For a day and a half, I devote myself to turning my design for the aquamarine dress into a pattern. There’s the actual shape I cut out of the fabric, how the pieces will be stitched together, and then the embroidery itself. The first step isn’t quite as easy as you’d think even though I’ve made a few dresses already. This time, I’m looking for it to be somewhat pleated (horizontally), a waviness to it to match the sea colour, something which I haven’t done before. The embroidery, then, will be an actual seascape: art over fashion.

So I first make some miniatures to see how the pleats come out, cutting up waste cloth with scissors that really would rather be cutting paper. This is helped along by a book on dressmaking Ms Berks gave me. “In case you need it,” she said.

Next is drawing it out precisely, the measurements accurately scaled down, translating the scribbles on my design to actual stitches. Again, I do little tests as I go to check how the texture comes out, how the colour of the thread looks. I’ll be cutting out the dress on Friday, so I still have time to decide on this part, refine it.

It’s very different to what I’ve done until now. I mean, there’s a whole canvass in front of me. The apple blossom branches on my green dress is probably the closest to this, yet those are but a small part of the dress, a little decoration that’s almost meant not to be noticed.

Maybe I should add a nude woman dramatically lying across a large rock; that’s what old art is all about, right?

Joking aside, it is daunting. Seascapes are usually sea and sky, but I only have sea to work with, and it’s hard to picture how the pattern will come out on the pleats. I realised with the branches that you have to take the curve of the fabric into account and this is, like, maximum curviness.

By Wednesday, I’m mentally exhausted. Everything’s so easy when you just scrawl it out onto paper without thinking. I have myself together enough to act like I’m fine, but that melts away when the first lesson starts. The far-from-dulcet tones of Mr Willand (isn’t one history lesson a week enough?) make me zone out, dumbly staring at the board for an hour.

I’m somewhat saved by Mr Leicester telling us to write an “essay” on the rising cost of living. (Since we’re talking nobility, it’s supposed to be complaining about servants who want to actually be paid a wage while being housed and fed.) Doing something now, I find it easier to stay focused.

Besides, I do like an opportunity to annoy him with things written from a commonfolk perspective—I doubt anyone has been so criticised for their imagination in creative writing assignments. (This has been doubly so recently, Violet often huffing as she reads over my homework as part of our little study group.)

Still, by morning break, my tiredness reaches critical and I slump forward, hiding from the world in my arms.

“Are you okay?” Evan asks.

“Tell me up when the teacher comes,” I say, not even bothering to remember what lesson is next.

Rather than laugh, I hear his chair scrape. His voice is quieter yet louder when he speaks. “Is it something you want to talk about?”

Ugh, have I not be teasing you enough recently? Have you forgotten Monday already? Where’s the stutters, the awkwardness? Give me back my adorably shy teddy bear.

Done with the silly thoughts, I let them out in a sigh that leaves behind an emptiness. “You want to talk about sewing dresses?” I ask.

I expect him to mumble out a no or something. Instead, he says, “If that’s what you want, then I will.”

Too pure for this world. “Not really,” I say, knowing full well how cliché it sounds. Look here, a woman who doesn’t want to talk about what’s bothering her. Someone should ask me if I’m on my period while we’re at it. Oh, and I should shout at him so he apologises for caring about me—that’s what friends do, right?

“Am I being a nuisance?” he whispers.

Yes, but you’re adorable, so I’ll forgive you. “No, you aren’t. I have just run myself quite thin. I apologise for the inconvenience, but you may have to wait until next week to be properly teased.”

“Really?” he says, and I swear he sounds disappointed. I haven’t turned him into a masochist, have I? No, let’s reinterpret that tone as worried. Yes, much better. Worried. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.

Honestly, just talking to him is helping. A different part of my brain or something. Or maybe I just like talking to him, the same way spending time with Violet heals me emotionally. “It would be nice if we could talk more,” I say, my thoughts spilling out.

“Well, I don’t as such have plans after lessons finish. We could talk here at that time?” he says.

Huh. We could, couldn’t we? “It’s not a bother for you to waste your precious time on me?”

“I don’t think of you like that,” he says.

His reply weird, it takes me a long moment to realise I was fishing for compliments and so that’s just what I reeled in. That is, he said I’m not a waste of his time. Ah, I’m such a flimsy person, warmed by his mild validation.

“Well, I suppose we will have a lot of time to discuss how you do think of me,” I say, smiling to myself. Definitely not a threat.

“O-kay,” he says, the slightest of pauses there. Maybe I’m a bit of a sadist, taking a little pleasure from that.

Oh well.

The break coming to an end, I pull myself together once again. Because of our chat, the lesson isn’t as bad as earlier, my head willing to at least listen to what’s said, even if hardly any sticks. I’m sure Violet will catch me up this evening.

Lunch gives me a chance to stock up on sugar and refresh myself that way, and I’m fortunate that the topic of conversation is easy to follow.

“The attire they have us wear, does it not feel somewhat scandalous?” Mabel asks, speaking of our PE kit.

Jemima nods along, says, “Oh yes, quite.”

“It is rather loose, yet that makes it comfortable for moving around in,” Helena says, taking the middle ground.

I disagree with even that position, though, the clothes less revealing than anything else I’ve worn. The only illicitness I can come up with is that they’re like pyjamas, but they’re not. I mean, it’s supposed to be worn in front of others, right? Anyway, the PE kit has all the sex appeal of a baggy tracksuit.

As if reading my mind, Violet voices her support for the frumpy kit. “While it is unusual and masculine, that is only to reflect that what we wear it for is unusual and masculine for us. Would it not be more scandalous to perform such exercise while wearing a dress or skirt?”

So our lunchtime goes, the somewhat animated discussion dragging on for far longer than it has any right to. That’s not unusual, every topic of conversation a precious thing that must be suitably exhausted before moving on. It frustrated me at first, a sense of wasting time and finding it tiring to follow, yet I’ve come to appreciate the nuance that can be found in nearly any debate. Not to mention a greater appreciation for Violet, always willing to be the devil’s advocate to keep things interesting.

With the loose promise to talk to Evan after school, I don’t rush back to the classroom—simple supply and demand. There’s going to be an abundance of Evan later, so buy up Violet and the others while the price is good.

When I do go back, algebra is, well, a bore. Ellie’s hazy memories of maths are still as clear as ever in my mind (a confusing statement, I know), like a blurry cheat sheet that jogs my own memory. Not a perfect system, but it means I can easily recall most of the methods needed. Simultaneous equations, quadratics, a little to do with graphs and graphing—the sort of stuff you learn for GCSE.

After that it’s calisthenics. I’ve been keeping up with my (twice) daily stretches, so I’m doing well in the class. Well, it’s probably too soon to see meaningful results, but I feel more flexible, and my stamina seems better. Not that it was strenuous for me before.

For all the ladies’ mutterings before the class, there is a certain satisfied silence at the end. A good workout its own reward.

This being the last lesson, I’m not actually in the classroom at the end of the day. Evan’s not either, out rolling in the mud (rugby, not for fun). Still, I trust him to come, so I excuse myself from my friends and return to the classroom. There’s no bags, everyone having taken their things with them. We’re lucky enough that both of our PE lessons are last.

Ah, I should say though that, since there’s only ten or so ladies per class and five (junior) classes, we do double or triple up. This year, our class (Rose) joins Tulip and Lily for calisthenics, and then just Crocus for dance. Not knowing anyone outside my class well, it doesn’t make a difference to me.

So I pass the time with such thoughts until footsteps break the silence, a familiar albeit dishevelled figure appearing in the doorway. “Hullo,” Evan says, taking every second to try and brush his hair into order. A futile effort.

“Good afternoon,” I say. Don’t comment on his hair, okay? It’s too easy. You’re better than that. “Blustery, is it?”

Or not.

He sighs, his shoulders sinking. “Your cousin sends his regards.”

Ah, Cyril helped dry your hair after a rinse off, did he? “You two are getting on well,” I say, not quite a question.

Rather than play it off, he takes a moment and then says, “Yes, I suppose we are.”

That’s… good. I’m happy for you, both of you, really I am. “You told him we were meeting?” I ask, going back over what he said before.

He nods. “I usually accompany him and Lord Hastings after lessons, so it came up.”

“And you didn’t see fit to lie to him?” I say.

“No. You’re my friend; I have no reason to lie about meeting with a friend,” he says.

Seriously too pure for this world.

I giggle for lack of a better response, letting my gaze drift to the window and the sky dyed by a sunset beyond it. Time already running out. There was… something. What was it? Something to talk about when it was just the two of us and I could see his reaction….

Ah.

A smile far too sweet coming to me, I slowly turn back around, enough to see his face without facing him. “Say, did you visit the Kent estate as a child? Perhaps attended an event when you were five or so?” I ask.

His blank expression—oh dear, he has no idea what’s coming. “Not that I can recall. At that age, I rarely got told where we would be going.” He pauses there, a tension to his voice as he asks, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh it’s nothing. I met Lady Dover around that age, so I thought it would be quite the coincidence if I had met you or Lord Hastings before as well,” I say lightly.

He settles down, a relieved breath let out. Poor thing.

“When you visit next, I should show you the maze. Most guests speak rather highly of it.”

And he freezes up, not even daring to blink. Okay, I’m probably enjoying this more than I should, but I can’t bring myself to stop.

“Is something the matter?” I ask, tilting my head.