After Trissy leaves, I don’t spend too long thinking about her. I tend to overthink things anyway, so I make an effort to switch to dress-designing mode and head up to my room, looking over the various ideas I’ve gathered for Iris’s dress the last week. Lunch interrupts me after an hour, but then I have the whole afternoon to work.

Although I’ve also spent a lot of time looking at my dresses (and Clarice’s and my mother’s), the general designs I see aren’t really suitable. I mean, I’m making a single-fabric dress, not layering different fabrics or adding frills or lace. Not to mention that our dresses usually have printed patterns rather than embroidered ones. What little embroidery there is is like what I did for Gwen’s dress, a repeating pattern near the bottom of the dress, sometimes a similar pattern at the end of the sleeves or around the neckline.

That’s influenced by our dresses mostly being formal wear. Seamstresses are plentiful while high-quality printed fabrics are limited, mixing fabrics making designs more complicated—shows of wealth more than actual fashion.

For a good hour at least, I struggle trying to find an elegant solution to what the design should be. What I want is something like Gwen’s that says a lot with few stitches. However, my mind gradually accepts the ambitiousness I see in Iris, and it suddenly clicks that I don’t have to limit my design. I mean, I technically have a year and a few months to finish it.

That new perspective sees the dress outline on my page go from something mostly blank to something stained in graphite. That then leads me to experimenting with negative space—using the edge of the irises to make outlines of another shape. It’s difficult, far more artistic than anything I’ve done before, but I have hours to work on it, carefully arranging the irises to leave behind snowdrops.

By suppertime, I’m completely absorbed in my work; Liv actually enters my room and takes away my pencil, seemingly not pleased about being ignored. Ever since that trip with Gwen, she has acted a bit more boldly, really starting to fall into the role of a lady’s maid. (Well, she’s still just a regular maid who attends to me for the moment, but that will change when I finish school.)

My mind continues to be busy through the meal. However, I pay attention to the schedule for next week, glad to hear it’s mostly empty. Clarice will debut Saturday (while I return to school on Friday), so this is something of a rest week for her.

After the meal, I make a request for a length of fabric. The only problem I have with my design is that the snowdrops would come out cream coloured, so I’d like a pure white fabric instead, but I can’t use anything expensive. Thus, I have a very specific requirement for the weave and material. My mother doesn’t object, so it will be ordered or bought or whatever in the next couple of days.

I spend all of Monday scaling up my design to a proper dress pattern, grinding away at the obstacles through sheer force of will. Tuesday, I do the same in the morning, but, a little before lunchtime, Liv tells me a guest has arrived.

It’s a bit confusing—I can’t remember anything going on until the evening—but I stop and neaten myself up before following her downstairs. Rather than the entrance hall, she leads me to the drawing room. I stop before the doorway when I hear a familiar voice inside.

“… is about correct. She has a rather unique insight when it comes to mathematics, so her help gave me the opportunity to improve as much as I did on the exams,” Violet says.

A light clap sounds—I guess my mother (as she speaks next). “Oh that is good to hear. You should be very proud of yourself, I know I am. It seems like just last year you and Nora would giggle over a kiss in a book, trying on Clara’s old dresses, yet you have both now grown into such fine young women. Ah, it really makes an old lady feel her age.”

“What are you saying? You’re still young, and you look as beautiful as ever,” Violet says, somewhat hurried; I can imagine my mother put on a hurt expression as she fishes for compliments.

“Then won’t you call me aunty like Cyril does? I have been presented as the Duchess of Kent so much recently and it makes me feel oh so old,” my mother says, almost a whine.

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Violet quietly says, “Aunty Leena.”

I smile to myself. As shameless as my mother is being (I wonder where I got it from?), I’m glad to hear the two of them getting on well. I want Violet to have every bit of happiness and love she can, you know?

But it won’t do to eavesdrop all day. Stepping around the corner, I ask, “Mother, are you teasing my friend?”

Already embarrassed, Violet’s head drops down and she covers her face, likely realising I heard her say that.

Meanwhile, my mother shows no remorse. “Of course not. However, what of you? I do not recall teaching my children to listen in on private conversations.”

“Father taught us that,” I say with a smile, coming to sit next to Violet.

My mother laughs at my reply, always weak to her children’s witty remarks. “I was just saying to Violet,” she says, recounting the beginning of the conversation I’d missed a bit of—a general talk about exam results. I guessed as much.

The three of us chat, my mother using the opportunity to ask about the many things I glossed over in my letters now there’s a witness to keep me honest. That includes a mildly uncomfortable amount of questions about Evan. (I’ll never tell anyone he bought me a hair clip, afraid my mother or Clara would find out.)

Over lunch, my mother reveals why she invited Violet over so early today (the event she’s accompanying me only in the evening), which is to suggest we travel back to school together. I’m pleasantly surprised and have no issue with it myself, and I’m glad to see Violet trying to stifle a happy smile when I look over, failing to maintain her aloof expression. She agrees to it and will ask her parents if it’s acceptable when she next can.

After the meal, I bring her to see my design work. It’s a messy pile of papers, loosely organised by memory, but the only important pages are the latest ones (which are on top). My artistic skills are still rather poor on the whole, but I am generally improving and this intense yet patient focus on the same design lets me draw beyond my skill.

“Well, I am not really one for art, but this does have a nice aesthetic,” she says, her tone measured. “Is this a dress for the exhibit, or for you?”

“It’s for a friend—Iris. You know the café? She’s the owner’s daughter and she waitresses there as well, so you probably saw her. Ah, she has purple highlights and eyes like you, but a bit lighter. Very pretty.”

A second passes, and then Violet says, “Oh.”

My thoughts collapse, that single word catching my attention. A little dejected-sounding. I look over at her, see her hands a little tense, her eyes a little vacant. All those little things add up to a seed of worry in my heart. I quickly go over what I said, only to come up empty.

Unless… is she jealous? Did she think I was saying Iris is prettier than her, or is it what she told me last time, part of her afraid I’ll replace her with someone else? Is it that I’m making Iris a dress? I mean, I’d happily make Violet one too—I’d even make her one first—but I don’t think she’d want to wear it and I wouldn’t want her to wear it just because I made it, if that makes sense.

Ugh, didn’t we promise to tell each other how we feel just to avoid these tangled messes of negative emotions? Or rather, since we promised that, I should give her the space to think about it and then she’ll talk to me if it’s a problem. Yes, that’s it.

Although I come to that conclusion, one thought lingers: I would like to make something for Violet. It can’t be a dress, but I’d like it to be more special than a handkerchief. A thought for later.

Whether or not her feeling was fleeting, she quickly recovers. Well, it’s not like she lost her composure to begin with, those slight differences barely noticeable even to me who knows her so well. But I still move the conversation on.

“Oh, I haven’t had the time to show you before, but this is the painting Gwen did when we visited the palace gardens,” I say, dragging Violet over to my bed. Somewhat hidden in the corner, difficult to see unless you’re on my bed or the other side of it, I had the watercolour piece hung up. A splodgy mess of colours, the flowers mostly intuited by the arrangement of thin green lines with circles of a bright colour above them; the distant palace a somewhat rectangular and uneven outline (hard to paint the white building on white paper), and the maze a smear of green along the bottom.

I observe Violet’s reaction, and she’s really trying hard to not look unimpressed. “It’s very… vibrant,” she says.

I giggle, tempted to poke her cheek seeing her face so serious. “There’s no need to strain yourself,” I say, settling with a pat on her arm. “It’s hard to describe, but I hope you one day know what it feels like to love a child. She’s so happy to see me, and we have such fun doing the most mundane things, and she accepts all my attention and affection. I just want to spoil her.”

Violet listens to me, but gives no reply, her gaze now unfocused as if staring beyond the painting.

I leave her to her thoughts for a bit longer, and then say, “It’s probably different if it’s your own children, so, when the time comes, you can be my children’s favourite aunt, okay? You can come visit and bring toys and sweets and make them call you Aunty Violet, and they’ll shower you with hugs and kisses and tug your hand to show you their favourite things, complain to you about how I made them have a bath or eat Brussels sprouts, beg you to play games or read books with them.”

My speech quickly got away from me, whatever words came to mind leaving my lips; however, I really did mean what I said. That day I described is still many years away, but I want her to still to be a part of my life then, and I would love for her to be part of my children’s family. (Blood and marriage is overrated, she can be an aunty if she wants to.)

This time, I leave the silence for her to break, and she takes a good minute or two to think before she does. “Okay.”

I wouldn’t think one word could make me so happy, but here I am, grinning like a madwoman. Finally, I have a reason to find a husband. Ah, don’t worry, I’m just joking. Who needs a husband when there’s children who need to be adopted? Putting my silly thoughts aside, she seems to look at Gwen’s painting with a newly-found appreciation. I wonder if she’s having indulgent thoughts as well?

We don’t have much more free time before we have to start getting ready, but I use the time well, showing her some of my better paintings from the last few weeks, and I sort of ask-tell her to show me something next time. She mumbles about how she doesn’t have the time for hobbies, but I bully her into a promise to write a poem. “Maybe you could send it to Cyril as well, see what he thinks of it?” I say.

She properly scowls at me, pouting, only making me more amused by such a childish display from her. “Nora,” she says, drawing my name out into a whine.

“That’s your goal, then: write a poem you’re proud enough to show him. You’re so capable and have over a year, so you can do it, right?” I ask, tilting my head.

She clicks her tongue, turning away from me with crossed arms. Funny how some things stay the same even after all these years.