Night proper falls by the time Violet leaves. Despite only having a cup of tea for dinner, I sleep so easily.

The next morning, I float in grogginess for a long while, wondering if everything that happened had simply been a dream. It was… perfect, and I’d been so exhausted. What if I’ve finally broken and invented my own reality?

My half-lucid fears are put to rest as I properly wake up, the memory too clear and real to be fake. It takes me longer than usual to put on my makeup, so much crying leaving its mark. There’s not much I can do for puffy eyes but make the skin tone match. The rest of my face isn’t much better, some parts blotchy or otherwise pale. Breakfast should help add some life back to my skin, but I guess I should err on the side of beauty and assume it won’t—hardly a faux pas to be a bit generous with the makeup in this world.

From there, it’s kind of like nothing has changed. I go and eat breakfast by myself. Go to class early, wait there for Evan. Even when Violet arrives, she looks over at me and smiles, but that’s all.

I expected that, though. It’s… really hard to just suddenly change everything. Especially at this age, especially in a boarding school, there’s the voice in the back of your head asking, “What are you going to tell people when they ask why?”

Why are Violet and I friends now? Why did she say all those things to me? Does this have something to do with the note Gerald tore up? What did the note say?

So I understand that it’s not as simple as, “And we all lived happily forever after.” At the very least, she’s still close friends with Ladies Hythe and Minster and would have to properly explain things to them before I could join her group. (I should include Lady Horsham, but she already had a good guess at the situation.)

That said, I don’t particularly want to join her group. Ellie didn’t do well with groups of people and I’m no better. If it’s family or close friends, sure, but strangers? I either end up overly silent or blurt out weird things that come to mind. I’m much happier to just spend some alone time with Violet where we can chat about whatever we want, no pressure. Very much like how it is with the princes.

Evan walks in as the first bell rings—the warning bell for morning registration, five more minutes. Though he sits down as heavily as always, making me worry for the poor wood, his gaze is light as it flutters over to me.

“Good morning, Lord Sussex,” I say, politely inclining my head.

He smiles his gentle smile. “And you,” he says.

I watch him a moment longer. “What has you in such a good mood?”

He chuckles, bringing his hand to his chin. “What of you?”

I frown, his response strange until I realise that… I’m smiling. What was it he said? Well, something about liking my smile but not so overtly flirty. That was back when we made our promise.

“Really, I can’t think what you mean,” I say, thinking him due a teasing.

“You can’t?”

I shake my head. “Please, tell me clearly.”

A shade of red touches his neck. Stage one embarrassment. (Stage two is his cheeks, stage three his ears.) “I am simply happy my friend is happy,” he says, looking at my desk rather than me.

Oh Cyril, if only you could hear such lines to use in your writing.

I lean over to meet his line of sight and ask, “You do not wish to know why I am happy?”

“If it is something you wish to share, I shall listen,” he mumbles, gaze sliding down to the floor between us.

He’s too funny, really. I relax back into my seat and turn my own gaze to the window, trusting his ears to catch my words. “Something like a wish of mine came true.”

A little silence settles between us, not unusual in any way, and then he says, “You looked troubled yesterday, so I am glad everything has worked out.”

Strangely perceptive, huh? I might need to see what sort of suitor Lady Horsham seeks. Well, I wasn’t exactly hiding my poor mood, too busy thinking to do any amateur acting.

Once registration passes, we move onto English Literature. It’s surprisingly not my favourite lesson. Ellie thought she had it bad, suffering through, “And what did the author mean by making the curtains red?” It’s ten times worse here. I mean, ten is maybe an exaggeration. None of my teachers for the subject have ever really pretended to care for what either I or the author thought. As it is, rather than about reading good stories, it’s more about remembering the teacher’s opinions.

I’m pretty spoilt by Ellie’s memories. She only had a couple of months of lectures at university, but the one lecturer really made her… understand. The joy of literature—of studying stories—isn’t to work out what the author was trying to say, but to listen for what the story says to you. Biblical allegories are all well and good, but it’s wonderful to read about a character who reminds you of your mother, or one who inspires you to better yourself. I’ve learnt to be patient, to be understanding, to be generous with love and frugal with hate. There’s no greater memories for me than reading my favourite stories to Violet or to Joshua and seeing them laugh at the bits I found funny.

And now I’m wishing that Shakespeare wasn’t born. (I say that, he doesn’t exist in this world, but somehow all his plays are still here and are instead attributed to his theatre group as a whole.)

By morning break, I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to be happy.

Joking aside, I settle in to the break, recovering my focus for the next lessons. I idly look around, careful not to stare at anyone for too long, careful not to linger on Violet, my thoughts already turning to embroidery club and the weekend. Because of the interruption, I’ll have to hurry with my Yule presents if I’m to get them done for tomorrow. No, I can hand them over on Sunday, can’t I? There’s not much of a rush, then.

My gaze ends up by the door to the classroom, and that’s fortunate, spotting a certain sneezy prince just outside. Our eyes meet and, him doing something of an eyebrow wiggle, I guess he wants me to come see him?

I stand up neatly, brushing down the front of my uniform. Evan looks over, so I say, “If you would excuse me a moment.”

He nods and I go, walking over to the door at a gentle pace. I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed, me not being the sort of person people pay attention to, but they might have seen him and wondered why he’s here and why I’m going to meet him.

Oh well, it would hardly be the first rumour about me.

“Lord Hastings,” I say, lightly curtseying for him outside the room.

Julian eyes up the doorway we’re only a step away from, but, if he’s concerned about appearances or eavesdroppers, he doesn’t say anything. “Lady Kent,” he replies with a shallow bow.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask. I mean, though I missed the earth magic class yesterday, he’s surely not worried for my health?

He sort of collects himself, the creases on his face giving to a more neutral expression. “Since there is no class next week, I thought it best to make arrangements as soon as possible,” he says quietly.

Huh, no class? I guess it is the second to last day of term. Maybe the water magic class is also cancelled—did Mr Milton say anything like that at registration?

He clears his throat, bringing me back to what he said. “What arrangements would that be?” I ask.

His mouth twists a touch as if there’s something sour on his tongue or in the air. “That is, well, everything went about as poorly as could be expected. My mother has suggested she and I accompany my sister to your residence to deliver the flowers.”

Wow. Given Florence is fourteen, I wasn’t sure if her mother would come along as well, but invite one sibling, get the other free? What a bargain and a—wait a second.

“Flowers?” I ask, emphasising the plural.

He gives me a wry smile. “My mother was rather insistent in her letter that one by itself wouldn’t do, yet she declined to specify how many would do.”

Oh dear. I may have to send a letter to Clarice.

“I can at least say we have room for them all,” I reply, not meaning to boast but meaning it practically—there’s surely space for every snowdrop in Anglia in my home’s grounds.

“That’s good. My mother is… not one for half measures.”

I giggle, covering my mouth. That is something that could as easily be said for my mother.

We say a few more things before saying our goodbyes, the only important bit being a promise that I will check dates with my family for when he and company can visit and will then let him know. (His sister will also send a reply, the whole mess of it all having made it difficult for her to know when a good time to send it was.)

So we go our separate ways, mine being rather short with the door right by us. Back in my seat, I notice I’m the subject of some looks, but the only notable one for me is Evan.

Staring back at him, I raise an eyebrow. He holds out for a moment before ducking his head.

“Is there something you wish to ask me?” I say, leaning closer to him. There’s still an aisle between us, so it’s not like I’m breathing on his ear. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to tell that, him blushing in splodges on his cheeks.

“You… had some business with… Lord Hastings?” he asks, hands fidgeting.

I tilt my head, trying to see if I can catch his eye. “Jealous?”

He sort of scrunches himself up as if trying to appear smaller—a survival instinct? Am I really that scary?

“No. It is just… I would sometimes have meals with him. Though we might not have considered each other friends, it was, um, we were comfortable. But what I mean to say is, if you two are acquainted, he is, I think, a good person.”

My mind sorts through everything he said, cursing this culture of double-speak and euphemisms and wishing for a bit of straight talk. A complicated matter, I can’t say for certain his intentions, but my feeling is that… he’s giving his blessing for me and Julian? Acquainted, why do you have to be such a troublesome word? Just mean one thing for goodness sake. Well, it does, we just give it certain insinuations based on tone and context.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me however he meant it. I’m not interested in Julian that way. So I turn to the first bit of what he said, a sorry sort of sight coming to me as I do. It wasn’t uncommon in Ellie’s world for “weird” children to make friends with each other. For whatever reason, there’s always going to be kids who don’t fit in and so they group up with others who don’t fit in.

Me included in that, even if I… no, I was pretty weird, wasn’t I? But it was different to Ellie’s high school, not as many girls and the privileged upbringing “taught out” strange behaviour, meaning I was pretty much the only “odd girl”. Maybe there was one or two in the other years, I don’t know.

Back on topic, it’s not that I’m calling Evan and Julian weird, though, more that… I’m sad it sounds like they didn’t become friends. Maybe it’s rich coming from me, or maybe it means more, but it really sucks being alone. The emptiness of day after day is something hard to put to words. As much joy as I’m getting from sewing now, those were long hours where I was left alone with my thoughts, and my thoughts make poor company. When I’m sad, my thoughts are sad too. Those times are vicious. I don’t think of myself as strong and independent for not relying on others to cheer me up, I think of myself as unfortunate, handicapped even. Unable to do something most people would consider normal.

A strange thought comes to me: Money doesn’t buy happiness, but poverty breeds sadness. Ellie had heard or read that somewhere and I’m reminded of it now with a twist: Friends don’t bring happiness, but it’s easy to be sad when alone.

Not the most elegant, yet I can’t think too much at the moment—come back tomorrow if you want it worded better, okay?

My thoughts running their course, I have to say something. “Did you ask him how he feels on the matter?”

Evan stills, and then he looks up. “What?”

“You say you didn’t consider each other as friends, yet I would say that being friends isn’t so much a consideration as a feeling. That you found his company comfortable, is that not enough?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long few seconds. “You think so?” he quietly asks.

I smile tenderly, feeling motherly as I nudge him with thoughtful words. “What of you and Lord Canterbury? I saw you eating together and looking at ease, is it not the same?”

A spectrum of emotions flashes across his face, perhaps guilt at being “caught” or more embarrassment or plain old confusion. I’m not a master of reading faces by any stretch, especially without clues from what he says or how he says it.

Suddenly, a marvellously bright idea comes to me and my smile is surely glowing to match. “Say, I’ve also invited Lord Hastings’s younger sister to visit over the winter break. What if you accompany your sister and you two brothers can chat while we ladies have our little tea party? I could invite Lord Canterbury as well—he wishes to catch up with my family, so he will surely come.”

It’s a long and tense moment, second thoughts besetting me the moment I finish speaking, but he eventually nods. “Okay.”

“Fantastic.”