Thursday now, my morning goes by quickly as I get ready and then spend the breakfast time with my friends. When it’s time for class, I split off to my seat and have a little chat with Evan. Classes are, well, boring. I take notes and listen as much as I can.

At morning break, the monotony is broken.

“Like you suggested, I sent my sister a letter,” Evan quietly says, seemingly embarrassed by it.

Ah, that was a while ago, wasn’t it? A month? He’s waiting for me to prompt him, so I don’t think too much on it. “And?”

He softly chuckles, his gaze falling to the corner of my desk (as it often does). “She wrote back that she’s happy to hear from me.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say, truly meaning it. Even if I’ve only met her once, we have spoken a fair bit by letter now and I am only growing more attached to her. So that two of my friends are happy, it’s only natural for me to be happy as well.

He offers a mild smile for a moment before hiding it behind his hand, idly rubbing his nose. “I thought I should thank you,” he says, still just about whispering.

“I really didn’t do anything worth thanking,” I say.

But he gently shakes his head. “No, you have. Whether you mean to or not, you do much for me by merely being yourself,” he says.

I’m becoming lax. When it comes to Evan, I have to take his compliments lest he bury me with more. (Julian and Cyril let me have my humility.) To change the topic, I ask, “How is she?”

His mood immediately lifts at that question. “Oh I’m sure you know—hasn’t she sent you a letter recently as well?”

She actually hasn’t, and I wonder if it’s because she was fretting over his letter. One of the bits of “gossip” Florence has shared with me, Ellen is apparently rather fussy, rewriting her replies to me a couple of times before sending them. Despite that, they have all been as rambling as the first. I guess it’s a more organised chaos than I suspected?

Anyway, I’m chatting with Evan now and turn my focus back to that. “Somewhat, but she will surely tell her brother different things,” I say.

“Then I shouldn’t say, should I? She didn’t tell me any of it was a secret, but if it’s something I shouldn’t repeat…” he says.

I titter, gathering his sudden worry into a smile. “Of course one shouldn’t speak so easily of the contents of a letter from a lady. However, such a question is just a nicety, no need for details.”

“Right, right,” he says, somewhat slipping up as he repeats that filler word. “She’s well, I think. It sounds like she is spending her time reading, and also knitting with Lady Hastings.”

The two of them sitting next to each other in front of the fire and gently clacking away, it’s a sweet sight to imagine. If things went differently, maybe Violet and I would have made a similar sight, passing the many evenings at Queen Anne’s in idle chatter and comfy cosiness.

“That’s good, then,” I say, almost a sigh.

“It is,” he says, smiling.

The break lasts a while longer, but we fall into a pleasant silence. Slowly but surely, the rest of the day grinds out, leading me to the classroom out the back of the school, passing the flower gardens on the way.

Even with frost around and days where snow or hail lingers on the ground, some buds and petals hold strong. A letter from Clarice came yesterday to say my mother’s birthday went well and that includes the snowdrops flowering. The ones from Julian, some were early bloomers, but most were normal and this is the time of year for them—breaking through a blanket of late-winter snow.

Well, I’ve thought for a while now that the climate of this world is influenced by the author of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes. It fits post-industrialisation better. Being fairly coastal and with little in the way of mountains, Anglia isn’t the best place for snow, but I feel like the amounts in recent years don’t match up with the accounts Ellie read in old books. Maybe those books just dramatised it, I don’t know.

Busy in those thoughts, I reach the classroom and sit at the front as I do. Last week we did planting, so this week is a lesson. Nowadays, it’s pretty much always the history of where a certain plant came from, whether that’s breeding, hybridization, or importing. Usually, Mr Churt talks about a flower rather than a crop (food or medicinal). As I’ve always guessed, that’s to appeal to the ladies who take this class, Julian the lonely exception.

When Julian arrives, his voice is somewhat off and his nose sniffly. These wintry months have made it easy to forget he is the sneezy prince with his mild pollen allergy. At least, I’m fairly sure it’s that and not a cold. Sickness is pretty rare in this world.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

There’s usually only a couple of minutes to talk before the lesson starts, and we start filling it with the pointless little questions that we always do. However, Mr Churt excuses himself to fetch something and delays the start of the lesson. Between that and me having already spoken with Julian yesterday, our usual topics (Florence and classes) run dry, no other ones coming to mind.

Except, the silence dragging on for a few seconds, I do think of something. “Say, did you receive any Valentine’s cards?”

A rather smug expression accompanies his haughty reply. “I did, actually.”

“Your sister doesn’t count,” I say, my own smile wry.

He deflates at that, slightly turning away. “Then brothers don’t count either.”

“Did I say I received one?” I ask, tilting my head.

He rolls his eyes (or at least the one I can see, presumably the other one following suit), and he reluctantly asks, “Well, did you?”

As tempting as it is to ask him, “Did I what?” I instead take the moral high ground. “I did, and it’s not from any other member of my family either,” I say.

There’s a noticeable pause before he asks, “From a sweetheart?”

It’s unpleasant of me, I know, but treading this familiar topic I’m reminded of the sleepy prince and can’t stop myself from testing Julian. “And if it was, what would you say?”

When we first met, he was rather defensive, suspicious. I spoke lightly and loosely at times to try and push him off that mood, but always spoke honestly. On the other hand, Evan sort of implicitly trusted me, so I approached our conversations in a different way, no need to overly explain my intentions or anything like that.

This question is very much one I would ask Evan, playful and theoretical, and he would take it literally and give me an honest answer. It’s not the sort of question I’d ask Julian because he is no doubt trying to read more into it than is there. Really, it’s a childish question, the sort of thing a teenaged girl says to try and get her crush interested in her. Playing hard to get, coy. Asking him to imagine me being taken away by another man and seeing if it inspires jealousy in his heart.

Ugh. It’s a good thing Ellie wasn’t reading some palace drama when she died; I’m barely coping with school, never mind court politics.

As much as I think, only a few seconds pass before Julian gives his reply. “I suppose it would depend on who he is. It might not be my place to speak, but it would be hard to bite my tongue if I think he may treat you poorly.”

I smile softly to myself. “Well, your tongue can stay unbitten for now. A family friend gave it to me, and she will certainly treat me well so long as I keep fussing over her and spoiling her rotten,” I say.

His serious expression of before melts into a warm smile, a chuckle that’s almost a giggle spilling out. “My sister did say you seemed the sort to dote.”

“Oh yes, very much so. If they are small and cute, then I can’t help but be doting,” I say.

“Like me?” he asks.

And he asks it so slyly, the sort of question you agree with because it fits the mood, but not sly enough to catch me. “You remind me of my brother, yet I wouldn’t call you cute. However, if you wish to be doted upon, I could ask for some squirrel cake to be delivered.”

He stills at my words, his surprised eyes quickly narrowing. “Florence told you?”

I giggle to myself, lightly shrugging my shoulders. “Told me what?” I ask, a look of innocence on my face.

The seconds counting, he stays steady in his resolve and our conversation is ultimately ended by Mr Churt returning. Of course, I know Julian is talking about the squirrel cake—actually a bread made with walnut flour and then other chopped nuts are added to the “dough”. It’s more of a commonfolk recipe, which was why I hadn’t heard of it when Florence told me. (There’s also a variant that uses seeds: bird cake.) Apparently, he often had it as a child, drenching it in whatever fruit syrup took his fancy.

At the end of the lesson, he doesn’t pick up where we left off on the little walk we have before going our separate ways. Instead, it’s just a few words about the coming week and wishing each other well—what we usually say.

Back at the dormitory, I go to the lounge and join my friends (today already at the tables, studying). There’s a polite inquiry of how the lesson was, the group used to my busy schedule of magic classes and embroidery club. Another pleasant afternoon and evening in their warm company.

Friday passes without issue, even the dancing class becoming less of a hassle now all my little muscles have caught up, the only strain being my breath; if the beat was a little slower, I’m sure I’d be fine. At club, I carry on with my sewing, working on the main design. Somewhat bland and far from eye-catching, yet (especially with Violet’s expectations in mind) I am really pleased with how it’s starting to look.

My company for the club is the usual Evan and Cyril. Given that, and that I won’t be walking back with them, I do spare some concentration to speak with them about Julian’s birthday. Of course, I hardly suggest going into town together to look for presents and they don’t offer that suggestion up either.

So we go back and forth for a bit, Evan mentioning that Julian has complained about his pens recently, and Cyril has the perfect book in mind. I was thinking a flower of some sort, but keep that to myself.

Strictly speaking, the only thing I can gift him would be embroidery or a poem—something handmade. After all, I’m a Lady and (supposedly) have no money of my own. But that’s a courting thing, not exactly much etiquette around men and women being only friends. This way, then, I can say the gift is from all us, neatly avoiding the issue. (I don’t want to go around handing out handkerchiefs when I could get something they actually want.)

We don’t come to any real conclusion by the time club finishes. However, I do have to reassure them that I can walk back to the dormitory by myself. Gentlemen this, etiquette that: I don’t want to keep imposing, okay? I didn’t mind it so much at the start, if anything happy to spend a bit more time together, but I’d like a minute to compose myself before I start talking to Violet and everyone. Quiet time is getting harder to come by these days.

Well, I eventually get my way, but it should have only taken one sentence from me and not five. As is often the case, the peaceful mood and changing scenery brought a good idea to me. That is… squirrel cake!

The only problem is how to present it.