I really enjoyed yesterday. Thursday now, I enjoy it just as much. Greeting everyone I see, chatting to Evan between classes, it’s a lot of fun. Although I spent some time last night thinking about those strange lights (the ones I saw when I made the pinky promise with him), nothing really came to mind. I must’ve just been seeing things.

Anyway, today, I also say hello to the guy in front of me. The way the seating plan is arranged is a checkerboard of boys and girls, so my front, back and either side neighbours are boys. Well, they would be, but I’m in the back corner, so I only have a neighbour in front and one on my right (Evan).

Getting off topic. Alan Watford, that’s the name of the guy in front of me, and he returned my greeting while not quite being able to meet my eyes. It’s a start.

I barely make it through history after lunch, but, knowing there is the earth magic class on the other side, I manage to stay awake for the last lesson of the day. Not much point in rushing, I let the worst of the traffic pass before heading out back to the classroom.

Though the rain drizzled for most of the week, there are covered walkways to all the other buildings and they have high sides to stop the rain from being blown under (unless it’s really windy). And so only one class has actually been cancelled because of rain this week: a “physical education” kind of class, separated by gender, and for us ladies it’s nothing more than walking and stretching (they call it “calisthenics”, but we really only stretch and balance). From what I’ve heard, there will be dancing and actual gymnastics sort of stuff once they finish the “ballroom” over winter break, apparently the repairs unable to be completed in time for this term.

Of course, women (noble women, I should say) wouldn’t be expected to do anything if not for health problems in later life. It’s not exactly written down in a book, but I’ve guessed that corsets and overly heavy dresses have also fallen out of fashion with the back problems and such. That said, I’m still at the age where I wear simple dresses, but there’ll be outfits I do need maids to help with awaiting me in a year or two, maybe sooner if my family attends a particularly important ball or event.

Well, back to the present, I’ve been happy to skip the pointless walks, spending that Tuesday lesson (and probably tomorrow’s) pretending to read while thinking of embroidery patterns. I do plenty of walking already.

Coming to the earth magic classroom, I check the flower garden, surprised at how colourful it still looks. I guess it pays to properly plan them out.

Despite dawdling a bit, I’m not the last one to arrive, the room half full. From what I can see, there’s a few seniors and a more juniors. No one from my class. Still, I recognise the ladies, all of them from my old school.

Of course, I politely greet them on the way to an out-of-the-way seat.

Five more people trickle in over the next few minutes. I was expecting a full room, but I guess that was just a “see what it’s like” lesson. Mr Churt strolls in and shuts the door behind him. I guess no one else is coming, whether they want to or not.

Then it’s a history lesson. How lucky.

Well, I half know everything already from my lessons with Ms Oare, but there’s new bits sprinkled in. Earth faeries are rather abundant in Anglia, so we’ve always had good harvests and stuff, so we don’t have to rely on the mainland for food imports. Earth magic itself is mostly used for research, growing new plants (or new strains, or whatever the right word is) and working out the best conditions for them. Rather than a colonial power, we’re strictly trading, gathering plants to grow ourselves and buying those that we can’t grow natively.

Incidentally, that’s why tea is popular here. After we brought back some, we started to grow our own and, since there’s so many earth faeries, a lot of people can use a little earth magic and grow herbs or tea for personal use. While I grew up on blends imported from India and China, there’s local strains and those are what commonfolk have.

On a smaller scale, curry leaves and chilli peppers and turmeric and all sorts of similar spices have been “imported” and then grown natively, but I think the taste is probably different, and they’re more for the middle-classes or particularly well-to-do commonfolk. Again, the upper-class imports spices from abroad.

The only other thing to say about all this, sugarcane apparently isn’t a thing? A lot of fruits have been bred sweeter to make syrups instead. It’s not horrible, but I miss having something sweet that isn’t also fruity. Not that I’ve ever actually had anything like that, relying on Ellie’s memories for such a thing.

Mr Churt has his talk on the first point mainly—the history of important Anglish cultivars, mainly wheat, potato and tea. For us children of the nobility, we won’t have anything to do with botany, but we can sound educated regurgitating the facts. A second or third son could go on to university and become an academic botanist, but the only guy here is sneezy prince who is the heir to a county. Though it wouldn’t be impossible for him, well, it’s not important, nothing to do with me.

Of course, a woman attending university is national news, given the “time period” of this world. Even for the middle-class, girls aren’t given a full high-school-equivalent education like I’m getting.

By the time the bell rings, I’m half-asleep. As always, I wait for most of them to shuffle out first before I get moving, stifling a yawn. Hopefully next week will actually be about plants.

“Isn’t he just so adorable?”

Idle whispers reach me from the ladies in front, and it’s easy to tell who they’re talking about. Julian is looking at the flowers. From the side, I can see his nose is red. Though he hasn’t reacted to anything in the second or so as I walk over, there’s tension in his face, almost pouting.

“Lord Hastings, are you admiring the flowers?” I ask, stopping at his side. Like him, I rest my gaze on the chrysanthemums and asters, some carnations (wilted by the cold snap), not sure what the other flowers are.

“Is that strange?” he asks, his voice calm rather than the petulant that would have suited his childish stature.

I think for a moment, and then say, “Yes, but I think it shouldn’t.”

He sniffles. It likely has nothing to do with what I said.

“Would you like a handkerchief?” I ask, hand already in my pocket.

“No, I couldn’t—”

Now with a wad of handkerchiefs out, I flip through them, saying, “There’s a rose, an oak, a rabbit, a dragon, a robin—”

“Wait, what was that last one?”

“A robin?” I say, holding it up for him to see.

He shakes his head. “No before that.”

“Oh, the dragon? I thought I should have some more exciting ones in case I met a stubborn boy who needed a handkerchief and wouldn’t accept one with a flower on it.” Dragons, being mythical, do still “exist” in this world.

His lips press together, thin, while his cheeks still puff out—trying not to smile. “I see.”

“Would you like it? I have many spare,” I say.

He looks away then, bringing up a hand to rub his eye. It must be uncomfortable for him so close to the flowers. “No, thank you. Though, if I may ask, why do you have so many?”

“I like to embroider them. Is that strange?” I ask, leaning over to try and see his face better.

Still hiding from me, he says, “Yes. However, perhaps it shouldn’t.”

I want to poke him in the unguarded side he’s showing me for that. “Don’t just parrot my own words back to me,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He actually laughs this time, a short few before he controls himself. “My apologies,” he softly says, and then he slowly turns around. After looking at me, he asks, “And again, my apologies, but have we met before?”

“Nora de Kent,” I say, curtseying.

“Julian Hastings.” He bows in reply, a sort of shoulders forward and ducking head bow that men (of good etiquette) use, rather than the deep bend-at-the-waist bow of servants. In the same way, my curtsey isn’t all that fancy, a slight bend of the knees with one foot behind (heel up) and pinching my uniform at the waist.

Poor Clarice, she’s having to practise a “royal” curtsey, which is (more or less) squatting down to nearly the floor and holding that position until given permission to rise. (Apparently, my mother is rather fond of counting how long before Clarice falls over—Clarice is less fond of this.)

Ah, those thoughts give me an idea. “Say, would you help me with a present? It will be my mother’s birthday in early February and her favourite flower is a snowdrop, so I would like to grow one for her.”

“What makes you think I could help? Or would help, for that matter,” he says. “We barely know each other.”

“Then isn’t this a good chance to get to know each other? I’m always willing to make another friend.”

He chuckles, trying to rub the smile off his face. “Friend, huh?” he mutters, probably not intending me to hear. “You are teasing me, right? You’re hardly the first.” Those words are flat, distant, his expression losing all humour.

“Of course I am. That’s an important part of being my friend, after all.”

Lowering his head, he shows off all those blond curls to me, and I notice the amber threads amongst them. A warm orange, like the sunlight at dawn and dusk. “I see,” he whispers.

Ah, I just want to cuddle him when he acts all meek. Or, more accurately, I want to hug Joshua. My little brother’s going to be bigger than me soon, so I have to get all the hugs while I can. Knowing he’ll one day tell me, “Stop it, Nora, I’m too old for this,” is enough to make me cry.

Maybe that’s why I have so many handkerchiefs with me, to make sure I’m prepared for that day. Given he’s started at a boarding school, it’ll likely happen when I go home for the winter break.

The cold weather and thoughts getting to me, I shiver and give my arms a quick rub. “Well, I shall see you next week. Have a good day,” I say, giving him another shallow curtsey.

As if an automatic response, he mumbles, “And you.”

No bow. I guess I can forgive him, just this once.

Something I’ve not thought of much, my memories of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes are actually quite clear. Like, I can’t recall every word of it, but it has always been like I read it yesterday. All of Ellie’s memories are like that, as if she was copied into a computer and put at the back of my head at the time of her death. Things like what cake she had for her tenth birthday are a weird blur of, “Maybe a sponge cake with her name on it?” while I can remember exactly what she had for her last breakfast—jam toast and tea.

So, even though it’s been sixteen years, nearly seventeen, I can remember reading about Julian. Eleanor met him when she visited the flower garden, and she mistook him for a child who was lost. Because of course she did. Never mind that he was wearing the uniform and that he wasn’t crying or upset.

Then she called him cute, and he didn’t much like that. It’s hard to say exactly, but, rather than a short complex, he has a short-complex complex. He doesn’t like being called short or cute or anything that sounds childish, and that’s pretty reasonable I’d say. Everyone has flaws and he doesn’t overreact or anything when it does happen. What he hates, though, is people telling him he shouldn’t get upset about being called cute, stuff like that. Again, I think that’s fair. The worst feeling in the world is when someone pesters you, asking you why you’re angry until they make you angry—and then get all defensive, asking why you’re shouting at them, saying they’re sorry.

That Clarice comes to mind at this time is merely a coincidence.

Anyway, Julian is… a precious character, I think. Um, in that he has worth. That is, I found his character one of the more authentic and interesting portrayals in the otherwise cliché and dull book. He just was a really warm character to read about, nothing more to it. I know that the story and this reality aren’t the same (even if they’re similar), so I’ve not fussed over him. But… I hope we can be friends.

I guess all I can do is wait for next week to see if I can experience some of that warmth in person.