“Ah, I am Nora de Kent,” I say, politely bowing my head—sitting down as I am.

Ms Berks’ lips thin, a crooked smile only tugging at one corner of her mouth. I would call it a smirk, but such a refined lady would surely not make such an expression. “Miss Nora,” she says sweetly. The overly familiar greeting is not lost on me. “Surely you have better things to do on a Friday afternoon?” she asks, a step closer.

“I truly do not, miss,” I say. My neck almost bends from the pressure, a constant instinct to bow my head pushing down.

She lets out a long breath, now standing right in front of my desk, her hand resting on the edge of it. “Then take pity on this old lady who could use an hour’s nap at the end of a busy week.”

“Would you be interested in running a handicrafts club?”

“Not in the slightest.”

There was no pause, no hesitation.

With a deep breath to settle myself, I reach into my pocket and pull out a handkerchief. Not just any one, mind you, but the one with my finest embroidery. While some of the patterns I’ve sewn came from a book or picture, and others from my memories and imagination, this one I carefully sewed as I stared at a real rose—no, I felt the rose, sniffed it, imbuing every stitch with the essence of the flower.

“If you would indulge me,” I say, offering up the handkerchief like a precious gift.

She plucks it from my hands, turning it over and over. I can’t help but watch. Her gaze travels over the simple stitching around the edge, and then she steadies it on the design. Her every twitch makes my heart skip a beat.

“I suppose it is passable. The stitches are neat and the motif is decently captured. However, I can see the holes where you have undone three stitches. If this is your pattern, then it’s clear you have little understanding on the deeper meaning of each stitch, the result little different to cross-stitch. If it is not your pattern, well, you still have little understanding, otherwise you would not have so proudly shown off such a piece.”

Like that, she’s made my heart break.

“Thank you for your instruction,” I say, smiling politely.

She clicks her tongue, dropping the handkerchief back in my hand. “It is all well and good to sew neatly, yet are neat strokes all that is required of an artist? Each stitch conveys meaning. What you have is a trinket that makes a pretty gift, not a work of art. Given time to learn, any child could sew much the same embroidery.”

And so stamps on the broken pieces of my heart.

“Th-thank you, miss,” I meekly reply.

As if she’d forgotten she was speaking to me and not to herself, she looks over and presses her lips together, mouth tightly shut. I wouldn’t dare to think she feels bad for being a bit harsh with me.

When she next speaks, her tone is softer, but still not what I would call soft. “That is, you have a good foundation. I would forget what I said as those are not words for someone who is simply enjoying her hobby.”

Ms Berks, you can’t mend a shattered heart so easily. But that silly thought of mine aside, I bow my head, and I say, “No.”

“And what exactly are you saying no to?”

“I shan’t forget those words.”

A long and tense few seconds pass, my heart pounding in my chest. Ah, this all went so easily in my head, yet now I’m saying such embarrassing things! That’s the sort of thing a maiden in love would say, right? “I shan’t forget those words.” Please, I’ll never forgot those words! Whenever I’m too comfortable in bed, I’ll surely remember them and cringe.

Unaware of my inner turmoil, she says, “Fine.”

I’m brought out of my thoughts, and I look up at her. Is she the sort of person who also suffers when she sees someone else embarrassed? Is my embarrassment that catching? “M-miss?” I ask.

She clicks her tongue. “I am a teacher,” she says, and I’m not entirely sure if she’s talking to me or herself. “If you are interested in sewing, then I suppose it would be fine for me to open such a club. However, do not expect me to have much to do with it,” she says, her complexion clearing up by the end.

“Of course not.” I say that, but, well, what am I supposed to think? Is she being kind or cold? Both? It’s a good thing she already broke my heart, otherwise it would ache from being tugged this way and that.

Wait, something’s not quite right about that….

“In the library building, there are some storage rooms. I will request one is cleared enough to be used and stocked with suitable materials,” she says. “What days…. Ah, I can get out of the staff meeting on Monday, and I can cancel the Friday class.”

I don’t think she’s supposed to be mumbling such things aloud.

As if sensing my thoughts, her gaze snaps to me, and a smile which is definitely not a smirk settles on her lips. “Ah, miss Nora, you should run along. There will certainly be a message at registration soon about a new club starting that you will certainly wish to join.”

Honestly, I’m not sure if my legs will let me stand up. Pulling myself together, I slowly force myself to my feet and manage to curtsey. “Thank you, miss,” I say.

As I leave the room, she has one more thing to say.

“Oh and do stop cutting the thread with your teeth.”

I walk around the corner and stop for a moment. Rubbing some life back into my face, I wonder if she really is a teacher here. At the least, she doesn’t teach any junior classes, probably an art teacher for the seniors with how she spoke.

Slowly, I carry on back to my room.

I keep going over the conversation with her in my head. Ah, I reach that cringey point. You know, I was so focused on how embarrassing that was that I can’t remember exactly what I was supposed to remember.

What did she say…. I don’t understand the stitches? I mean, I guess she’s right. I’ve blindly stitched along to the patterns, or made my own designs by choosing whatever stitch I think suits it best; that’s usually a backstitch for outlines and a chain stitch for filling in areas, and I know a few knotted stitches if I want to add a different texture. It’s, like, I’ve not thought of embroidery as art before.

I mean, I’m terrible at art. Even with Ellie’s memories and thinking it would be great if I properly practised while I’m young, it’s really hard to do those first thousand paintings, okay? If I was a normal child, I probably could have found it fun, but I just felt bad wasting watercolours. It wasn’t like I could see myself getting better anyway. That said, I was forced to learn the piano and that experience has left me sour.

I don’t know, I guess embroidery is art. Like, I can express myself with it, can’t I?

It’s a Friday afternoon and I should be focused on preparing for work tomorrow, and all I can think about is sewing. The whole walk back to my room, I’m trying to imagine how a rose looks when made of different stitches, and it probably says something about me that I manage to get back without getting lost while so lost in thought.

Once in my room, I take out a piece of linen I practise with. After seeing Lottie’s house, I’ve been thinking of hanging up some of my embroidery as decoration, this room currently rather bare. So this linen is full of little designs, mostly simple patterns of cats and dogs that I can quickly sew, thinking that sort of repeating pattern would like nice.

Me, what I want to sew….

I softly smile to myself, thinking Ms Berks probably doesn’t know how she’s swept up the shards of my heart into a little storm.

Oh no, surely it’s too young for me to become like my mother. Definitely too young.

The needle moves, my thoughts quieted. It’s simple and repetitive and takes all my focus. I’ve always sewn slowly and with a thimble, not wanting to end up with pricks or calluses. I’m not in a rush. A quiet chant has the faeries help me, needle sliding easily through the fabric as (I imagine) their little hands helping pull and push it—they actually use magic. Probably.

My room is fairly simple. There’s a bed a little larger than just a single, mattress soft and winter blanket plump. A chest of drawers for some of my clothes, a wardrobe for the rest. Then a desk that also serves as a makeup table with a mirror on it. Through a side door is a bathroom—bath, toilet, sink, and a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door. Altogether, it’s not overly spacious, but it’s generous enough. Though this might be a boarding school, the students, well, the students’ fathers are noblemen. And though we could all have bigger rooms if we had communal bathrooms, that’s apparently a line that cannot be crossed.

Other luxuries, the school employs maids. There’s the wakeup call (very handy without an alarm clock of any kind), but I could also ask for a maid to attend to me in the morning. I’m capable of washing and dressing myself and doing my own hair, so I’ve never needed (or wanted) that. For things like afternoon tea, the dining hall is open all day.

While not exactly our servants, they will (generally) do whatever little task asked of them. Deliver a note to a teacher, or fix a torn blouse. If we get sick, they’ll care for us and all that. They handle laundry and bedding and cleaning during the day and even on weekends. I’ve only spent the first Sunday here, so I’ve only seen those maids that time, and the one for my room was a sweet girl, maybe a year older than me. Len, she said her name was. Helen?

It’s one of those quirks, everyone so insistent on giving their children these wonderful-sounding names—and then shortening them. Not that I’m one to talk. For the most part, it’s a commonfolk or family thing. That is, well, I guess it’s like, if I’m talking to Violet, then calling her “Violet” instead of “Lady Dover” is already familiar. So the middle-class and upper-class usually only use nicknames when talking to family, where as commonfolk always address each other by first names, so nicknames are….

Probably enough talk on that.

I was mentioning my room because I am sewing patterns to decorate it. When I think what would go nice, I think I want a lot of green, with some colourful pieces scattered here and there. Flowers, I guess. The room is white and wood, so green matches well. Something I’ve probably not mentioned before, the animals here have no predators, so they can be colourful and all that and so you get vibrant reds and bright blues and everything else. However, I don’t know, flowers are very much in vogue.

Ah, I have strange thoughts at times.

Without thinking, I go to cut the thread with my teeth, only to pause when it touches my lip. Ms Berks told me off for this, didn’t she. To be able to tell, she must have really looked close, the end of the thread frayed.

Well, it’s no big deal. There’s a little cutting bit on my thimble, like on a dental floss thing; I only got this thimble recently, so I’m not used to using it.

Ms Berks, I’m not sure what to think of her yet, but this sewing club should be fun.