The next couple of days aren’t as full of exams. There’s only one exam per subject and, by Thursday, there’s only a couple of classes I haven’t sat an exam for yet. Unless I’m forgetting something, it’s just accounting tomorrow left.

Since the weather’s been nicer this week, I’m hoping earth magic class might involve gardening, eyeing up the ground as I walk over after the last lesson. Like last week, the room mostly fills up by the time Mr Churt arrives and he shuts the door behind him. He strides to the head of the room, putting down his briefcase on the desk before turning to face us.

Not wasting any time, he clears his throat and starts, his clear yet soft voice making me think of a butler. However, that image is at odds with his look, a little on the short side and a ratty face that seems to settle into a snarl. Not that he’s scary or anything, but I guess he’s “ugly”. In the upper-class, one of the hiring requirements for servants (that are seen) is that they’re pleasant to look at. Maids especially need a youthful beauty, manservants a good height. It’s not enough to hire help, you have to show you can hire the best (looking) help. Anyway, I’m saying all that, but I just mean it’s unusual for me to see someone who’s “ugly” at the school or at home. That said, you can’t exactly put the same requirements on the actual people who make up the upper-class, so it’s a mix of beautiful and average people (with makeup, good tailoring, and so on).

Oh right, he’s talking.

“—project per term. For this short period until the winter break, we shall look to establish the basics of what plants require to grow—”

And I’m losing interest, his words piling up in my head. Once he finishes, I skim through what he said, reducing it to: We’ll grow some cress. Wonderful. It’s not like Ellie did that by herself when she was five, using cotton wool and half an eggshell.

Nothing really matters, so we can also work in whatever size groups we want and, though he prattles a bit, all we have to do is keep the cress from drying out. I mean, I’m pretty sure you can grow cress in water, so we probably can’t even overwater it.

And while all the ladies split up into their friendship huddles, I look around for a certain sneezy prince. It’s only out of kindness, of course, no doubt difficult for him being the only guy in the class. Though he’s easy to miss, I spot him and tiptoe my way around the others to sit down next to him.

“Lord Hastings,” I say, bowing my head.

After a moment, he says, “Lady Kent, was it?” His tone is dry, and there’s a certain sentiment of “You again?” to his words.

But I’m not easily deterred. “Won’t you join my group?” I ask.

“And who exactly is in your group?”

“Well, excluding myself, no one,” I say, keeping count of everyone on my fingers. “So you would be a founding member as it were.”

He can’t catch himself in time, a brief laugh escaping. “You certainly have a way with words.”

“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head.

“You’re welcome; though, I didn’t precisely intend it to be a compliment.”

“Then you should take care lest you leave a lady less level-headed than I with the wrong impression,” I say at him.

He gently shakes his head, but can’t shake his smile. “I am rather sure the blame in this case lies squarely on your shoulders.”

“So if I water the cress Monday through Thursday, would you do so Friday through Sunday?”

Rubbing his face, he hides his mouth behind his hand. “You changed the topic rather suddenly there.”

“It’s called being considerate. I wouldn’t want to linger on how rude it is of you to blame me for what you yourself said, or do you mean to make me out as that sort of woman?”

His hand sliding higher, he rubs his forehead and a groan slips out of him. “You’re the worst sort of person to deal with.”

“I really would prefer it if you could at least do just the weekend, but if you are also busy then then I wouldn’t mind splitting it between us, one day each.”

He sighs. “You’re doing it again.”

Leaning forward, I make sure to catch his eye. “As tolerant as I am, I will send a letter to your mother,” I say sternly.

“Shouldn’t you complain to your own parents instead?”

Nodding my head, I say, “You have entirely underestimated me.”

Despite his words becoming sharper until now, he asks, “In what way?” with a light-hearted tone.

“I will simply introduce myself as a good friend of yours and thank her for raising such a gentleman. This will inevitably lead to you being questioned about our relationship. No matter how much you deny it, that will only further fuel her misunderstanding. Can you imagine how fun Yule will be? Constantly being asked if I should come for a visit, or what sort of present would I like. Of course, I will send you a greeting for the holiday—and make sure the contents are such that you couldn’t possibly show it to them.”

Pausing to catch my breath (not wanting to become breathless), I smile at him.

“Need I go on?”

He returns my gaze with a mask, not showing any of his emotions. Well, I say that, but that he isn’t just spitting back some reply tells me I’ve suitably chastised him.

“As long as you understand,” I say, breaking away to check for the teacher. It doesn’t look like he’s back yet, still getting the greenhouse ready for us.

Barely a whisper, he says, “I can’t tell if you like or hate me.”

After a short giggle behind my hand, I say, “I would like to be friends and nothing more. Is that strange?”

His lips curl into a reluctant smile. “I stand by what I said.”

Really, who knows what he means by that.

“So, can you do weekends or should we split them?” I ask, pushing the conversation back there now we’ve sorted things out. He goes along with me, but it’s half-hearted.

Mr Churt comes back soon and has us all follow him to the nearest greenhouse. They’re big, about half the size of a classroom. Not enough room for us all to stand inside (only a couple of aisles of free space inside, the rest being tables with trays of plants), we loosely crowd around him on a patio in front of the greenhouse.

After explaining what we’ll do, he has us come in, one group at a time. Julian and I naturally fall to the back. So far, I think we’ve avoided attention because he’s easily overlooked (pun somewhat intended), but when it comes to our turn, even Mr Churt gives us a bit of a look before walking inside.

This greenhouse is just a greenhouse. The other one is actually heated by an enchantment, allowing for some things to be grown out of season or for more exotic plants to be grown. Cress is pretty hardy, I think, so no need for the fancy greenhouse.

Inside, I basically leave it all to Julian. It’s putting soil and seeds in a pot, not exactly a great teamwork exercise, and he doesn’t say anything. I sprinkle a bit of water on after.

On the way out, we’re subjected to more than a few looks. I smile for our audience.

“We shall finish here for today,” Mr Churt says, following out behind me and Julian. “Next week, weather permitting, we will start to look at how to care for plants while making use of earth magic.”

After that, he lists off the times the greenhouse is “open” during the week and on weekends, reiterating his expectation that we make sure our cress is kept suitably watered. Then he finally dismisses us.

I’m not in a rush to leave, some congestion as the fairly broad patio narrows to a path. Julian isn’t that eager to go either, his gaze settling on some of the plants inside the greenhouse.

Having read Snowdrop and the Seven Princes, it really is like I’m cheating. If I was anyone else, I’d wonder if he likes plants, not knowing why he does. But I do know. I can vividly remember the few conversations “he” had with Eleanor. He’s close with his mother, and she did flower pressing as a young girl, books full of pretty flowers that she would show him, sharing the memories of her youth. And he was teased for it at his last school: a short boy, cute at an age where boys don’t like being called cute, and he liked flowers.

I don’t know how true what the Julian in the book said is compared to the Julian with me now, but I think it’s mostly the same. A story has to be more extreme to be interesting, unlike real life, so the truth is probably softer than what I read. Still, I probably also liked him because we went through similar challenges.

“Have you started looking for a snowdrop yet?” I ask him.

“Why would I?”

I hum to myself, wondering what a good reward would be. “Ah, I can sew your sweetheart’s initials onto a handkerchief,” I say, pleased with myself for thinking of it. “Isn’t that a most refined gift for a lady?”

“I don’t have a sweetheart,” he says.

“But you must have someone you like, do you not? In your class, or maybe a friend’s sister from when you visited….” I didn’t think that through. Clearing my throat, I continue. “Or a friend of your sister?”

Muttering more to himself than me, he says, “I have someone I’d like to go away.”

You know, didn’t I like him because he was a warm and gentle sort of character in the book? I mean, he quickly forgave Eleanor for their unfortunate first meeting, so why is he still having a go at me?

Though, I don’t hate talking like this with someone.

“Will you truly not help me?”

I hadn’t thought about it at the time, but shouldn’t it be really hard for him to turn down someone who wants to get her mother a beloved flower? Like, this is ticking all his boxes, right? Don’t tell me I’ve left that bad of an impression on him.

“As I said, there is simply no reason for me to go out of my way for a stranger,” he says.

Ah, I knew it. Smiling to myself, I happily say, “My birthday is November third.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Since this is the first time, I shall only tell you one thing. Next time, it will be two things, and then three things. Of course, when I am no longer a stranger to you, I’ll stop.”

He lowers his head and takes in a deep breath, rubbing his face. “You act like my sister does. No, you’re worse than her. If I had an older sister, is this what it would be like?”

“As someone with an older sister, I assure you this is nothing.”

Most of the others have gone by now, patio empty as the last of them walk down the path. I reach into my pocket, choosing a handkerchief at random to offer to him.

He glances, then looks away, sniffling; it’s not just flowers that give off pollen. At least for now it’s not too bad, being nearly winter and all. In the book, Eleanor only started really spending time with him in spring, so sneezes were common. However, it’ll be a lot worse than just sneezing, won’t it? Puffy eyes, runny nose—hardly a romantic image. Well, maybe he gets over the worst of it, or he actually has a bit of a cold at the moment.

The path clear, I head off first. I’m not sure if I’ve made him think better of me, but I guess I’ve at least made him think of me? That’s a start, right?

Whatever. Let’s just take each day as it comes.