I get treated to a rundown on Gwen’s birthday while Lottie makes tea. However, that tea is served with a, “I’m afraid we have plans today; may we drop you off early?”

“Sure, I doubt they’ll mind,” I say, warming my hands on the mug. (Well, they’re already warm from my gloves, but the prickling heat is nice in this weather.)

With how close Gwen’s birthday is to Yule, I don’t expect her to be too spoilt, and that seems true from what she says. Other than my present, she got new shoes from her parents and a few pennies from relatives (I think grandparents and aunts, her names for family members unfamiliar to me and that’s compounded by her little accent). However, she had her friends over again after school on the day itself and indulged in snacks and treats. I guess at her age, there’s no better present than cake, huh?

Soon enough, the tea is drunk and Lottie is herding us to the door. It takes us longer than you’d expect to go from the doorway to outside because Gwen insists on tying her own shoes. Those nimble fingers might be getting better at sewing, but she hasn’t practised this quite as much.

As always, it’s fun walking with Gwen. I am once again impressed by how many people recognise her (some congratulating her on her birthday), and how shy she gets when someone she doesn’t know walks past us, squeezing my hand and practically stepping on my toes.

Spurred on by the cold, we get there in record time and I go towards the alley, ready to say my goodbyes.

Only, Lottie stops me. “If you would use the front entrance,” she says, gesturing at the door. “Mr Thatcher has given his permission.”

I hesitate, my eyes narrowing as it becomes abundantly clear that something is up. My gaze jumping between Lottie and the door, I shuffle over. “Is that so?” I ask, hand on the door handle.

“Yes,” she says sweetly.

Too sweetly.

I turn the handle, only then turning myself around, and I open the door.

“Merry Yule!”

I close the door.

Turning back to Lottie, I say, “Everyone is there.”

“Indeed,” she says.

I look down at Gwen, who has squeezed between me and the door and is just about pressing her nose to it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask her.

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” she says, her breath fogging on the glass door. As if suddenly realising something’s wrong, she spins around to her mother and asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You can’t keep a secret, dear,” she says.

“Oh.” Nodding to herself, Gwen lets out a deep breath, and then looks up at me. “If I knew, I would have told you—I promise.”

I nod sincerely. “Well, that’s fine then.”

Out the corner of my eye, I see Lottie shaking her head. “Just go in, please—they’re all waiting for you.”

“Just for me?” I ask, opening the door once more.

“No, us too,” she says. Not willing to dally any longer, she starts herding us forward. “Quickly now.”

So Gwen and I enter giggling, broad smiles to meet those awaiting us: Neville, Terri, Iris, and also Millie, (café) Len, and Annie. “Sorry I’m late; I hope you haven’t been waiting, what, three weeks for me?”

Iris the closest, she comes over to take my hand, dragging me (not that I’m resisting) to the table. “When I spoke to Miss Charlotte for gift ideas, she said you’d rather this than anything else, so I do apologise it’s a bit late,” she says.

The “this” she speaks of appears to be a cake on a table. “Oh thank you, it’s lovely,” I say.

“No, no, try it first,” she says. To punctuate that command, she hands me a knife.

Um, okay, but don’t complain if the cuts are uneven. Also, if everyone could keep staring at me, that’ll make it easier for me. I loosely line up the knife using the decoration on the edge of the plate (a flowery pattern atop ring of wavy bumps) as reference, and sink it in—and everyone claps, me nearly dropping the knife in fright.

My heart pounding in my chest, I turn the plate and make the next cut; no sudden applause to scare me out of my skin this time.

“It looks tasty,” Gwen mutters at my side, adding some commentary while I continue cutting.

“It does,” I say.

With my rough count of nine people, I’m not sure the best way to split it, but twelfths are easy-ish and close enough. I mean, I don’t know if a couple more people are going to drop in, or if everyone will want a slice. Maybe I should have asked before… oh well.

Busy as I am with those thoughts, the smell is making my mouth water. It’s a reassuring, almost familiar smell. I don’t think it’s one of the cakes they serve here, though. The texture is wrong for a sponge cake, after all, not the airy Ventser sandwich cake (sorry, Queen Victoria, the author has replaced you). Not that I’m complaining, cake and jam something I’ve loved since childhood.

“Who’s first?” I ask, sliding a piece onto a plate.

My question is met with rather pointed expressions until Len says, “You.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, and I put down the knife and pick up the plate and back away. “Help yourselves?”

A light laughter comes from here and there while Iris swoops in to resume cake-serving duties. Oh she plates the cake so neatly, far more so than me who has only been tasked with handing over plates for the most part. I wonder if she helped in the kitchen when she was too young to waitress?

My mind wandering, I have my first taste without thinking, and I keep admiring Iris for a little longer, the taste slowly clawing back my attention. Frowning, I turn to Lottie, the question on the tip of my tongue.

She smiles and says, “Of course, I remember the recipe you’re so fond of.”

Ah, right. This is Beth’s pound cake recipe. My favourite cake. I have it at home from time to time, but the only person outside my family who I have shared it with before is Violet. Well, I guess until now.

“You remember it perfectly,” I say quietly.

I know it’s not like I baked the cake or came up with the recipe, but it’s nice to see everyone likes it. It’s nice that other people like the same thing I do. I don’t really know how exactly to explain it, but this, this is nice. My Yule present, huh? This is way more precious than those little trinkets I sewed or those biscuits.

Thank you so much, everyone.

It’s not really a party, but I’m not sure what else to call a bunch of people eating cake and talking. At the least, it’s not really a party for me. Iris and Millie coo over Gwen, and Len chats away with Lottie (she is getting married soon, maybe wifely things the topic). I listen to what Annie did for Yule and tell her a little of what I did, which is repeated when Iris comes over. Then Len comes over, Lottie pulled into some talk with Neville and Terri. (Knowing him, he might well be suggesting Gwen is old enough for full-day schooling, mentioning he’s hiring for the weekdays. Or maybe not, my only conversations with him business-y and so that’s what I think of him.)

Soon enough, things come to an end—as all things must. Lottie and Gwen leave (of course, I give them both a good hug first), and us waitresses go change, help tidy up the plates and sweep. There’s not exactly a rush, leaving some room to catch up with Millie, and to thank Neville for letting us borrow the café as it were.

“Happy waitresses make for happy clientele, wouldn’t you say?” is his business-y reply.

Terri lightly slaps his elbow, shaking her head. “You’re welcome,” is her reply.

I don’t want to probe too deep, but I do single out Iris as the main organiser for this. She might have taken the lead when I arrived because of her personality, yet it seemed like, well, she planned it all out in her head. Not exactly the opportunity before our shifts start, I hold off until our lunch break to, well, ask.

“Did you plan out the surprise?”

She looks surprised by the question, probably because there wasn’t exactly a lead up to it. However, she quickly finishes the food in her mouth, and says, “I guess? We were talking about it, and we really didn’t know enough about you to get a good present. Mama suggested I ask Miss Charlotte, and she said you liked this cake and, well, I wouldn’t want to serve you a cold cake.”

I nod along. The way she addresses Lottie is actually quite strange, something I didn’t think about earlier (a bit preoccupied by everything else)

Life in the upper-class is rather different, an expectation to correctly observe titles and all that. Children are addressed by master or miss until eleven, which is usually when the boys start schooling (and girls get upgraded as well). Everyone is then Lord or Lady (except for royalty), at least when speaking, letters having their own rules.

My common(folk) sense isn’t superb, but I think the tendency is to call people by surname. That is, Mr Grocer, Miss Grocer. Mrs is technically correct for married women, but Miss tends to be used almost as a compliment if the woman in question is, say, no older than her thirties. Ms, on the other hand, is sort of marriage-neutral and is also the professional form of address for teachers and tutors. That’s the same as Ellie’s world, I think? It’s not really said differently from Miss, though.

Anyway, if you don’t address people as Mr or Miss and simply call them by their forename, then you’re probably close friends or have a work relationship. Pete Baker, Neville and Terri, since they hired me they’re sort of saying they trust me. I don’t know, maybe it’s not too big of a deal in these parts? It’s more a thing with the middle-class than commonfolk, I know, and more at the upper end than the lower end. As I’ve said, the middle-class is really broad.

Well, back to the present, you wouldn’t normally call someone “Miss Charlotte”. Miss Grocer or just Charlotte, yes. Miss Charlotte… my really rough guess is that Iris called her Miss Grocer and Lottie was all, “Please, Charlotte is fine,” and Iris decided to split the difference. She can be a bit eccentric at times (not that I’m one to talk).

Despite what you might think, I don’t think about this all day and simply leave it at that when my break finishes. Back to work.

Come the end of the shift, I thank Iris, Millie, Len and Annie again, leaving in good spirits. However, it doesn’t last, mood dampened by dragging Lottie and Gwen out in this cold. It’s better than this morning, but not by much. I assuage my guilt with fire magic, though, walking behind Gwen and holding my hands on her shoulders, keeping her cheeks and ears warm.

Back at the school, I’m heaped with another pile of guilt, from Violet this time. She visits me some time after supper to say she really has no good idea of what to tell the others as to where I was all day.

Ah. Right. I did kind of skip out on breakfast and lunch, didn’t I? Tomorrow as well, and every weekend after this…. Having no friends had at least one upside, I guess.

Despite what I might think, “I believe you can come up with something,” isn’t the right reply, which she tells me with a very narrowed glare. And then a thought comes to me. “Why didn’t anyone ask me about where I was at supper?”

That annoyed look evaporates in an instant, replaced by an avoidant gaze and a rather pathetic attempt at innocence.

“Violet, what did you tell them?” I ask, leaning ever closer.

Bowing her head to the point her neck can’t bend any farther, she mumbles, “Menstrual cramps. And I said you were embarrassed about it, so they agreed not to say anything.”

“Huh. I did wonder why Helena looked so concerned,” I say, thinking over supper with that new information. “It’s a shame I can’t use that excuse every weekend.”

“You’re not… mad?” she asks.

I wave her off. “It’s my fault anyway, right? Thanks for covering for me.”

She finally breaks from her hurt-puppy look, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she mutters. I guess she’s worried about that all day.

So we spend the evening coming up with ideas to explain my absence.

It does not go well, but we have fun, so it’s fine.