Friday means… embroidery club! I’ve been busy since I talked with Ms Berks. Well, since she talked to me. Anyway, I finished a piece last night and I’ve been excited all day and it’s finally the end of the day. It was hard to stay focused in the study session, and harder still in accounting. I mean, it’s just arithmetic with money, not even balance sheets or something else scary sounding.

Finally, the bell rings.

“Ah, before you go, do remember to prepare for the mock exams next week,” Mr Milton half-heartedly says over the din of chairs scraping and books and bags rustling.

I hurriedly pack, beating Evan for a change. When he’s ready, we start shuffling through the crowd, making it out to the walkway and over to the reference building. Ms Berks arrives a little after us, but not enough to be “late”.

No one else turns up. It’s expected, yet a bit sad. I really hoped someone would at least be interested enough to come see us. Never mind.

We settle in as we do, Evan sitting diagonally opposite me at two tables pushed together, Ms Berks in the corner. Careful, I take out my piece. It’s… simple, really. Seven rings arranged in a circle, overlapping like a chain that links to itself, no beginning or end. They’re almost touching in the middle, the overall look like a flower. Each ring is a different colour and they follow the colours of the rainbow. If you look closely, you’ll notice that each ring really does “link” to its neighbours, and each ring is made with a different stitch that I feel suits the colour.

Friendship—that’s what I’ve called it.

Just, I feel embarrassed now I’m actually here. I mean, really, am I actually going to show her this? It looks like it only took a few minutes to make. Well, a few hours. It was crazy, though, like, the needle did exactly what I wanted it to do, no fumbling or hesitating. And I remembered not to cut the thread with my teeth (that was probably the hardest part).

But I really spent a lot of time coming up with the pattern, or maybe design is a better word. An idea of something in my head, that I then tried to represent as a pattern, making it real.

Ugh. I’m sounding pretentious, aren’t I? Oh well, I have to start somewhere.

Pushing myself up, Evan glances at me, and I’m sure Ms Berks is still reading her book. I turn around and, yup, she is. I lower my head to hide my nervous smile, and then walk over to her. “Miss?”

She shows no sign of having heard me, but I patiently wait. After a few seconds, her eyes flicker up to me, eyebrows asking, “What is it you want?”

“I, um, made this. Would you give me your opinion on it?” I say, offering the square of linen (not my usual handkerchief) with both hands.

Sighing, she shuts her book—the clap almost making me jump. “Very well.”

She takes it from me, looks at it from arm’s length and then up close, turning it over, testing some of the stitches with her nail. My heart beats quick, clasped hands anxious. “This is, I tried to—”

“Shush.”

“Yes, miss.”

When did I last go to the bathroom? Lunch, right?

Interrupting my thoughts, she says, “This is something like the Bonds of Friendship, is it not?”

I freeze for a second, and then I can’t help the broad smile that overwhelms me, even as I try desperately to downplay it.

“Ah, that reaction. I am correct, then,” she says, holding out the embroidery for me.

Taking it, I nod, not trusting my voice.

“I’m glad my trust hasn’t been misplaced,” she says softly, her gaze lingering on the linen. When she continues, her voice is normal. “Art is… an experience created between the piece and the viewer. Can you call something locked away art? No, you can’t. Art isn’t what you make but what other people see. Do you understand?” she asks.

Maybe, it’s hard to say without time to think.

She gently chuckles, not hiding her mouth—something unusual enough for me to notice. “I want to put on an exhibition,” she says, “so do your best.”

“W-what?” I ask, staring at her.

“Haven’t you noticed yet? I’m an unreasonable person and have little regard for others,” she sweetly says, smiling at me with a knowing look. “I thought it would be enough to avoid the staff meetings, yet now I see a way to have some fun. Aren’t you happy for me?”

I manage to hold back the (many) emotions and say, “Of course I am, miss.”

“Don’t worry, I shan’t spring it on you soon. There is a period towards the end of the year, after the exams, where the school somewhat opens to prospective pupils. Now, if I do remember to request a room, wouldn’t it be wonderful to put on a display?”

If she remembers to! Even when it comes to things she wants to do, she’s like this?

“I believe I asked you a question,” she says.

Swallowing my pride, or something like that, I nod, saying, “Yes, miss.”

With a self-satisfied smile, she opens up her book. “As you were.”

While I return to my seat, I catch Evan looking at me. Ah, it can’t be helped, so I put down my embroidery in the middle of the table for him to see. He doesn’t pick it up, so I roll my eyes and push it closer to him.

My head is… a mess. Too much of a mess to care what he thinks right now. It’s just, ideas trying to get my attention, worries drifting like clouds to cover my excitement. Afraid of putting all my love into something only to be told it’s crap. But… I’m braver than that. At least, I’m trying to be, trying to be as brave as Ellie was.

“I like it.”

He said those words so softly, it took me a while to hear them, a moment of doubt giving me pause. “You do?”

“I’m… not familiar with art, and didn’t understand anything of what miss said, but I do think this has a prettiness to it. Something about friendship, was it? A flower blooming,” he says, trailing off to mumbles by the end.

Ah, I think I understand a little more of what she said. “If you’d like, you may have it,” I say.

“What? I couldn’t,” he says, looking up from the embroidery. “Won’t this be in the exhibition?”

For someone so shy, he’s talking awfully sweet today. That was what Eleanor thought as well, wasn’t it? Cyril has a way with words, but Evan has just the right words—when he doesn’t get stuck in his own head.

“It’s enough for me to know it will be appreciated,” I say, bowing my head to him. “Besides, this is just a first draft. There’s a lot more to it that I would like to try and express, and a lot more I have to learn.”

His expression is complicated… so I have to tease him, right? This isn’t something worth thinking about.

“Or is it that you wouldn’t want anyone to ask you who gave it to you?” I ask.

The familiar blush starts to blotch on his cheeks. “It’s not that,” he mutters.

I giggle at his reply—and that only makes him redder.

“Oh, Lady Kent? I should have said earlier, but make sure to sign your piece. That is your mark of pride as an artist,” Ms Berks says.

Poor Evan, no one to help him.

“I will, miss,” I say, picking up the linen and bringing it to my side. While I quickly yet neatly sew my “initials” on (“E de K”), I glance up a few times, catching him watching me. Done, I slide it back across the table to him. “There we go. Now, when I’m famous, you can proudly show off this original piece and brag to all your fr—, acquaintances.”

He sinks in his seat, coming to hide his face in his arms. When he dares to look up, his gaze catches on my signature, frowning.

I guess why. “My name is Eleanor,” I say.

“Oh. It’s a nice name.”

If only it wasn’t ruined for me by a certain character in a book. “I shall let my mother know you think so—she’s the one who chose it for me.”

He doesn’t hide from me again, but he looks like he wants to.

The rest of the club passes with just a little more teasing, and then I merrily return to my bedroom to prepare for the weekend and start noting down my other ideas of embroidery (including changes I want to make to the Friendship pattern). Luckily, the mock exams next week means no homework. I mean, the homework is to study, but that sounds like a problem for other people.

Saturday morning, I go about my routine quickly. The weather outside is gloomy, but not actually raining, so I want to head into town early.

I think I make it to the river by half eight and that gives me an hour to get done what I want. Rather than going left to the middle-class shops (including the café), I go to the more residential area. There’s still a few shops here, but they’re less flashy. Food, mostly, grocers and bakeries and pubs.

A fabric store taking my interest, I pop in, walking out with a few pieces of cheap fabric cut to different sizes—my pocket a shilling lighter. It’s for the best there wasn’t any pricier cloths I liked the look of.

Still, the grey and moody sky worries me. I only came this early because I wanted to buy an umbrella and gloves (that won’t stand out). However, only luck has kept me dry so far. I doubt Neville would appreciate me skipping out on work because it’s raining.

As I’m rambling to myself, I walk along the river (afraid to stray in case I can’t find my way back), and a voice pulls me out my thoughts.

“Ellie!”

I nearly fall over, a blob glomping into my side. “Gwen? Gwen!” I reply, peeling her off so I can lower myself and give her a proper hug. “How are you?”

She giggles, grinning at me like the adorable little squirt she is. “I am well, and you?”

Oh she sounds just like Lottie giving a greeting, and I look at that mother of hers who wears an expression which says, “What can you do?”

“Wonderful, darling,” I say, really putting it on. “Just last night, I met the Queen at a garden party—you should have been there.”

Gwen gasps, and she asks, “Did you weally?”

That lisp! But no, I must focus. “Of course not. However, wouldn’t that be a fantastic story? Imagine you got to meet the Queen, wouldn’t that be so exciting?”

“Yeah!” she says, nodding so hard I worry for her neck.

I boop her on the nose and push myself back up, neatening my dress as I do. “Well, if I’m ever invited for tea with the Queen, I’ll make sure to tell her I’m only coming if you’re invited too.”

“Really?”

I nod, making a most serious expression. “Of course. That is, if it’s okay with your mother.”

As if rehearsed, we both turn to face Lottie, and I caught sight of such incredible puppy dog eyes (not that that’s a metaphor in this dog-less world) coming from Gwen.

Lottie, obviously, is entirely unfazed. I gave her a lot of practice resisting these kinds of looks back in the day.

“Well, if that day comes, then you better hope you’ve been eating properly, brushing your teeth twice a day, and going to sleep on time,” she says to Gwen, no room for nonsense in the Grocer household.

Gwen eagerly nods, saying, “Yes, mama!”

“Then it’s a pinky promise,” I say, holding out my pinky for her. Without me saying anything else, she catches on and sticks out her pinky. “If I break it, faeries will pluck out my eyelashes, so I’ll definitely keep it.”

At her surprised expression, I gently laugh, finally letting out the hubris I’ve built up. Then, with everything settling down, I ask Lottie about the things I’m looking for, and the two of them lead me to some shops to buy them, before also showing me the way to their house from the main intersection. It’s, well, I just have to remember to go right until Baker Street, go down it, and then take the third left onto King Philip Close and it’s number fourteen—about halfway along the road. Not trusting me at all, they then walk me back to the café.

What a great start to the day.