Comfortable in the familiar rhythm, Tuesday passed in the blink of an eye, and so did Wednesday morning, lunch, afternoon. I start to walk back to the dormitory after sewing countless stars onto the indigo dress. I see stars whenever I blink from staring so hard. My gaze naturally drifts to the town, idly admiring the Tuton landscape, meandering rivers of rooftops as they follow along the roads, or maybe a patchwork blanket of thatched roofs and whitewashed walls. Mentally drained from the sewing, my thoughts are few and far between and quick to drift away when they do appear.

As such, I’m entirely unprepared when someone calls out to me. “Lady Kent.”

It takes me a moment to recognise the voice, the sinking feeling in my heart doubling when I see his face. “Sir Ventser,” I say, lightly curtseying.

Gerald doesn’t have his friends with him, the two of us alone in front of the main school building. He’s coming from the front entrance—was he still in the classroom at this time? Putting the “Why is he here?” aside for the moment, I focus on dealing with him, check that I have a polite smile and my posture is good and I am properly facing him. (It’s not like I can use sitting-at-my-desk as an excuse this time.)

Anyway, since I put what happened before behind me (mostly thanks to Clarice rather than him), I should give him no further reason to fault me.

As he nears, he asks, “Is my lady well?” His last step puts him a good stride away from me—a proper distance for an unwed man and woman in public.

“With all due respect, I doubt my sir called out to me to exchange pleasantries,” I say.

His crimson eyes intensely regard me, yet I am no stranger to intimidating gazes. Besides, if he really did take offence at that, then there really is no hope of us ever managing a cordial conversation.

After a few seconds, he looks away first. Ha.

“That is, I deliberated over a matter and came to this conclusion,” he says, reaching into his pocket.

“Court summons?” I ask.

He chokes on his breath, bowing his head as he coughs—a marvellous sight I will surely remember when he eventually ascends to the throne. Once his throat is cleared, he looks back up at me and, now, his intimidation has some meat to it. Well, some high-protein bean paste?

“No,” he says.

Taking his hand out his pocket, he has a slip of stiff paper, and I recognise the royal seal on it. He offers it to me and I accept it. A quick scan of it reveals it to not be a love letter, or does it?

“I have asked for a proper invitation to be sent to my lady’s residence. However, if there is an issue with the delivery, one may use this to attend on the day,” he says.

Polite smile strained, my lips press tightly together lest I let out a careless remark. Only after I properly think through my words do I carelessly ask, “Is this a joke?”

“Is there a mistake?” he asks, craning his neck to peer at the invitation in my hands.

Chiding myself for what I said, I force my brain to think properly. Since I know he would not invite me to his birthday party by his own will, this is surely to do with my status, likely all children of dukes around his age invited. In past years, it was probably only the boys, but he’s at an age now where he should become comfortable around women. Or something like that.

“Well, my sir can rest assured that I shan’t attend,” I say. I don’t want to hang around with a bunch of strangers and I am not so petty to impose when unwanted.

His brow furrows, and he asks, “Is there another event on that day?”

Surely he’s making fun of me? I take a deep breath and let it trickle out. “If my sir would excuse this lady’s frank speaking, you don’t want me to come, do you?”

For some reason, he looks surprised. That expression only lasts a moment, though, and then he returns to an almost blank face, touched by a polite smile. “I can’t say I do not know why you would misunderstand”—a triple negative?—“but I am sincerely asking for you to attend.”

Ignoring the mess that is the first half of what he said, I focus on the second. However, all that comes to mind is a desire to ask, “Really?” He actually wants me to come? What, so he can bully me? Or is one of his friends sweet on me? Or he has to meet a quota of women and every other lady has already turned him down?

Huh, it seems I don’t think highly of him.

Anyway, if he’s going to insist, I guess there’s nothing for me to do. I mean, if he also sent an invitation to my home, I don’t have a good excuse to tell my parents for why I don’t want to go.

Ah. “Will your grandmother be there?” I ask.

He frowns, confused, and says, “I think she will be present.”

My eyes twinkling, I ask, “May I bring a guest?”

“That should not be an issue….”

With a broad smile, I curtsey and say, “I shall look forward to it. Good day.”

Oh he must think I am crazy, my mood changing so suddenly. But I wouldn’t know as I quickly turn around and scurry off before he can even return my parting words.

My mind buzzing, I start thinking through everything. When I get back to the dormitory, I ask Violet to note down that I’m now busy on the twenty-third (not telling her it’s Gerald’s party); I am subjected to very pointed looks, which become glares after I excuse myself to my room.

I can almost hear them thinking, “She’s really not going to tell us?”

Sorry, ladies, but it’s only a date with a prince—nothing interesting.

Sat at my desk, I write out my emerging plan. If I am going to bring Gwen, then nothing can be left to chance. I have to show Lottie (and Greg) I have considered everything, that I understand the risks and know how to minimise them and what to do if something does go wrong. Not just for them, but for me too. Responsibility…. I haven’t even been responsible for a plant before, and now I want to take another couple’s precious child to a place she doesn’t belong for my own satisfaction of keeping a promise.

How irresponsible of me.

Still, I can only call it a mistake if it happens and goes poorly. I’m not going to abduct Gwen or pressure Lottie into anything, so I should trust in her and Greg as Gwen’s parents to make the decision after presenting them with my plan.

For now, well, I’ll just write. The good news is I have quite the imagination when it comes to things going wrong, so there’s plenty of material for me to work with.

“I will introduce her as a distant relative,” I write. “Most guests should be about my age and thus have no reason to talk to her beyond a greeting; I will distract them if they are captivated by her cuteness, and her shyness should prevent her from saying much.”

So it goes.

Between writing, editing, and then making a clean version, I take up all the time before dinner. On the way to the dining hall, my friends are itching to ask me about what the event is; however, they are far too polite to actually ask, very much conscious that I purposefully didn’t say what it is.

To keep things from becoming awkward while we eat, I say, “Everything has been arranged for Friday.”

Jemima, as always, is eager to help the conversation, hurriedly dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Ah, the slumber party really is so soon! I am not the only one excited, am I?”

Helena nods, and then says, “I have been fretting over what to wear for the last week.”

“Why is that?” Jemima asks.

“Oh, well,” Helena says, lowering her gaze. “I have been wearing… winter clothes, but they are hardly flattering.”

Belle lightly chuckles, covering her mouth. “Which of us are you looking to impress? Better to be comfortable, I would say.”

Helena’s mouth pulls to the one side, some thought troubling her. “It is not only that. I don’t know if it will be the same, but I sometimes shared a bed with my little sister when we were both young and it can get hot.”

“Ah,” Violet says, drawing our attention. “Remember how stuffy it would get in the classrooms last summer?”

I wince, some of those lessons painful. In this world, windows are often fixed in place, so we couldn’t even open them.

Our talking carries on and we eventually decide that lighter nightwear is a better idea. (Of course, we don’t say such a crude word as “nightwear” aloud as we are in a public setting—who knows who is listening in?)

In the evening, I look over my plan again, and then get back to sewing. The next morning, I give it one last check before sending it to be mailed while on the way to breakfast. Far from the first letter I’ve sent, my friends don’t give it a second look.

Today being the second-to-last day of classes, Evan is somewhat more talkative, but he doesn’t really know how to talk about nothing, so it’s rather awkward. I love it. The way he starts speaking only to change his mind, or trailing off as he loses track of what he’s trying to say.

“My sister said you…” he says.

“Your sister said I… what?” I ask, resting my head on my arm on the desk and looking over at his embarrassed expression.

He gently shakes his head. “No, um, you obviously know what you wrote to her.”

Having someone try to gossip about me to my face is a rather novel experience.

Because the sleepover will take up my Friday evening, after dinner I finish Gwen’s dress and check it’s all good. Really, the embroidery has come out beautifully, all thanks to having the perfect thread. It’s just a shame I can only make a very basic dress. I mean, that’s partly because I don’t know other dress patterns and partly because of the fashion here—every dress has to go from wrists to ankles. I can play with the fit, but that’s it. Even then, the usual style is loose, more summer dress than form-fitting.

The next day, all that my friends and I talk about is the sleepover. I’m really glad I spoke up about it. Even Violet, after her initial reluctance, now can’t hide her excitement.

One lesson, two, all the way to the end of our dance class, the time really flies. If my friends had their way, we’d go and start the sleepover right away, but I have stars to sew.

An hour or so later, I walk back to the dormitory, and I wonder if they’ll insist on hanging out in my room until dinner. It wouldn’t surprise me. Lost in those thoughts, I don’t notice that I’ve once again walked into an ambush until I hear Violet say, “Lady Kent!”

I stop, and then slowly follow the voice. At the crossroads near the side entrance of the main building, I was ready to go right, but, opposite me, I see a small crowd of ladies… and lords.

“Good afternoon,” Cyril says, his voice and smile wry.

Evan and Julian follow up as well, and then my friends hurry through their greetings.

Seven people staring at me, there’s a certain pressure to live up to their expectations. My lips feeling dry, I resist the urge to wet them, other nervous impulses chipping at my self-control.

Time not a luxury I can afford, I clear my throat. “Before you ask, I am afraid the slumber party is for ladies only,” I say.

While the princes reply with confused expressions, I thoroughly enjoy how my friends react, a mix of shock and disbelief, mouths covered as they choke on unexpected laughter. Violet is the only one who doesn’t show any surprise, merely shaking her head with a disappointed look on her face—which is, in its own way, a reward.

Now, who was it that decided it was a good idea to surprise me?