard and acts so sweet, and I can’t bring myself to. So… I’m just going to forget Eleanor.”

That’s kinder than I deserve.

It would be quite the nice fantasy if it went differently, if she decided our friendship could overcome the difference in status. But this isn’t a pretty little fantasy story, is it? It’s a teen romance about how glamorous the rich elite are and so that’s something ingrained into society. And it goes both ways. Being my friend is something Len just can’t do. It’s the sort of thing that can only bring trouble to the both of us, but especially to her.

I hope she hasn’t been worrying that, like, my father is trying to track down this commoner who guilted me into sending the letter. I mean, this is such a bizarre situation, I can’t really imagine what she’s been thinking, but it’s only natural to focus on the worst. If she wants to hate me, then, yes, she probably thinks this is all some game to me or something. Since this is all in her imagination, it doesn’t even have to make sense.

But I’m glad that my conduct is giving her doubt. I really did take my job seriously, work hard so I wouldn’t be a burden. I never meant to hurt anyone—that most cliché of lines.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

An excuse, though, is just an admission you knew what you were doing was wrong and then did it anyway. The opposite of a sincere apology. It wouldn’t change that I lied so that they couldn’t make a proper choice. A huge betrayal of trust. If this was something trivial, I would have brought it up at the start.

I can’t say sorry to her, not when I don’t mean it. But there is something else I want to say.

“Thank you, for treating me well until now, and for giving me this courtesy.”

She laughs, but it’s more restrained than her usual laugh, and oh so hollow. More of a nervous laugh. “How can my lady thank me for saying such awful things after she showed me such kindness?”

The clock has struck midnight, the spell unravelling, and so Cinder-ellie’s ragged clothes turn back to fine gowns and everyone can do naught but bow before such a noble figure.

“My father won’t go back on his word, so look forward to your wedding without worry,” I say, and then turn away from the river. “I wish for you a long and happy life.”

It’s mean of me, but I start walking, not giving her time to think of anything to say back. In the end, silence is her goodbye. It’s kinder than I deserve.

Leaving Len behind, Lottie and Gwen shortly join me, my pace slow. Gwen doesn’t ask me anything, bless her. She tells me she finished making her cards and then abruptly stops speaking to take something out of her pocket.

“You can’t open it now,” she says.

“When can I, then?” I ask, softly smiling.

“Um….”

Lottie whispers, “Monday.”

“Monday,” Gwen says, no hesitation.

I accept the small envelope from her, turning it over in my hands. Recycled newspaper and (probably) flour glue with a slip of paper stuck on for my name. I hope… her cross-stitching isn’t costing too much money.

“So this is a Valentine’s card?” I ask.

Oh she fidgets and blushes. “N-no,” she mumbles.

Your mother was right to say you can’t keep a secret. “Why can’t I open it tonight or tomorrow?” I ask.

“It’s… for school,” she says.

So I tease her along the short walk to the school, getting her to be a marvellous shade of red that even Lottie struggles not to laugh at. Yes, Gwen can’t keep a secret, but she has quite the imagination.

Arriving at my bedroom, it’s achingly lonely inside. I slowly change out of my clothes, careful not to rip my amateur dress, and put back on the school uniform. These last few weeks, I also take off my makeup and thoroughly brush out my hair. For now at least, I do still need my disguise.

I think I can’t really put on a good face, so I’ll stay in my room, just see my friends for dinner. That might sound strange since I’m feeling lonely, but it’s one of those vicious cycles, isn’t it? I don’t want to be asked questions or otherwise be the centre of attention, even if being with them would help me feel better.

What sewing stuff was I doing? Right, I cut out most of the aquamarine dress. The design….

Without thinking, I lose myself in drawing the design, over and over, cutting it out and folding the paper to see how the pleats will look, again and again. Five or six of those little paper dresses pile up on my desk by the time the bell rings for supper.

I come out of my trance and slip my shoes on, tapping my way down the corridor in quick, short strides, hoping I haven’t made everyone wait long.

“Ah, Lady Kent, we were wondering if you maybe stayed at your friends for supper,” Jemima Hythe says from the lounge doorway.

I slow to a stop, putting on a smile that hopefully reaches my eyes. “My apologies. I came back with some inspiration, so I was working on a project for club.”

“A dress, was it?” Mabel Minster asks.

Before we get stuck in a conversation, Violet ushers us along, and the topic changes with the change in scenery. No longer at the middle of the talking, I quickly lose focus, silently following them to the dining hall. My appetite is small, and I don’t have a craving for dessert. As if everyone can sense I’m a bit out of it, they don’t try to involve me, not even Violet. I also catch Helena sending me a sympathetic look.

Wait, where did I see that look before…. Ah, it’s been about a month since Violet gave them that excuse, hasn’t it?

I stick around until we head back to the dormitory, but I excuse myself then. They let me go without a fuss. I appreciate that from them, really I do. As far as I can tell, they don’t take offense from me running off like this, make me feel welcome when I come back. If I had to be around them all the time, I couldn’t be friends with them. It would just drain me to the point where all I’d be good for is staring at the wall and nodding.

Back in my room, I keep trying to distract myself from my feelings. It’s not like before where I was going to break down, but more that it hurts. I don’t feel like throwing up or any other of my usual anxiety symptoms. Just that, hearing Len talk to me like I was one of the clients at the café—like we weren’t friends—hurt.

Without realising it, I end up in another stupor, this time staring at the paper dresses lit only by moonlight. I don’t think, don’t do anything. A knock on the door wakes me up, and I’m filled by a sudden hope that it’s Violet coming to check on me, maybe Helena, or even Jemima or Mabel.

“Your tea, mistress.”

My heart aches. “You may enter,” I say.

Despite how much sweet-orange “sugar” I mix in, it tastes bitter. Well, not really something poetic like that, actually tasting more like orange juice than tea.

In the silence as I sip my drink, I ask myself why Violet isn’t coming. Because I don’t want to ask myself why I’m not going. Afraid. Afraid of being rejected, of being seen as needy, of intruding unwanted, of imposing. Thinking so poorly of myself and yet thinking that others should seek me out. Believing that, despite keeping everything to myself, others should magically know what I’m thinking and what I want from them.

God, I’m just… the worst.

But, you know, I shakily get to my feet anyway. I’m not the child I was. I know I’ve changed, that I’m stronger, because I have friends whose strength I can borrow.

“The only thing wrong with me was how poorly I thought of myself.”

Evan’s words push me forwards, the very words he said I inspired in him.

Step by step, I walk towards Violet’s room, and I gently knock on her door when I get there.

“Who is it?” she asks.

Smiling just from hearing her voice, I lean against the doorframe and say, “Me.”

There’s a moment of silence, followed by what I can only describe as scrambling, her footsteps unusually heavy as she rushes over. The door bursts open, and she’s there, her expression so very worried—over me.

“Is something the matter?” she asks, speaking quickly.

“I really need a hug.”

Her serious expression holds for the moment it takes her to hear what I said, and then it just melts into a warm smile. “Of course, do come in,” she says, stepping to the side.

Lottie, Ms Berks, mother, I’m starting to understand that being an adult doesn’t mean I have to hide my pain. I still have a long way to go, but thank you for sharing with me your strength.