When I wake up, there’s an unusual grogginess clouding my head, which (once it clears) I think is nice. Recently, I’ve not been sleeping well. Not bad sleeps, just okay ones. Whether because I’m anxious or stressed or whatever, my recent sleeps have been light, waking up at odd hours.

I feel good. There’s… a clarity to the world. It’s easy to gather up willpower before going to bed only to find it scattered in the morning, but I still now have the feeling that I can… change.

No, I will change. Day after day, I’ll change in little ways whether I want to or not, so I’ll try to change for the better.

For now, I change out of my nightwear for a bath. One little thing I’ve noticed, Ellie had trouble with the winter morning chill, but it’s a lot easier to handle for me after I’ve soaked in a hot bath. Warming up the flesh? After all, clothes don’t warm you up, just slow you getting colder.

Dry, dress, then dry my hair. It’s at this point I usually brush my hair into a simple ponytail.

Not today.

Having been somewhat lax recently, I make sure to do my calisthenics. I would do them before my bath, but it’s cold, so I take the various stretches slow enough to not work up a sweat.

When I’m done, I slip into my school shoes and quietly leave my room, tiptoeing along, reading the numbers. When I come to room seven, I lightly knock on the door.

“Wh-who is it?” Helena asks, hesitant.

Smiling to myself, I say, “The Queen of France.”

Funny how we can have France and Germany, but England (or rather England and Wales) gets turned into Anglia. Ireland and Scotland being broken into a bunch of small islands isn’t any better, I guess.

From the other side of the door, a tittering laugh approaches the door, and it shortly clicks open. No lock, just the mechanism. I didn’t rush, so she’s had time to bathe and pretty herself. No makeup yet, but her skin looks good, just a couple of reddish spots to blemish her pale cheeks. Of course, I don’t let my gaze linger on them and instead meet her curious gaze.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.

“You know, there is,” I say, speaking soft and warm.

She nods and, with a glance behind her, awkwardly gestures. “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh it would be my pleasure,” I say, and I slip past her while she closes the door.

The room is, of course, no different to mine or Violet’s in layout. As for decoration, it’s hard not to notice the painting of a horse above her bed. The month or so we’ve spent as friends has cemented my loose understanding of her family as a sort of rising power, business going well for them. Other than that, the little touches are ostentatious, a silvery vase and picture frame (housing a small family portrait); the former has an appearance like wrought iron, while the latter is like leaves stuck together.

“I do apologise for the mess,” she mumbles.

The mess in question is a towel left on the floor, and I guess an open drawer. (She rushes to close it, but not before I see it’s for her underwear.) As she returns the towel, she has me sit at her desk; I guess this is just the unspoken etiquette for bedroom visits here? Funny how that works, or did I set the standard when I had them over?

Anyway, she’s red in the face from her rushing when she returns, no foundation to soften the colour. It’s actually a somewhat cute look, I think, a childishness that softens the slight chubbiness to her face. That is, rather than a child trying to look grown-up, she looks her age, a blushing maiden on the cusp of adulthood. A few years doesn’t sound long in the grand scheme of things, but I’m sure she’ll become oh so beautiful by the time she debuts.

The flush of exercise gives way to embarrassment under my stare. “I know how I must look without makeup,” she mumbles, lowering her head.

Giggling, I reach out and raise her chin until I can meet her eyes again. “Seeking compliments so early? Have some modesty,” I say.

It takes a moment for my words to work through her head, and then she bursts into a smile, a laugh escaping her. “Please, it’s too early,” she half-heartedly says.

What does it mean to be close to someone? To be friends? I’m beginning to understand that those worries are pointless, that it’s not just me but both of us together who have to define that. It can be an unspoken definition or clearly detailed; intimate or superficial (not in a bad way, but like how I can’t exactly go around hugging Evan—even in private).

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More importantly, I can always take a step closer so long as they are comfortable with it.

“Would you do my hair for me today? I was thinking that we only have this time to wear our hair down, so I really should make the most of it.”

She fidgets hearing my request. “I really couldn’t,” she mumbles.

“Oh, how about your hairstyle? We can be matching,” I say, taking her hands and giving them a squeeze, smiling brightly.

Her reluctance falters. “If… you insist.”

“I do,” I say, nodding vigorously.

She can’t help but laugh, a tinkling laugh that sounds natural while still elegant. It wouldn’t be out of place at a tea party, polite enough. Once the moment passes, she gathers her tools and starts work on my hair, acting gentle, timid. “Tell me if I am being rough,” she says, almost a whisper.

I manage to keep myself from making a joke in rather poor taste.

While I can’t see her at first, I can feel her concentration in the care she shows me, her brushing consistent and tender. I already did this much earlier, so there’s no knots, but she still grips my hair near the base of my head to stop it from pulling if she encounters any.

Moving on to the plaiting, she steps around to my side. I can at times make out a serious expression on her face, her eyes focused on my head, and her fingers hardly tug my hair as she goes. It reminds me that’s she a big sister. Even if she hasn’t done her little sister’s hair before, they’ve no doubt played together, a gentleness towards girls ingrained into her. (I say that, but, me being quite the tomboy growing up, Clarice treated Joshua more delicately.)

By the time she finishes, I’m somewhat drowsy, her gentle treatment relaxing. But I perk up when she steps back and says, “There.”

Careful, I pull the ponytail over my shoulder and I admire the neat plait that runs through it. It’s just a strip about as wide as my finger is, most of my hair still loose, yet it adds such a prettiness. What’s more is she’s brought together some of the pale blue highlights that run through my otherwise light blonde hair, so it’s like I’ve clipped on a beautifully-intricate silver chain.

“Thank you, it’s wonderful,” I say, turning to her.

Her head’s a little bowed, her expression unsure. Well, we can’t have that. I stand up, then grab her hands and pull her to me, embracing her.

“You’ve been practising a lot, haven’t you? I can tell,” I say, squeezing her tight.

She lets out a breath that’s almost a sob, but her tone is happy when she speaks. “I have.”

My mind skipping, I come to just the right thought. Letting her go, I give her a moment to collect herself, that unsure expression now a secure (albeit slight) smile. “Won’t you let me do your makeup?”

“Wh-what?” she asks, her eyes wide.

“Don’t worry, I’m really good. Sit down and tell me what you want,” I say, turning the chair around. Guiding her to it, she seems too surprised to resist, and so she takes a seat while I carefully tuck loose hairs away from her face. “Where do you keep your makeup?”

She half-heartedly gestures at her chest of drawers. “But a maid—” she mumbles.

Cutting her off with a wave, I say, “And a maid could have done my hair, but isn’t it nice to dote on your friends? Or are you going to say I can’t dote on you after you doted on me?”

I’m falling into a nonsense argument, yet she’s too off-balance to do anything but accept my words as convincing. “No, no, I just….”

The room small, it’s only a couple of strides for me to cross it. Her makeup kit is obvious enough, a small wooden box on top of the chest of drawers that, once opened, reveals powders and creams and brushes and a couple more things.

Before I go any further, I look back at her, wait for her to meet my gaze, and I ask, “Would you trust me?”

There’s a flicker of thought behind her eyes, and she eventually nods. “Yes.”

I smile, picking up the box. “If you find my results unsatisfactory, you can always ask a maid to redo it; I won’t be offended,” I say, walking back. I place the box on the table beside her while I stand in front, and I lightly push her cheek to turn her into the light better.

The lighting here is something I know well from my own room, and I know the colour of the sunlight, the blend of firelight and lamps in the lounge, the lamps of the dining hall and the lamps of the corridors and classrooms. Ellie’s sister taught her to pay attention to light sources, and Ellie passed that on to me. Similarly, I know Helena’s natural skin tone, how her glossy her hair is.

Her kit not as expansive as mine, I wince but make do. Looking closely, her skin is cleaned but a touch oily. No cleanser, ah, a touch of soap and warm water. While I gently wipe, I ask her, “Let’s see, do you want a mature or youthful look? Pale or warm? Lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara?”

By the blank look she gives me, I guess whichever maid helps her doesn’t ask such questions.

Together, we muddle through a simple makeover. Makeupover? Well, she gives me a lot of freedom, so I do my best. Apply foundation lighter than she usually has it to show off a natural blush in this cold weather (and she’ll blush nicely when she laughs). Concealer for her blemishes. There’s not exactly contour or bronzer products in her kit, but there’s other foundations that don’t quite match her skin tone. I subtly emphasise her cheekbones (high enough already, no need to fake them). The fashion here for narrow and oval faces, I darken the corners of her jaw, but I can’t do much about her cheeks. Ah, unless I use highlighter. Yes, bring of the focus of her cheeks closer to her nose, just a touch.

I don’t do much with her eyes, just the eyeliner pencil enough to make them water, but I carefully neaten her eyebrows (no plucking—I don’t want her to hate me). While she has eyeshadow, I can’t see the colours working well without matching lipstick. Speaking of lipstick, it’s more of a gloss in this world, waxy and such, and she only has a bright red one. Never mind her, I wouldn’t go out with it on. (What would people think?) Instead, I go back to her skin and lighten it a bit around her mouth, and there’s a (plant-based) wax that’s like Vaseline which I lightly apply to her lips as a colourless gloss.

And… finished. I didn’t want to change much, only enough that people might think, “She looks well today,” when they see her, so there is more I could do. Yet, when she sees herself in the mirror, I can only take pride in her smile.

But it’s short lived, her head drooping, and a sniffle worries me she’s going to smudge the makeup. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, just, try not to cry?” I say, shuffling to her side so I’m ready to grab her hands if she goes to wipe her eyes.

“No, I…. It must be so difficult for you to put up with us, and you’re trying so hard, and, and what am I doing to help?” she says, quiet, pained.

Violet isn’t the only friend I haven’t been watching closely.