It’s only after Trissy leaves that I wonder if she actually came to revise for the geometry exam tomorrow. Oh well.

We have two exams on Thursday, and then two more on Friday. Dance is our last lesson, but it’s still exam week and so is cancelled, but we don’t have any more exams to study for, so we’re let out early in a pleasant surprise. While the days are decently long now, it’s nice to be out in the warmer hour and I go on a long walk with my friends. Past the flower garden and the cricket pitch, around where we had the picnic, we slow down to a stop and fondly reminisce of that day like it was far longer ago than just two weeks.

I’m hoping to use the time until the end of term to get closer to my friends. Something like the evening I had with Trissy. When we spend every day together, it’s easy to get lost in talking about school and other shallow things, just passing time.

So, when the conversation dies down, I say, “We should have a slumber party.” Ellie would have called it a sleepover, but “slumber” sounds posher, right?

“Oh, what is that?” Helena asks, curious.

Somewhat incredulous, Violet says, “A party where we sleep?”

I smile to myself, a dozen thoughts grinding away as I follow the consequence of my imagined plans. Not wanting to keep them in suspense, I don’t think for too long. “Well, I would ask the maids to bring several duvets to my room, and we would make a large bed on the floor, and we would stay up late talking until we all fall asleep.”

“So we would be in our nightwear?” Violet asks.

Leaning close to her, I loudly whisper, “If you wish to sleep au naturel, I shan’t say anything, but I’m unsure if the others are so open-minded.”

Of course, the others-in-question hear me and laugh. That Violet doesn’t give me a shove makes me feel like I’ve got away with it.

“Are you still a fitful sleeper? I merely worry what state you may be in come morning,” she says.

Never mind.

Not one to sit back and lick my wounds, I clap my hands and say, “I was thinking, you know the kit we wear for calisthenics? If made from a different fabric, wouldn’t it be pleasant nightwear? No more cold ankles when popping to the loo.”

Everyone laughs again, Helena and Jemima glancing around. Jemima chides me, saying, “Speaking like that in public,” and finishes with a tut.

“My apologies, I forgot men aren’t to know that there’s more than just a mirror in our lavatories,” I say, bowing my head.

Helena giggles and gives me arm a light slap. “You are just incorrigible,” she says.

Violet sighs. “Truly, she is.”

It’s finally my turn to laugh; no one knows me as well as Violet.

While we’ve all become distracted, Belle shares what she’s been thinking. “Would we even all fit?”

I think for a moment, and then say, “The bed is wide enough for two, and there should be space for three on the floor.”

“Two people in the same bed is a bit…” she says.

It’s quite funny that that’s her hang-up and not the three people on the floor. Rather than me defending it, Jemima perks up and says, “Ooh, what if we have a pillow at each end? That way you wouldn’t be beside each other.”

“Wouldn’t you have feet in your face, then?” Helena asks, frowning.

“if we put the shortest two in the bed…” Jemima says.

So we end up in a logistical discussion, and I’m sure the only thing stopping Violet from drawing out a sketch of the floor plan (to scale, obviously) is that she doesn’t think to do so. When everything is worked out and vigorously cross-examined, I bring up the question I really should have started with.

“Everyone is… comfortable with the idea?” I ask.

Really, sleepovers are a very strange thing for noble daughters. I never even dared to ask Violet before because I know how weird it is. Privacy, personal space, boundaries are all central parts of the culture. I mean, my manor has several rooms to entertain guests depending on how close they are to my family—from strangers, to acquaintances and friends, to family and those like family (and my father’s office has an attached room for business guests).

Like, if there was a shortage of rooms, I think Violet wouldn’t mind sharing, but, as it is, I think she’d rather just talk with me until late and then go back to sleep. That’s reasonable and I understand, hence why I haven’t brought it up before.

So that we’ve spent the last few minutes going through the details surprises me. I thought I might as well ask, maybe coax them a bit, putting the idea in their head and trying again another time. I guess the room sharing at Queen Anne’s may have softened them up?

Helena answers first. “Oh yes, it sounds like such fun.”

“The lounge doesn’t feel all that private,” Jemima says, nodding. “It would be nice to talk about certain things.”

Belle rolls her eyes. “Like the lords?”

Jemima grins, but says nothing.

With those three tacitly agreeing, I turn to Violet, and I see her less sure. I really don’t want to pressure her into it, but I would hate for her to not join us. “Is there something worrying you?” I softly ask her.

She awkwardly looks to the side.

Before anyone else can say anything, I say, “This weekend would be too soon, but what about the last Friday? Wouldn’t that make a good end to the term?”

Everyone quickly agrees but for Violet. Having loitered in this area for a while now, I suggest going back to see the flower gardens, and so we start walking again. I wait for the others to go first, lingering to join Violet at the back, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

While she stays distant and doesn’t say anything, the rest of us keep a cheerful and chatty mood and give her space. They’re good at that—they were very considerate of me when I was getting used to being part of a group.

After some flower viewing, we wander the long way around the main building back to our dormitory, passing the rest of the afternoon and evening as we usually do before retiring to our rooms. When my tea comes, I ask the maid a few questions to see if a sleepover is feasible, and her answers are promising.

Although I wait, hoping Violet will come, she doesn’t.

The next morning, I make my prompt exit into town. Violet does weigh heavily on my mind, but I know there’s nothing I can do right now, so I don’t let it sour my mood. Instead, I fill my mind with thoughts of Iris, Lottie, and Gwen.

Coming to Lottie’s house, I go to knock… except it’s noisy. I hesitate while I try to make out what I can hear, but the voices are muffled and unfamiliar, all I can tell that the people speaking are fairly young. I shortly give up and knock, and instantly a hush falls.

Light footsteps scurry over inside. “Hullo, Gwen,” I say before she asks.

The door clicks and opens. “Ellie!” she says, diving into me like usual.

Rather than our usual pleasantries, she’s quick to drag me inside. There, I’m greeted to several spying eyes around the doorway to the lounge—and not Lottie or Iris’s. “Good morning,” I say to them.

They giggle and hide.

Turning to Gwen, I ask, “Your friends?”

She grins at me, cheeks puffing out. “Yeah!”

Taking another look around, I spot Lottie in the kitchen. Once I hang up my coat and give my feet a little scrub on the mat, I go see her first, no sign of Iris there. “Busy, are we?”

Lottie gives a shallow chuckle, mouth behind her mug. “Somewhat.”

Satisfied that I’ve spoken enough to her mother, Gwen grabs my hand and starts tugging me towards the lounge. “Come on, mama said you would help us,” she says.

I manage one last look at Lottie and see a terribly smug smile on her face. “Did she now?”

“Yes!” Gwen says, her tone rather insistent.

So I end up in the lounge with four little girls (including Gwen) and a little boy staring at me. Their eyes are full of expectation. I clear my throat. “Well, I’m Ellie. A pleasure to make your acquaintances,” I say, lightly curtseying.

They all giggle at that. One by one, I single them out with a look and ask their names, starting with Gwen. Thus I find these friends of hers are: Ali, Hetty, Lucy, Jessie (the girls) and Danny (the boy and the very one who liked the Valentine’s Card Gwen made, if I remember correctly).

With introductions done, I turn to Gwen and ask, “What exactly is it I’m helping with?”

She pouts for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought, and then she breaks into an, “Ah!” and nods her head. “We have to write a storwy, and mama said you’re good at making up storwies.”

I can’t say she’s wrong.

“Is it for Sunday school?” I ask.

They nod in a disjointed mess.

Okay, then it should probably be a fable. As a reader, I’m not that fond of overly moralistic stories; when the author writes to prove a point, it’s inevitably boring to discuss. Take Romeo and Juliet—most people think it’s a tragic love story, and then there’s people who argue that it’s mocking angsty teenage love, while I go all the way and think of it as a celebration of how teenagers can literally love something enough to be willing to die to protect it. Yet how (un)interesting would it be if they were both twenty-something and happily married at the end?

Anyway, the task at hand. “What animals are your favourites? Everyone pick one, and then give it a funny name, okay?”

“Rabbit!” Hetty says.

I smile, nodding.

“Frog,” Gwen mumbles, writing it down.

Lucy chooses a mouse, and Jessie an owl. Danny, a shy thing, quietly says, “Butterfly.”

I see Lucy and Hetty give him a strange look, but they don’t say anything. Leaving that for now, I clap my hands to get their attention, and say, “Now the names. Make sure they alliterate—that means, your rabbit’s name should start with a ‘r’ sound,” I say, directing the latter half to Hetty. I go through the others to check and then we have another round of answers.

From there, it starts to get tricky. I wheedle out some “morals” by asking them what things their parents or teachers have told them to do, or what things they should do to be a good friend. Once we have ten in total, they choose one each for their story.

Iris arrives at this time, but I can only spare her a wave and a smile before I go back to the children, helping them come up with the events they’ll write about. Just something like: Rosy Rabbit lost her lunch, so Minnie Mouse shared a sandwich with her. (Disney wouldn’t sue a seven-year-old girl in a parallel universe, would they?)

When they’re finally all settled and writing, I go through to greet Iris, leaning down to give her a light hug as she sits at the table. My greeting for Lottie cut short earlier, I exchange a few pleasantries with her as well.

But there’s a hint of laughter on her lips and I eventually ask, “Is there something funny I should know about?”

Lottie carefully holds my gaze, and says, “They are supposed to be writing about the members of their family.”

What was that about “writing a storwy”, Gwen?