The work I’ve done on Gwen’s dress helps settle my conscience when I go into town on Saturday. Carrying on from the last few weeks, Iris joins us. So I end up holding another sewing lesson with her and Gwen. Lottie is well amused, sitting to the side and quietly doing her knitting, smiling to herself. After an hour, Iris excuses herself; after lunch, I do the same.

While I’d like to spend the afternoon outside with my friends, the weather is looking miserable. Instead, we have a quiet session, reading books and writing letters, listening to the intermittent rain when it drums against the windows.

Sunday morning brings heavier showers. I don’t want to keep Len out, but I didn’t tell Iris I wouldn’t come if it was raining, so Len and I scurry into town under my umbrella (she insists on holding it for me).

Under these conditions, Len is willing to join us inside at the cafe Iris takes us to—a different one than last time. Rather than a sewing lesson as such, Iris shows me what she sewed yesterday (after she left): a pansy. Well, pansy is what my flower recognition ability decides most matches what I see. “Your sister is continuing the flower-name trend?” I ask.

Iris turns to laugh into her shoulder, still holding the baby blanket up. Baby cloth? It’s a square of cheap muslin that is resilient and good at mopping up slobber and snot.

Unexpectedly, after we talk a bit about her niece, she asks, “You know some spirit magic, right?”

I did braid Violet’s hair in front of Iris that one day, but I can’t remember if me using magic was brought up…. Regardless, it’s not a big deal either way, just maybe a bit of a tell that I’m from a rich background. There’s not exactly a thriving needle-threading industry, so not much point hiring a magic teacher for your child if you don’t have money to burn.

Anyway, I nod and say, “I do.”

Thus begins my new career as a magic teacher. Well, I don’t mind. I mean, she really doesn’t have a knack for threading needles, so I would have offered to teach her if I thought of it first.

At ten o’clock, we stand up and start making our way outside. “I’ll be leaving next Saturday, but I might see Lottie before I do,” I say.

Iris nods, and then says, “Have a happy holiday.”

We split up outside, her heading to her sister’s while Len and I go towards Lottie’s house. Along the way, I catch a few glimpses of Len’s face. She seems worried. “Is there something the matter?” I ask.

She hesitates for a few seconds before asking, “Does mistress really intend to come to town next week?”

Ah. “As my carriage will only arrive after lunch, I might have something to give to Lottie; however, if that would distress you, you may deliver it to her on my behalf,” I say. I mean, I do want to see Gwen’s reaction, but I cause enough trouble for Len as it is.

Her reply comes after a minute or so. “If it is a quick visit, there should be no problem,” she says, and I wonder if she’s more reassuring herself than speaking to me.

The cafe we were at farther away, we don’t run into Lottie and Gwen and so go all the way to their house. My morning then ends in helping Gwen with her Sunday school homework, which is just reading this week.

Back at school, it’s a talkative afternoon because of the post. Jemima and Belle have both received a letter saying they will be attending an informal event on the same weekend, so we analyse and speculate, guessing that Violet and Helena (and maybe even I) will also receive a similar invitation (or our parents have already received it on our behalves). After that, Violet has the idea to draw up a loose calendar for April and May to see when all of us are free (pending other events we’re unaware of) to make organising a tea party or two between us easier.

Of course, we have to ask our parents first, but I offer to (ask to) host as I can’t imagine my parents objecting to me having a few friends over. I’m technically also the one with the highest status, so it’s expected for me to be the host. (Not to say someone else couldn’t, but, you know, etiquette.)

By evening, we’re discussing soup flavours. We spend so much time together that anything can become a topic of conversation. But it reminds me, Violet really does have a natural taste for low calorie food, and her appetite isn’t huge either. I would call it modest, but it sounds disingenuous to say that about her eating habits, doesn’t it? “A modest eater.” For whatever reason, it comes out as boring, right? Or maybe judgemental. I don’t know, not something worth thinking about.

Monday brings me back to my schedule of idle lessons and afternoon sewing. I finished the brown dress, so now I’m on the violet dress. Well, I don’t really know what to call the colour. Indigo probably fits best, but, when Ms Berks helped me mix it, we started with navy blue and added a touch of red and a blob of black.

Anyway, the indigo dress. When it comes time to cut the fabric, I hesitate. I drew it out at the end of last week and I drew it to Iris’s measurements. However, a thought comes to me: I probably can’t give Iris this dress.

Before I try and comprehend too many theoretical realities, I turn to Ms Berks. Although she’s fixated on her marking, she soon notices me, looking up and raising an eyebrow.

“Miss, what will happen to the dresses after the exhibition?” I ask.

She shows some surprise at my question, and then falls into thought for a handful of seconds. “To speak frankly, the school won’t wish to put them on display, but I will ensure they aren’t simply discarded. On the other hand, if you wished to keep them yourself, well, no one would notice a misplaced box.”

She’s… certainly honest. “Thank you, miss,” I say, bowing my head. Then I turn back to the fabric and start cutting.

So, while I could give Iris the dress, whether I should is another question. Unlikely as it is, if someone recognised it…. Not to mention this fabric is bought by Ms Berks and thus a high quality—would Iris feel comfortable accepting it?

That I have these worries is all the answer I need. Rather than give her this dress, I should instead make another one. Let’s see, I still have my own fabrics (put aside because of the exhibition). There’s the black bombazine, but Iris doesn’t even go to church. Then, a cream fabric and a maroon one? Oh, the cream would look nice, wouldn’t it? The silvery thread I’m using for Gwen’s dress, I could use it for some lacy embroidery, and then purple embellishment to match her eyes and hair?

While I have those thoughts, I make sure to stay focused enough to not make mistakes. I neatly cut out the pieces of fabric that make up a dress and start on the starry embroidery. One nice thing about this time period, the light pollution is low, so I have stargazed out my window to improve the design I initially drew up.

It’s quite funny, not really much thread going onto the fabric. Rather, I have some two hundred or so French knots and rose stitches carefully spaced according to my observations. It’s probably very inaccurate, but I don’t know how to plot a star chart properly. Anyway, there’s also other kinds of stitches—tediously intricate spider web stitches for twinkling stars and tediously intricate woven wheel stitches for glowing stars.

Most of the beauty lies in the threads (and their colours), though, Ms Berks’s expertise a real boon. They glitter like silk and are white but with a slight touch of blue, red or yellow, barely noticeable and yet enough to add another dimension to the stars I sew.

By the time the bell rings, I am thoroughly exhausted. The focus on sewing spots takes a lot more mental focus than sewing lines, positioning not as simple when I’m not just continuing on from another stitch. It’s a good thing I asked Ms Berks for this extra time—I wouldn’t want to rush and make mistakes.

As it is, I float through the rest of the afternoon in a daze, only perking up when it comes to dessert.

“You are like a child,” Violet softly says, her eyes gentle and smile tender.

I pout and dab at my lips with a napkin, but there’s no cream.

Violet and Helena laugh lightly (the other two busy talking about their own desserts), and then Violet says, “Your preference, I mean. You have always liked all things sweet.”

“If you wanted to try some, you just had to say,” I reply, and I use a clean spoon to plop a sample of my cake onto her empty plate before she can object.

Although she purses her lips, seemingly trying to glare the cake back to my bowl, it doesn’t move. Helena is thoroughly amused, getting the attention of Jemima and Belle; they quickly understand what has happened and join in with their giggles.

Soon enough, it’s the time of evening when we go to our rooms. I’m feeling a bit sluggish, but my hands haven’t been tired out, so I work on Gwen’s dress. Most of the vine is done, six small snowdrops and seven small greenfinches spaced out along it, two more of the former and one more of the latter to go. Honestly, it really is looking gorgeous. The thread’s lustre makes it all seem ethereal, otherworldly, and I’m just doing an outline, so I can really focus on the stitching and getting the shape right.

At least, I could focus on that until I hear a knock on my door.

I put my things down and get up. “Who is it?” I ask, walking over.

“Ah, Lady Brook,” she says, her tone not too hesitant.

Smiling, I open the door and there she is. Her posture has always been good, one of the first things trained into us upper-class ladies, but it seems more open today, her eyes more willing to meet mine and so her head properly tilted up to face me. Also, her hair doesn’t cover some of her face like it did before, brushed back into a ponytail—the strip of black hair mostly at the bottom, albeit not braided.

Just between those two things, I feel an incredible warmth. While I’ve helped people before, there’s a sense of having changed her, and not like how I introduced Gwen to sewing or have lessened Evan’s shyness. A sort of pride in seeing her grow as a person. Is this what Lottie felt when she saw me at the start of the school year?

Rather than simply stare at her, I say, “Do come in.”

However, she shakes her head. “Thank you, but I just… wanted to thank you. My algebra results… were really good. Um, for me, I mean, not really that impressive, but….” she says, trailing off as she gets herself all flustered.

I keep back my giggle, smiling brightly. “Good for you.”

She bows her head on instinct, only to slowly raise it once more and meet my gaze with a warm blush. So pretty. I would worry for my position as fairest in the land, but I think our looks are different enough that we don’t compete in the same category—she’s the cute and adorable type, where as I am more of the beauty type.

Not to say I’m not cute and adorable, or that she isn’t beautiful.

“If there is something I could do, or gift, then please may I? To properly thank you, and repay you for your time,” she says.

I almost say there’s no need, but that would be a waste of her goodwill, wouldn’t it? “If you could visit me or invite me over in the spring break, that would make me happy,” I say.

She freezes up, and my desire to tease her flares up at such a sight. After a couple of breaths, she collects herself, and she says, “I, I will try.”

What a wonderful little present to receive.