A knock on the door wakes me up sharply from my dream, already the contents that seemed so real splintering into unrememberable fragments of images and sounds.

“This is mistresses’ morning call,” a maid says, her voice recognisable (yet I don’t know her appearance).

“Thank you,” I say on instinct.

The more conscious I become over the next few seconds, the more I realise I’m not in my bed, nor my bed at home. I blink and, as if that restarted my mind, my sense of awareness now includes everything that happened yesterday. I can hear the soft breaths of my friends sleeping. Not only that, Violet’s hand has even escaped her duvet, pinching the edge of mine. Paired with the peaceful look on her face, it reminds me of a child who has fallen asleep while gripping her mother’s sleeve.

Rather than wake them all up at the same time and cause congestion, I go through to the bathroom first and sort myself out. Afterwards, I wake them up in order of whoever is next closest to the bathroom door: Violet, Jemima, Belle, Helena. They go in, do whatever they need to do, get changed back into their uniform, and come out.

If the scene last night was serene, then this morning is adorable, an almost childish innocence to their half-asleep faces and clumsy movement. Am I the only one who actually rises at morning call? I guess I won’t have them do morning calisthenics with me, such a kind lady I am.

Although they hang around after changing, there’s not any actual talking, just yawns and the odd giggle, for some reason catching someone’s eye very amusing right now. Once everyone (except for me) is changed, though, they loosely line up and thank me with a brief hug on their way out.

“I had such fun,” Jemima says.

“I really enjoyed it,” Helena says.

“It was quite the experience,” Belle says.

And Violet, well, her smile tells me everything.

Then they’re gone. They’re leaving after breakfast, so they have to finish packing and all that. I should too, even though I’m only going after lunch, but I end up staring at the door for a few minutes. A feeling of emptiness, loneliness swirls around my chest, extinguishing the warmth that yesterday built. It’s pathetic, I know. For all my bravado, I’m really sensitive to some things, and old memories linger despite being forgotten. A quiet voice in the back of my head asking, “What if they don’t come back? What if they only pretended to have fun? They’re being polite, putting up with you.”

I don’t think it’s possible to get rid of those voices. At least, not in my case. However, I trust my friends, trust myself to read their emotions, and that trust overshadows the misgivings that sprout.

Because it should be a busy mess of people today, I’m not worried about escaping the school early. So I take my time and shove the duvets onto my bed (the maids will fold them again no matter how neatly I fold them) and go through a longer set of calisthenics than I usually do in the morning. Now that the sleepover is done, my worry-prone mind is thinking ahead to meeting Lottie, and this exercise is good at burning off anxious thoughts.

My morning tea arrives to end my stretching. After quietly and calmly drinking it, I go about brushing my teeth and bathing, putting on a clean uniform and neatly doing my makeup and hair. The way my mood swings back and forth, I rather pretty myself up while lost in renewed warmth, thinking of last night reviving the feelings of peaceful joy.

At breakfast, my friends are fully awake. The only difference from usual is how happy they seem to be. Subtle tells, from their smiles to how easily they laugh to the way they word things and what topics they bring up.

“Ah, have your parents a suitor waiting for you at home?” Belle asks, looking at me with a suggestive eyebrow raised.

After a chuckle, I ask, “Why would you think that?”

Jemima cuts in, nodding. “Is it too late for me to have a makeover?”

And so they tease me.

Not by any explicit agreement, we don’t mention the sleepover. I don’t think it’s embarrassment as such, but more like it’s personal—at least for me. Just like how I wouldn’t speak in public of how me and Violet have hugged. Other people don’t need to know, I don’t want to hear their opinion, so that’s it.

Anyway, I do feel that the gap between me and my new friends has shrunk. It didn’t occur to me before, but Violet, Jemima, and Belle have been friends for over three years already, so they obviously are close even if it wasn’t obvious. I mean, aloofness is sort of part of the culture. Helena has known them for around half a year now and the comfort she shows with them, despite her shyness, is another kind of invisible proof that this group of friends really was close when I came along.

When I think of it like that, it makes me feel better. Of course I would struggle to force myself into the group. In hind sight, I think the progress I’ve made is incredible. That’s a lot to do with them as well, I know, and Violet particularly looked out for me. Yet I don’t think that takes away from my achievement. Even though I helped my friends with maths, I would never see their results and, for example, think, “Well, they would’ve lost ten marks if I didn’t tutor them, so they actually only got….”

Such pointless and contorted thoughts follow me after we all say our goodbyes. Considering how soon we’re planning to see each other again, it’s not a tearful parting. And while I have those thoughts, I change into my outfit for going into town: my green dress (with the apple blossoms), a coat over the top. I also put my hair up, hiding most of it under my maid-like cap.

With Gwen’s dress in my bag, I leave my room and greet Len. I thought she might look tense because of me running around today, but her usual calm shows no cracks, and she leads me out like every weekend prior.

Walking into town, Tuton isn’t exactly any busier; however, the irregular trickle of carriages makes the broad street down to the river feel crowded, and there’s… a smell in the air. After all, horses do what horses do. I spot a pair of manservants with shovels, but I guess today is more a feat of endurance than a sprint for them, their sweat-covered faces already shining at this mid-morning hour.

Is (not long until) nine o’clock really a mid-morning hour? My days sort of start at six a.m., so I guess nine is right in the middle.

Anyway, it’s a quick walk to Lottie’s house, my heart thumping the whole way. This is one of those things where I can easily imagine thousands of different eventualities. Really, Lottie would do me a favour if she just opened the door and said, “No.” I could relax and hand over the dress and politely leave.

Of course, I know it won’t be that simple. While Lottie almost certainly will reject my offer, she’s going to drag me in for a cup of tea, and Gwen will want to update me with all the gossip from her friends.

We arrive at the house, but I have a thought before I knock. Turning to Len, I say, “I don’t know how long I’ll be, would you like to join us?”

Okay, maybe I’m half-asking because I want a familiar face to be around.

“If that is mistress’s order,” she says, bowing her head.

I’m not great at reading her (because she really doesn’t show anything to read), but my more general common sense gave the other half of the reason I asked: it’s a bit uncomfortable to wait around outside a commonfolk house. Outside a shop, a servant blends in; here, she’ll stand out, maybe a neighbour will come over to check if she’s okay, if she’s waiting for the Grocers to get in, ask her how she knows them. If she says her mistress is inside, well, that then invites trouble onto Lottie.

Whether I’m being paranoid or if Len has her own reasons for tacitly accepting, I don’t know, but I take her lack of rebuffing as her answer. Like when I asked her what she thought of me that one day, she certainly would give me a flat refusal if she disagreed. Besides, even though it isn’t a manor, it is a private residence and maids generally accompany their master or mistress inside.

I knock on the door before I think myself into more knots.

For a change, Lottie is the one first to the door. “Who is it?”

“A troublemaker,” I say.

Her laughter, somewhat reminiscent of my mother’s, drifts through the doorway as she greets us. “Hullo Ellie, Len.”

Ah? She knows Len?

“Hullo,” I say, hoping I don’t sound confused.

“Good to see you,” Len says.

Despite my efforts, Lottie fills me in as we enter and walk to the kitchen. “When I moved here with Greg, I worked at the school for a short time—to keep me busy and help with our savings.”

Well, you don’t pregnant in a day, er, or maybe you sometimes do, but what I mean is, yes, she didn’t get married one day and give birth the next.

More importantly, I’m quick to understand. I wonder if I should be thanking Lottie for my special treatment? Although, if she only worked there a handful of months (no easy way to deduce how many), I guess she probably doesn’t have favours to call in. However, the next question: is Len older than I think? I guess she might have started working young, washing clothes or cleaning the kitchens. More likely, her mother knew Lottie.

So my mind carefully skirts the issue that has been stressing me out this morning.

Gwen comes downstairs and appears in the doorway to the kitchen, but she hesitates to enter upon seeing Len. They’re not that familiar, then.

To lure her in, I say, “I brought a gift with me.”

Her eyes widen and, in an instant, she’s at my side, putting me between herself and Len. “What is it?” she quietly asks.

“All that talk about having you as a flower girl made me want to practise,” I say, and I bring my bag onto the table. Easing the dress out, I then hand it to Gwen.

She stares at it, almost cradling it like a baby, before she pinches two points and lifts it up. Adjusting where she holds it, it hangs down and the embroidery at the bottom glitters in the light. “F-for me?” she asks.

In my opinion, it’s not as impressive as the Halloween, sorry, Samhain costume Lottie made, but the embroidery does somewhat turn it from “simple” to “elegant”.

“Yes. Why don’t you go try it on? I think it should fit, but I’m sure your mother can make adjustments if not,” I say.

Gwen does just that, scampering back upstairs to her room.

I smile at the doorway for a long moment, and then bring my gaze back to the unfortunate reality that is Lottie. Um, that came out wrong, but you know what I mean. Only, I am surprised to see Len’s expression. There’s… a soft confusion, and a gentleness. I don’t want to pry, but it leaves an impression on me. (If I’m honest, I seem to be making a habit of wanting to see people make unusual expressions.)

Lottie is much more straightforward, her smile fairly ironic and a sense of motherly admonishment to her eyes. I feel some remorse for not checking with her ahead of time, something I usually do as Gwen isn’t my child to spoil, but my state of mind isn’t the best right now. Still, I won’t belatedly ask her if it’s okay. That’s a very self-serving question. What, is she going to tell me to take the dress away and upset Gwen? She’ll say it’s fine and I’ll feel better about myself, hence self-serving.

While I’m busy thinking nonsense, I guess Lottie wants to make use of the time Gwen is occupied and asks Len to wait in the lounge. Len complies. Just the two of us now, Lottie gives me a look that takes me back to my childhood, but I can’t quite remember why.

When did she look at me like that? Not after I had misbehaved….

“I’ve talked things over with Greg and, with some conditions, we agreed Gwen can go with you.”

Wait, what?