My question hangs in the air, unanswered. Evan slowly thaws and begins fidgeting, his one thumb tapping the other, fingers woven together. His gaze finds a comfortable place to stare at, the front corner of my desk. His lips almost seem to tremble as words ready themselves to be spoken only to be bit back.

Eventually, he says, “I may have visited.”

“Oh? Did you remember something?” I ask.

He brings up a hand to brush his forehead, a distant look to his eyes, and he becomes still, lost in thought. “I think… no, I did get lost in a maze as a child. I can’t think of any other estates that have mazes but the Royal Palace gardens.”

“Of course, our maze predates that one by half a century,” I say, boastful.

He cracks a smile, but it’s short-lived. “I have yet to go to the Royal Palace, so I suppose I must have visited your estate—unless there is somewhere else I have forgotten.”

“Really? What did you think of our maze?” I ask.

Bowing his head, a certain flush creeps up his neck, quite a while since I’ve been treated to it. “I, um, got lost,” he mumbles.

“You did? Oh dear,” I say. “I hope you weren’t left alone for long.”

“A bit, but, strange as it sounds, a young girl jumped down and led me out. I would say it was a dream if I couldn’t remember it so clearly.”

I nod along, my smile so broad it hurts. “Did you catch her name?”

“No, I don’t think I did. Oh, but she brought me to her mother, um, who said to call her aunty.”

Mother, you’re too kind. “What about the girl? What did you think of her?” I ask sweetly.

He frowns, concentrating with all of his face. “She seemed nice. It’s quite funny actually, she kept asking me these silly questions so I was too busy to be upset. Truth be told, I was crying when she found me, I guess afraid I would be stuck there forever.”

Wanting him to make the connection himself (so much funnier if he does), I ask, “And what did she look like?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets out a long breath. “This probably is more my imagination than memory now, but she was about my age, or at least my height. Blonde, I think. And she was wearing a blue dress?”

“That can’t be right, the maids never let me wear blue when guests were coming over,” I mutter, yet not quiet enough for him to not hear.

And I know he heard because his eyes shoot open. The pieces falling into place, he becomes perfectly still, perhaps not even breathing. A flushed look comes to his whole face, his skin pink with splotches of deeper red, and I can feel the heat radiating off of his ear from here. Well, I guess this reaction is good enough.

An impossibly long minute later, he quietly asks, “That was you?”

“I certainly did rescue a young boy from the maze when I was six. My sister also told me over Yule that it was you, so I have been looking for a good time to confirm that,” I say.

He sinks lower, and I wonder if he’ll keep going until his forehead hits the table. However, he isn’t finished, not yet. “It’s a sweet story,” he softly says.

Surprised, I ask, “How so?”

“Well, knowing you have always been so kind. And the more I think of it, the more sure I am it was you,” he says. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but he’s squeezing his hand, reminding me that I dragged him along by the hand, didn’t I? So he wouldn’t get lost again.

As for what he said, I guess my personality was rather strong back then too. What an impression I left for being with him all of five minutes. Honestly, I can’t say I remember anything of him back then. Just some crybaby about my age. Oh, but he liked cakes, didn’t he? One of the questions I asked. He said the same thing when I was getting him talking with Cyril.

That aside, I can’t let him think so highly of such a bully. “Really, it’s too much to say I’m still kind now. I merely look to amuse myself and pass the time.”

His pinkness faded by now, the flush only lingers on his cheeks and ears. The embarrassment is certainly no longer on his tongue, no stammer or hesitation when he says, “Then I am fortunate you find me so amusing.”

I should write this exchange down for Cyril—it would be marvellous for a lover’s chat, wouldn’t it? “Oh stop it,” I say, out of wittier remarks.

“Only if you will. Despite what you think of yourself, you introduced me to your cousin, and pushed me to once more become friends with Lord Hastings. That’s to say nothing of the joy our talking brings to me. After always thinking that there was something wrong with me, you showed me that the only thing wrong with me was how poorly I thought of myself. So please, don’t make the same mistake, or else I truly will feel like a failure.”

I just… can’t. Covering my face with my hands, my cheeks are hot. You can’t say things like that out of the blue, it’s not fair. Stop being a prince and go back to being Evan.

“You haven’t broken our promise, have you?” I ask, still with my eyes covered.

“May I speak honestly?” he replies.

A snort escapes me. “As if you know any other way,” I say.

He takes a moment to compose his thoughts, his voice gentle when he finally speaks. “I have thought it would be nice if I could one day marry someone like you.”

“Someone like me, but not me,” I say.

“Yes.”

A single word, yet it defines so much of the relationship between us. Or maybe it’s better to call it a reaffirmation. Nothing has changed. Yet I would be lying if I ignored the slight ache to my heart, a childish feeling of, “Aren’t I good enough for you?” Rather than a real emotion, it’s more of a reaction and every second weakens it until nothing of it remains.

This is how things are supposed to be. Oh I could say something silly, like if we’re both single when we turn twenty-five then we should marry each other, but that would be cheating. I’m not Eleanor, not here to string guys along. I can’t say I only think of him as a brother and then say I’ll marry him if we can’t find anyone else.

Bringing down my hands, I look over at him and ask, “Does your sister have a nickname for you?”

He looks pretty calm now. No added colour to his face, a normal expression. And he contemplates my question without reacting. “When she was first talking, she would call me Vin, and now sometimes she calls me Vinny.”

Oh that’s quite cute. “Joshua would call me Norwa,” I say.

Letting out a chuckle, he rubs his chin. “Norwa? Ah, Ellen had trouble with pronouncing ‘r’ as well. Most children do, don’t they?” he says.

Hearing him (almost) say my name, my heart doesn’t race. I’m sure Lottie’s does when Greg calls her Lottes. And Evan said it so naturally, like it was any other word. Because we aren’t in love with each other.

No, this is more precious than love. After all, I’ll surely marry some man one day and come to love him, yet I’ll never find a friend to replace Evan.

In the lull that follows, I turn to watch the sunset. I say that, it sets around five o’clock these day, so it’s still pretty light. We shouldn’t take too long, though, the threshold for scandals much lower the darker it gets.

“Next week, could you invite the other two as well? I’d like to talk with them more,” I say.

“Sure.”

A little longer, and then we finally go. Of course, he walks me back some of the way to my dormitory, stopping at the crossroad.

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

“And you,” he says.

In my room, it’s hard to describe my mood as happy, full a better word for it. I didn’t expect to have that kind of conversation with him. I didn’t expect him to have that kind of conversation in him. He really has changed these last few months, hasn’t he? Settled in and grown comfortable.

Have I changed? I don’t know, no one really thinks they have. The change is small, day after day, hard to notice. Yet I don’t feel different from that precocious child who jumped off a hedge and dragged Evan out the maze by the hand. He thought so too, that I haven’t changed much.

The topic coming to an end in my mind, the darkness starts to creep in. Becoming anxious, I push myself off my bed and sit at my desk, fiddling with the loose bits of paper sprawled across it. Sewing. Focus on sewing. The seascape design, I should at least have a good idea before I start cutting out the dress. So I throw myself into drawing. Unlike my personality, I can see the improvement in my art. My hand moves better now I’ve trained it to follow the curves I picture in my head. I doubt I can draw anything else, but the outline of a dress is no problem.

That takes me up to suppertime, lost in my work to the point I forget to go see my friends before the bell rings out. Fortunately, they’re waiting for me in the lounge when I rush down, an apology quick to leave my lips. Over supper, they don’t ask what I did this afternoon and I don’t bring it up myself. I’m still rather quiet around them. There’s something about groups that makes it hard for me to speak up, and that’s even true at the café despite how nice everyone there is and how long I’ve known them. Though, going by hours rather than the date, I’ve probably spent more time with my schoolfriends.

It’s easier after the meal, not having to worry about food in my mouth when there’s a lull and I have something to say. The dessert obviously helps as well. I might have only one drawing to show for my afternoon, but a lot of thinking went into it.

The next day, I find it easier than yesterday, I guess the chat with Evan helping to balance my mental state. Still boring, but I persevere for Violet’s sake. When it comes to earth magic class, Julian doesn’t say anything about meeting up, so I guess Evan didn’t mention that yet. Ah, it’s almost his birthday. Florence brought that up in her last letter and we’ve been discussing what to get him. I say we, but I’ll buy something from town on her behalf, and then I’ll get him something else. Maybe it would be better to give him a present from me, Evan, Cyril instead? I wouldn’t want to worsen Florence’s misunderstanding of the situation.

Friday. Classes pass, the dance lesson still a bore of following steps without a partner, more of an aerobics class really. Ellie saw a ton of those advertised at her university—just take anything and add “ercise” at the end. Jazzercise, dancercise. So I slog through waltzercise class.

Although that does tire me out, more intensive than the calisthenics lesson, I hurry off to the club straight afterwards. The first week, I did worry for the smell, but a quick wipe down and a touch of perfume and I’ve had no complaints so far. If they’re too polite to tell me, then they can suffer in silence. (Truthfully, I’m sure Ms Berks would have said something, so my worry has faded away.)

With how much I’ve gone over the pattern this week, I could mark it out to cut in my sleep, but it wouldn’t do to be complacent at this time, my full attention focused. Measure twice, cut once. By the end of the hour, I meet my first milestone: the main pieces cut out. Front, back, sleeves. The horizontal pleats don’t really complicate the design, easier than doing a layered dress—it’s just extra long and sewing the pleats in will shorten it to a proper length.

On Monday, I’ll do the facing (making the neckline, end of the sleeves, and the hem more sturdy) and I guess the sew the sleeves. Get the less important sewing out the way first, you know, then I can focus entirely on the seascape until the end.

Of course, I’ll first have to make it through the weekend without falling apart.