Come Monday, I get to class as early as always (eager to avoid the hallway when it’s crowded). I actually quite like exams. Since it doesn’t matter to me, I only write what I feel like and then relax. No need to listen to the teacher, no homework to cut into my free time. All I have to do is avoid being given detention for, like, turning in a blank sheet.

Evan, on the other hand, turns up looking close to death. I leave him be for now, can always ask him how he got on with Cyril later.

The day starts off with Geography, by far my worst subject because of how Mr Duxford wants us to memorise half a textbook of useless facts and dates. (Why does it matter when countries were formed—that’s history, right?) Geometry is more forgiving due to my borrowed memories, but I’ll probably still lose marks for “doing it the wrong way” or skipping steps when I do calculations in my head.

By morning break, Evan still looks terrible. I click my tongue in sympathy and resolve to (at least try to) ease some of his tension.

“Lord Sussex,” I say lightly.

He stirs, dragging his gaze away from fiddling hands. “Yes?”

Oh no, it sounds worse than I thought. Is there time to go to the lunch hall and ask for a slice of sponge cake? Silliness aside, I ask, “Say, how was my cousin?”

A smile struggles to break through on his face, not quite strong enough to offset the tiredness tugging at his eyes. “He seems nice. Were you two close growing up?”

I tilt my head, frowning at that question. “Not particularly? We met for dancing lessons, but that was only a couple of months when we were… ten? Yes, the summer before he started attending boarding school.”

“Oh,” he says.

Surprised at his surprise, I ask, “Why do you ask?”

His mouth turns awkward, brings up a hand to rub the back of his head. “You two spoke so familiarly, I thought you must have spent a lot of time together.”

“Jealous?”

He quietly chuckles, moving his hand to his chin as if trying to hide behind it. “I would rather say envious. While I get on well with my sister, I wouldn’t say we are particularly friendly, so I did find myself thinking it would be nice to have a cousin my age.”

I nod along. From what I know (more from this world than from Ellie’s memories for a change), he’s the son of the youngest brother; add a few more circumstances and his cousin is actually over ten years older than him and is the current Duke of Sussex, Evan’s uncle retiring a year or two ago. While kings tend to reign until very old, it’s fairly common for lower titles to “retire” when the heir has a stable family and all the their other children are married.

Anyway, I think Evan is sort of between generations in his extended family, all his cousins much older than him and their children much younger.

“If you’d like, we can trade,” I say, a certain smile on my lips, a light tone to my voice. “You can have Cyril and I’ll have Ellen. I’ve always thought it would be wonderful to have a younger sister to pamper.”

Only after I say it do I chide myself for using Cyril’s name like that, far too casual even for an informal chat. Using his sister’s name isn’t as bad, but still somewhat rude—like I’m being presumptuous enough to assume she wouldn’t mind me calling her that way.

If Evan notices my slip up, he doesn’t show it, only laughs at my outlandish suggestion. “Perhaps your little brother will take a fancy to her.”

“Ah, good thinking,” I say, nodding vigorously. “That way you can come for visits under the pretence of checking on your sister; however, I would ask you not to enter the maze unattended lest you get yourself lost.” It goes without saying that I can hardly climb a tree at this age to spot him if that happened.

He stiffens up at my joke. Perhaps I’m not the only one with a terrible sense of direction?

Our conversation moves on to sewing next and the end of the break silences us. By the look of him, I’ve managed to settle the worst of his nerves.

One exam rolls into the next, one day into another. I sew in the evenings and enjoy the comfort of a hot-water bottle and a good duvet. (You know, I really have no idea what goes inside duvets if not feathers. There’s probably a feather plant that I don’t know about.)

Oh, and a cup of tea at eight o’clock, delivered to my room. Can’t spell “Anglia” without two T’s—um, that works better with “Great Britain”.

Tuesday, Wednesday pass. Thursday sees a couple of classes where we’ve already taken the exam, so those lessons become “study hours” where we’re expected to revise for other exams. You know me, always one to break expectations, except that I end up coaching Evan for the history test. History isn’t exactly my forte, especially when it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish between Ellie’s world and this one, so it’s more moral support than actual help.

I try to make up for that on Friday, the Accounting exam at the end of the day and we have the lunch break and what would normally be PE to study. It’s pretty simple maths, so I think my “modern” methods will help him a lot. (The grid method works well for multiplication even if Ellie didn’t use it after starting high school.)

At the least, he doesn’t look as near death as he did on the Monday after the exam.

And so we make it to another weekend. I’ve nearly finished my second dress, but it won’t be ready this weekend. It really has come out nice. The white of the lace-like pattern subtly shows on the pale pink, yet it draws the eye well, the intricacy making it interesting to look at and the light falls on it in the most wonderful way.

The weather on the better side for this time of year, I spend my Saturday morning walking around town with Lottie and Gwen. It’s a very… dull town. Expectedly, I guess, Ellie living in a very different time. No restaurants or cafés for commonfolk, just pubs that serve snacks alongside the beer and which only open in the evening. It’s kinda weird since cafes (no accented e) were common in Ellie’s world—small “restaurants” that served greasy food for working men, or so the general image of them was.

Other than food, there’s… not really anything to do but window shop. Not even a park with swings and a roundabout or a public library. I mean, public libraries aren’t a thing here. The author probably just didn’t think about those when writing Snowdrop and the Seven Princes because it seems the sort of thing they would have included. Eleanor never really went into town except for a couple of plot points.

Anyway, I don’t mind not having anything to do, spending time with Lottie and Gwen entertaining enough. It’s fun just chatting to Gwen and seeing the little greetings she has with the people she knows (it seems I’m not her only fan). The river is also rather beautiful this time of year, the water clear and full of fish—I wonder if the author thought of this when adding magic toilets, huh?

Then comes work. I’m really comfortable with the job by now and my worries about being recognised have gone away entirely. Since none of Lady Horsham (a one-in-three weeks or so client along with Violet), or Ladies Challock and Yalding (once or twice a week clients who were in a group with me for water magic class) have noticed it’s me, I probably don’t have to be nervous.

That said, I’m sure Violet has her suspicions. She comes today and I notice her watching me now and then in a way no other clients do. However, I also know she won’t speak a word of those suspicions.

And speaking of sneaky looks, at the end of the shift, I catch Annie eyeing up my hair. It was something I noticed at the start of working here, but quickly forgot. I kind of have a lot of rather different things going on and so it’s easy for something to slip my mind.

I take out the few hair pins that keep my braid so neatly up and loosen the ribbon. Using my fingers, I lightly comb out the braid. Then I glance over and see Annie still watching me.

Oh I nearly giggle, a cute look she’s showing me. “Annie, could you help me fix my hair?” I ask.

She doesn’t jump, but it takes her a noticeable second to happily reply, “Sure!”

It doesn’t even take her a second to come over, gently pulling apart the rest of my braid.

“Ah, I’m so envious,” she mutters.

“You can’t grow your hair out?” I ask.

She clicks her tongue. “I wish, but it just goes horribly curly—especially in weather like, well, not today.” After a moment’s pause, she carries on. “You have such a nice colour too, like silver.”

I fight the urge to fidget, unused to this sort of praise. “You’re too kind. Besides, I quite like your colour. I feel mine makes my skin look pale.”

“Pale skin is nice. The boys all say they want a wife with skin snow white and fingers soft as cotton.”

Hesitating, I scrunch up my face. “Do they?”

“Well, people say boys say that, but I’ve not heard any boys say that myself, no.”

Gently laughing, I cover my mouth. “Oh dear.”

Somehow, we manage to chat about hair for the few minutes it takes her to redo my braid. With it then put up in something like a bun, it’s all done, just my maid cap to hide it all away left.

“It’s kind of a shame,” she says wistfully.

“What is?”

Her hand goes up to brush the ends of her own hair. “You really do look pretty with it down.”

I’m too weak to praise, feeling my cheeks warm. “Oh thank you, but then it’s a good thing I keep it up—I wouldn’t want to steal all the boys’ hearts.”

She giggles, a proper laugh that pinches her eyes and cheeks. “You can’t say something like that.”

“Too immodest?” I ask.

“No, it makes me worry how true it is,” she says, laughter still in her voice.

Len and Millie having left earlier (while we were busy with my hair), it’s only Iris left, but I look over and see she’s on the edge of laughing too. “What do you think?” I ask her.

Iris shrugs. “I reckon you could have any boy you want even if you shaved it all off.”

“Well there you have it,” I say to Annie, not entirely sure what “it” is.

Soon, she and I leave in good spirits, and she even has the chance to say a hullo to Gwen (shakily returned, Gwen rather shy around those she doesn’t know) before she heads off to her home.

Sunday ends up more of the same, albeit sewing in the morning.

I wouldn’t say I’m any more than work friends with the other waitresses, never asked to hang out in the week or anything like that, but I think I am closer to them, getting closer. I’m comfortable enough with all of them to involve myself in some of their conversations, and I’ve managed to keep myself from trying to force jokes or anything like that.

That’s actually really hard. I want them to like me, so much so that I often have a thought that nearly comes out before I think it through. Silly thoughts, like (indirectly) calling Annie a slut when she said she had her eye on a couple of boys, or suggesting Len’s fiancé was having an affair when he came home late and drunk one night. Good job me for not voicing those thoughts.

So go my quiet thoughts while sewing.

Two more weeks of school…. I’m glad that, for the first time in three years, I have a lot of things to talk about when I get home.