After my busy day out on Saturday, I take the Sunday slow and think about stuff. There’s a lot of stuff to think about. I was focused on getting out of the school, so I barely paid any attention to the introductory days. At the least, I want to see if the magic lessons here are any different to the ones at my old school. And I would like to join a handicrafts club if there is one, but I’m not so sure there is—most of the girls who haven’t carried on are the baron’s daughters that were in the old club.

Maybe, without me noticing, embroidery is actually a hobby upper-class girls have. Probably not.

There’s also unpacking and sorting my stationery and checking my school diary to see which books I should bring tomorrow. I sigh, but it must be done. So I slog through all that and drag it out far longer than it really ought to take. Tired, I hang on long enough for dinner, but end up falling asleep early after a little reading.

A maid knocks on my door, the morning call. It’s something I’m so used to that I’ve not given it much thought before, but there’s not really clocks in this world. I mean, there’s clock towers and a grandfather clock at the manor and my father has a watch, but it’s magic—an enchantment. Though these clocks are becoming more common, it’s slow, I guess most effort going towards sinks and toilets for the time being.

Anyway, I get myself ready for the day and sit through breakfast by myself, and walk up to the classroom. Like with my last school, the students have a classroom and it’s the teachers who come see us. They just have a book or notes and then write on the blackboard, so it’s not like it’s difficult for them.

When I arrive for registration, there’s only a couple of students and our class’s tutor, Mr Milton. He does morning and afternoon registration, and he might announce some school news at the time. He’s also the accounting teacher. As for his personality, he is soft-spoken and probably a pushover. Not a handsome man. I mean, he’s average looking and can probably dress up nicely if he wanted to, but I don’t think any of the girls will be gossiping about him. Maybe that’s intentional on his part.

Some students trickle in, most only after the first bell rings. There’s only two years of students at this school, so we’re called juniors and the older year are seniors, and our class is class Rose—the other five classes also being named after flowers. That’s six classes of twenty students, evenly split between boys and girls.

In our class itself, I know Violet, and the boy next to me is Evan Sussex—cousin of the duke of Sussex, first son of a count. Really, I only know him because he’s one of the guys from Snowdrop and the Seven Princes. That is, he’s the “bashful” prince. There’s another prince in the class, but he’s an actual prince: Gerald Ventser, grandson of the current king and the heir after his own father.

I’m not saying the author of that story was lazy or anything, but that royal surname’s a bit suspect if you know a bit of French.

Gerald, or Sir Ventser as I should address him, is the “doc” prince, which, ah, doesn’t make as much sense as the other ones. Basically, he’s leader-y and clever. Yes, clever prince fits him better. He’s also the one that Violet (at least in the story) falls in love with, which is why she starts “harassing” Eleanor who gets close to him.

That won’t be a problem for me.

Sitting through the boring morning classes, I’m plagued by a common thought: I want to go home. And it’s not clear to me what I mean by that any more. I love my family here, even Clarice and all her teasing. I love them so much. But… Ellie had parents she loved as well, didn’t she?

These classes, this place, it all reminds me of who I am now. That is, I’m… trapped. I’m lucky to have parents that gave me plenty of freedom, but I’ve picked up expectations over the years, and I’ll be expected to marry soon, to have children and tea parties with other wives. I don’t know. My parents won’t force me to marry someone harsh, but, even if my husband is kind, it’s not freedom.

My mind goes to strange places. If I don’t marry, then Joshua will have to look after me. If I run away, they’ll turn the entire country upside-down to look for me, and can I manage to flee abroad? I only speak English and a pathetic amount of French considering I had French classes for the last three years and another two before with the governess.

Catching myself thinking crazy thoughts, I let out a long breath, blank gaze drifting from the blackboard to Gerald sitting at the front.

What I really want is to go back to Ellie’s world. Even if I can’t be Ellie, at least I can be free in a way that I can’t be here. Free to live and work and love how I wish.

I wish….

My gaze sharpens, the back of Gerald’s head coming into my focus. If I collect the faerie kings’ hearts, I’ll be granted a wish. My own heart beats heavily, a lightheaded feeling engulfing me as my brain suddenly rearranges everything I thought I knew, setting the foundations for a most haphazard plan.

But there’s a roadblock: I don’t want to sleep with them. Maybe I only need them to fall in love with me and Eleanor just took it a bit further because the author was horny, but I don’t even want to go that far. I mean, that’s not who I am, right? I’m not a tease, or a flirt. I’m not a slut. I’m not the sort of person who would selfishly try to seduce a bunch of guys I’m not interested in. I’m not the sort of person who would play with their hearts, just to see if I can wish myself to Ellie’s world.

That’s another thing: I don’t even know if I can wish for that. It might be that magic can’t do it. There wasn’t anything like hopping from one universe to another in the story.

But, if there’s a chance, and I don’t have to betray who I am, then I’ll take it.

The bell for break rings, seemingly waiting for my thoughts to reach some kind of conclusion. I have nothing to do, so I just flop forward onto my desk in a way that doesn’t at all befit my station. Well, I’m not a train, so whatever.

“Excuse me, my lady.”

I don’t think for a moment those words are directed at me. After all, there’s no boys who would speak to me.

“Excuse me, my lady lying on the desk. Are you okay?”

Ah, that might be me. I turn my head so my eyes aren’t covered up, and there’s a boy there and, looking up, his gaze meets mine. “Sir Ventser,” I say.

My thoughts race.

Sitting up, I idly brush down the front of my vest to give myself a moment. Much like my old school, the uniform here is a white dress with a vest (the colour royal crimson) over the top for girls, while the boys are in something like a business suit, black trousers and a white buttoned shirt along with a crimson blazer.

My thoughts refocus on something useful.

I neatly fold my hands in front of me on the table, and I bring my gaze back to meet his. His light brown hair has a reddish tinge to it—where the royal crimson gets its name—and it’s similarly seen in his eyes.

“I am Nora de Kent. While I do hope that you will remember my name, I ask that you refrain from falling in love with me.”

I would ask for a replacement brain, but the problem is probably me given that Ellie wasn’t exactly eloquent either. Though I try to brush over things with a polite smile, I can feel the attention on me, sense the….

Oh, am I flirting with him? Is that what everyone else thinks?

He doesn’t show anything but his own polite smile. “Did I wake you from a dream?”

I’m annoyed at myself, and as if I’d be dreaming of him. Prat. “No,” I say, deciding the less said the better.

The silence trickling on, he seems to get the idea. “I see. If you are well, then that’s all that matters.”

I say nothing.

After a second, the boy next to him offers his hand. “Francis de Surrey, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” says… I’ve already forgotten his name.

My gaze flickers to his hand for a moment, but I don’t touch it. I mean, this is a classroom and I’m sitting down, right? It’s not an evening party.

“And yours,” I say.

He eventually takes his hand back.

I look back to Gerald. He looks at me. “Well, I shall stop disturbing you,” he says. “Good day.”

“And you,” I say, bowing my head in lieu of a curtsey.

The moment he turns away, I flop forwards again. I’m sure I hear his footsteps pause, but he doesn’t say anything and his footsteps soon continue.

It’s all well and good thinking I’ll try to get the faerie kings’ hearts, but, really, I can’t even talk to a boy without causing a stir. Whispers brush against my ears. “Can you believe her?” “So rude.” “Shameless.” Oh go grovel to the prince if you care that much, noisy brats. I’m the one who was just minding her own business when he came over.

Before I work myself up too much, I sit up again, stretching out my arms. Idly sweeping my gaze across the room, I shut up a few of the girls. Then I find Evan looking at me. Like a child, he tenses up at being caught.

Bashful prince indeed.

I bow my head to him, and say, “Nora de Kent. You are Evan Sussex, yes?”

While Gerald is tall and a bit on the thin side, Evan is a normal height and a bit on the other side of thin, but I wouldn’t call him chubby or stocky. It’s like, I feel he’s very sturdy and I don’t know if he is strong, but he looks like he should be. Rather than a green tone to his dark brown hair, it’s more like specks, and his eyes are vividly green (albeit an olive green).

He glances away, and then back. Unlike Gerald’s confident voice, Evan speaks softly, a little deeper. “Yes,” is all he says.

“I hope we may be good neighbours,” I say.

His nervous attention stays on me.

I feel like I’m bullying him, so I give him a last smile, and then turn to stare at the blank paper where my notes from the morning should have been. It’s not that someone stole them, I just didn’t write any. The first lessons are never important.

In the book, the princes were the boys that a lot of the girls liked. Gerald has his natural charm, raised with confidence and all that blah, with some royal propaganda thrown in. Evan’s charm is, well, his teddy-bear nature. (Incidentally, there are bears here, but they only eat berries and fruits, never other animals or honey.) He looks a bit tough and yet is polite and shy and just a big softie at heart.

I mean, I see the appeal, but it makes me want to tease him more than date him, you know? Be a little mean and then apologise with a cupcake or a muffin.

That’s… I should be careful, otherwise I’ll end up addicted to making him cry. I’m blaming Clarice—I learnt the joy of teasing younger siblings from her. Though I say that, it might be hereditary, my mother not much better.

I suddenly feel rather sorry for my father.