As Iris said she would, she leaves a little before lunchtime. For us still here, Lottie prepares something like (vegan) cottage pie: a juicy mix of beans and vegetables baked beneath a layer of creamy mashed potato. I’ve had it before, yet it’s tastier when made by someone you know, right? There’s something nice about seeing Lottie’s little smile when I compliment it.

I hang around for a while after lunch and then go back to school when Lottie and Gwen go shopping.

My friends aren’t in the dormitory’s lounge, but, the weather nice, I think they’re outside and so go looking for them. A hot sun, and a cool breeze. The morning’s chill has mostly been baked away.

Although I encounter a few people on the way, we only exchange the barest greetings. There’s still a thin layer of ice between me and the other ladies. The lords are, well, the etiquette is blurry since this isn’t quite a public place nor a formal event, so we don’t go for full introductions and curtseys and all that, just a nameless, “Hullo,” and a smile.

Given how many greetings I give, I feel somewhat popular, not often I come out for walkabouts by myself. Even on the morning walks with my friends, there’s not many people on the route we take.

My first thought leads me to the picnic spot, but I don’t see them on the way there (or there). My second thought to follow our morning walk route, I go back the way I came, only to distract myself at the flower garden.

It’s funny, I see these flowers so often and yet they always look so pretty. Especially because of the practical earth magic lessons, I notice the flowers that have recently bloomed or will soon, those that are withering, and I always follow the stems and leaves closely, an eye out for bugs or other pests. Today, it smells very fragrant, and the bees seem to agree as they buzz around; I hope Julian is coping.

I can’t help but squat down and gently bring over some sweet pea flowers, enjoying the scent. What it smells like, I don’t know, just that it’s pleasant. Flowers smell like flowers—what else can I say?

Dragging myself away, I pass a group of lords and then continue on to the walking route (going the opposite way to run into them quicker). Crossing over to take the path that goes around the front of the main school building, I see them rounding the corner.

“Back so soon?” Violet asks, almost a drawl, but her mouth is pulled into a gentle smile.

“I feel a pest when I stay too long,” I say.

Now that we no longer have to devote at least half of every day to studying, we go back to the dormitory and… study. Well, Violet tells us she’s reorganising her notes. From what I see, she’s taking her notes from this term and squashing them down to a few pages per subject.

Really, she should be going into office work rather than politics, don’t you think?

While I get pulled in to help her when it comes to maths, the rest of us otherwise start talking about our plans for the coming break. As the social season is starting, those who attend such events will be gradually moving to (or near to) Lundein. Lady’s Day (sixth of April) marks the start of the “financial” year (it was apparently the old new year before we adopted the current calendar) and so will be when servants are hired to prepare and run all the townhouses.

(Rather than anything to do with women, Lady’s Day is a celebration of a Mary-like figure—a saint who had a virgin birth, but her child wasn’t the son of God or anything like that.)

Jemima will be going straight to her family’s townhouse, her parents having a few private events to promptly attend. Belle isn’t sure, but thinks she will only be home for a week at most before her family also goes to Lundein. Helena is even less sure, and I’m reminded that (I think) her family has only recently grown their status.

While Violet doesn’t join in, I know that her parents will be in Lundein by the week we break up. Mine will be too, Clarice warming up at a couple of private events (close friends and family) before her debut at the Queen’s Ball in May.

As we’re all too young to debut ourselves, we have little to do with this season. There’s very much a general distinction in sentiment between children and adults in the upper-class. At eighteen years old (schooling finished), we may be invited to informal balls, but otherwise we’re only really seen as adults once we turn twenty and debut.

That said, a lot of people coming to the city means that tea parties and such are easy to arrange. My parents have even informed me of one we’ll be hosting a few days after I get back. (Well, they’ll be hosting, I’ll be snacking.)

Our idle chatting continues into the evening; when we retire to our rooms, I work on sewing patterns. Then when the tea comes, I think back over the day. A good day.

Sunday morning, I meet up with Iris. Rather than tour Tuton again, we go to a cafe (e, not é) where tea is cheap and food greasy, Len following us. There’s not many customers at this time, so the owner (or manager or whoever it is behind the till) doesn’t mind us just ordering a few things and then hanging around to chat and sew. As we are sitting outside, I manage to coax Len into joining us and accepting a cup of tea.

When church finishes, Iris goes to see her sister and mother, while Len accompanies me towards Lottie’s house, running into her and Gwen on the way. Gwen happily chats about her time at Sunday school (her and her friends’ fables were apparently well received, Lottie clarifying Gwen also did the actual homework).

However, her good mood isn’t as infectious as normal, my soul heavy with a lack of purpose. I liked “helping” the kids with their homework, and I liked teaching them and Iris sewing. I’m reminded of how happy I felt being praised for my work at the café, the sense of fulfilment I had whenever Neville gave me my wages. It sharply contrasts with my feeling of being a nuisance, hanging around their house and drinking tea and eating lunch. But Lottie won’t let me help cook or clean, and I don’t know if she’d trust me to babysit—give her a break and tire Gwen out a bit.

I’m not going to act on a mood, so, well, I just hang around and do nothing. After lunch, they walk me back to the school.

Like yesterday, I find my friends halfway through a walk. I guess we’ll be having walks after lunch as well from now on. The weather’s nice and exercise healthy, so I don’t mind.

Violet finished her studying stuff yesterday and thus involves herself in the various topics we cover. You know, when she can. Helena shyly asks me about makeup and Violet offers me a little praise in that area, and Jemima praises my hairstyle (a little done up for my trip to town) and Violet… concurs, idly touching her own strip of braided hair. Of course, we don’t just sit around and boast about how amazing I am, but those are inevitably the parts I notice the most. I’m not used to it, so I really do treasure their sweet words.

Evening, I want to get dress-related things ready. I don’t know for sure Ms Berks will turn up tomorrow, but I think she will, so I want to bring Gwen’s dress to cut out. Excusing myself early, I go to my room and do last checks, neatly pack the fabric into my handbag (plenty of room now term is over).

With that done, I get ready for calisthenics… and someone knocks on my door?

“Who is it?” I ask, unsure, several possible ladies coming to mind.

“Me.”

I rush to the door before gently opening it. “Please,” I say, gesturing for her to come in.

Violet takes a few steps inside. I close the door and circle around her, pulling out the chair, but she shakes her head. “No, it’s….”

“Shush,” I say, and I click my tongue.

Despite her sombre expression, she laughs. Except it worries me that she doesn’t cover her mouth. With me, she sometimes relents on that etiquette, but that’s usually because she’s in a good mood and comfortable, which she’s clearly not right now.

I take her hand and tug her towards the bed, and she lets me sit her down there. “Tea? Coffee? I have some cake,” I say, my blank mind jumping to habit.

“Tea, orange syrup—two spoons,” she says softly between sadly smiling lips.

Unable to take it, I lean over to hug her and, finding it awkward, simply push her over and half-lie on top, squashing her.

“Heavy,” she mumbles.

Although I reply, “That is merely the weight of my love,” I push myself up and roll off her. She doesn’t sit up, so I don’t either. Lying next to each other in silence, I can hear her gentle breaths, and maybe even her heartbeat. I mean, it’s probably my own.

After a minute or so, she speaks. “I would like to have a slumber party with everyone as well.”

“But?” I ask, knowing those words are at odds with her mood.

“However, I am, I’m… insecure.”

That she’d ever say such words startles me. My heart stumbles, correcting itself with a painful thump. Giving her a chance to continue and myself a chance to think, I don’t say anything.

A handful of seconds pass, and then she says, “If we are to be in our nightwear, it would… truly show how repulsive I am. So thin and long, like a spider, lacking femininity.”

My heart continues to ache. I want to tell her she’s beautiful as she is, yet I know how insincere such words sound to a closed-off heart. Not that I know what to say. I’m not some witch with magic words that can fix everything. All I have are my experiences and my intuition, which are awfully quiet right now.

I guess I just have to fumble through it.

“I really want you to come, and I want you to enjoy it. I don’t think your figure is at all ugly or unfeminine, and I don’t think the others think so either. But, if it worries you, we can come up with something to help you feel secure. Like, would you prefer it if you and me sleep in the bed and the other three sleep on the floor? Do you want to wear the school uniform instead, or another dress, or one of my dresses? The fit is a bit loose, so it should be comfortable. Or, if you don’t want to draw attention, you could wrap yourself in a blanket? No one will say anything if you say you’re cold.”

Running out of ideas off the top of my head, my mouth pauses while I think of some other things. However, my thoughts are cut short by a light and delicate laughter, and I feel her hand find mine, squeeze it tightly, almost painfully.

Her voice tender and strained, she says, “I love you.”

How can she be insecure when any man would surely fall for her after hearing such words, or so I think in jest and would never voice. Turning my head to look at her, I see she’s already looking at me with large, shimmering eyes. I can clearly see the purple hue there, pretty and glittering like a gemstone.

“Tell me I am beautiful,” she says, her tone neither arrogant nor playful, simply level.

I want to laugh at such a childish request from her, but all that comes is a smile. “You’re beautiful,” I say honestly, sincerely.

She returns my smile. “Okay, I shall believe you.”

“That easily?” I ask, my tone light.

“I can tell when you are lying,” she says.

I wouldn’t expect anything less from my best friend.