After a fun evening with Violet at the event, she goes home. Back to the usual routine for me. Calisthenics before evening tea and in the morning, replying to letters from Florence and Ellen (the three times a day postal service here has really sped up how much I can talk with them), walks in the garden, helping Joshua finish off the last of his homework.

An aside, despite him being younger than when us ladies started schooling, he has a lot more homework than we ever did—maths exercises, basic writing assignments, and reading too. I’m glad I didn’t have to bother with all of it, but it’s another small thing that builds up to the discrepancy between ladies and lords.

The fabric I asked for arrives as well. A beautiful white blend of cotton and flax in a satin weave, smooth and shimmering. It’s maybe a bit flashy, but noticeably not silk, and the feel isn’t pure cotton, so it shouldn’t be seen as extravagant. Probably cost a few shillings rather than the one or so I paid for my other dress fabrics, but let’s not worry over every detail. The important part is that the snowdrops in the negative space will look incredible.

For the time being, I keep working on making a proper pattern before I start any cutting. It’s not the end of the world if I mess up and start again, but I like approaching this stuff seriously, you know?

Nothing unexpected happens on my last days home. No surprise visitors or visits, or strange letters. I just draw and then pack, making sure Pinky Promise is nice and snug, bringing along the sketchbook with my drawings of Gwen and some of the watercolour paintings I’ve done—my best one of the irises and the one I did with Trissy. My room in the dormitory could use some colour.

Then it’s Friday morning and we busily prepare everything. Although it’s a bit early to return to school, the traffic in the city tomorrow will be dreadful (the Queen’s Ball one of the biggest events of the season); Sunday won’t be much better with all the children leaving for school.

I would normally leave after breakfast, but I am going to have an early lunch and then leave today since Violet is accompanying me. We’ll give her time to get here and move luggage over. So I walk around the gardens and admire the flowers for my last morning, Clarice joining me for a little chat. I wish her good luck for her debut, and she wishes me good luck in finding a suitor so I don’t have to bother with debuting; I can’t really rebuke her. Violet arrives around half past ten, and she and I have a light lunch while her things are moved over.

We set off by eleven o’clock, the bells sounding as we trundle down the maze of streets, a comfortable silence between us. With how much we’ve been together this holiday, there’s not much for us to say. I’m happy just to drift between watching the scenery and reading a book, now and then watch Violet scribble something in her notebook, letting time pass.

Of course, peace can only last so long. About an hour in, she looks up at me, and I notice her movement and look over, seeing a pensive expression on her face.

“You… have done your homework, yes?” she says, equal parts unsure and hopeful.

“Oh don’t worry about that—I have the whole weekend,” I say, smiling.

Her eyes narrow, lips press tight into thin lines, wrinkles popping up in the middle of her forehead. Not the right answer, huh?

Ignoring me entirely, she turns to Liv and says to her, “At the next stop, please allow me to retrieve something from her luggage.”

“Yes, mistress,” Liv says.

Since when does Violet (or her family) pay your wages, Liv? Traitor.

True to her word, Violet alights when we stop to let the horses drink, and Liv helps her open up my main suitcase. I followed them to watch, and so enjoy the scene of Violet being confronted by my underwear at that point.

“Do you mind? There are men around,” I loudly whisper.

Violet quickly closes it, her ears burning red as her foundation keeps her cheeks to a mild pink. She turns to me and quietly asks, “Where are your books for class?”

“I left them at school to inconvenience you in case you tried to make me do my homework,” I honestly reply, still smiling sweetly.

In her own fit of honesty, Violet harshly asks me, “Are you a child?”

“Yes—for another year or three, depending on the definition,” I say.

She desperately tries not to, but she can’t stop the snort of laughter from forcing its way out her nose. Covering her face, she turns away from me, and she mutters, “Please put the suitcase back.”

I thought I might have “won” after getting her to laugh, but she ignores me from then onwards. Really ignores me. I’m not the kind of person who would force her to acknowledge me by stealing her notebook out her hand or anything like that, but I do sing a nursery rhyme about the cliffs of Dover every ten minutes or so. Lady Dover is probably annoyed, but she doesn’t show it. Still, it amuses me, keeping me busy until we reach Tuton and my attention turns to looking out for Lottie and Gwen (unlikely as it may be). I don’t see them this time.

Up at the school, Liv helps me down and Violet’s maid helps her down, and we’re greeted by maids and manservants from the school to help us back to our rooms. Before we go, I ask Liv to give my sister a letter I left on my desk tomorrow morning. (A few words of encouragement.)

Violet doesn’t say a word to me on the walk to our dormitory, and I wonder how long she’ll ignore me for. Our other friends aren’t returning until Sunday, so it’ll be lonely for both of us if she’s stubborn….

It turns out I didn’t need to worry, a knock sounding on my door not long after I finish unpacking (or rather, finishing directing a maid as she unpacks my clothes). Smiling to myself, I ask, “Who is it?”

“Lady Dover,” Violet replies, her tone rather proper.

“You may enter,” I say, copying her accent.

The door clicks and opens, and she steps inside wearing her uniform. What a model student. Other than that, she’s brushed her hair into a neat ponytail (of course, still with her signature hairband braid), and it looks like she might have washed her face and reapplied a light makeup. Even for her who is hardly interested in prettying herself, she knows the importance of presenting herself and is able to (without help from a maid) at least present herself in a clean manner. It’s a refreshing look for her, very relaxed and casual, giving off a uni-student-focused-on-her-studies image.

That image is more correct than I initially thought as she says, “Let’s get started on your homework.”

“How about a teddy bear’s picnic?” I ask, leaning over to nab Pinky from her place by my pillow. “Won’t it be cute? We can sit them together and make up a conversation. That reminds me, have you named the teddy I gave you? If not, what about Pointy Promise? I thought they could be sisters, so I wanted another finger name, but Ringy, Middly, and Thumby didn’t sound too good. If you hate Pointy, though, Thumbelina might do.”

In response to my spouted nonsense, Violet just stands there with an unimpressed look on her face, one hand on her hip. “Do you hate me?” she asks.

I frown, pouting at her. “That’s not fair,” I mumble, faking a sniffle.

“Then why are you trying to make me hate you? Just, just do your bloody homework, okay?” she says, her frustration slipping out.

I gasp, covering my mouth. “I can’t believe you swore at me!”

Her posture slumps, broken into resignation. “Nora, please,” she says, begging.

I sigh, and then gently nod. “Okay, I’ll do my homework, but I really do want to know if you’ve named the teddy already.”

She bites her lip, avoiding my gaze. How interesting. Quietly, she says, “If you want to name it, you can—since I named Pinky.”

“But what do you call her now? You have a name for her, don’t you?” I ask, leaning closer in case her voice becomes even softer.

“…ie,” she mutters.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear,” I say.

She swallows, her head turning a little more away from me. “Ellie. I call her Ellie,” she says.

It takes me a moment to properly understand, hard to process such quiet words, and then I burst into a smile. So she cuddles “Ellie” every night before bed, huh? I’m touched.

“She’ll have to be Ellie Promise from now on, then. And Pinky’s middle name will be Violet. Or maybe Pinky is just a nickname because she likes to blush,” I say, slowly losing focus.

“Fine. Can you do your homework now?” Violet says, not losing her focus.

I giggle, bringing up Pinky to cover my mouth. “Sure. I’ll get it done quick so we can have a teddy bear’s picnic,” I say.

For some reason, that answer only makes Violet huff. “Don’t rush it, do it properly—we are hardly running out of time.”

I happily stand up and move to my desk, Pinky sitting on my lap. Violet didn’t reject the idea. My mischief for the day thoroughly managed, I be obedient and get out my books, steadily work through the homework we were assigned. Unlike Joshua, we aren’t given much to do over the holidays. At my age, we’re expected to be more involved in our households, so it wouldn’t do to burden us during the busy social season. It’s also that only a few of our classes are carrying over. History, geography, English literature and writing. I think maths will switch from geometry to something new, but we’ll continue with algebra. Contract law is being replaced by fine art. French lessons will shift to a Romance languages focus, teaching basic manners in Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. Maybe other subjects will change as well, I don’t know yet.

We arrived around half past one, and I work until dinner with Violet lying on my bed reading. I change into my uniform in the bathroom, and then we go eat, few other students here to join us in the dining hall.

She’s having something like a chicken salad, dry chunks of “tofu” made edible by wet lettuce and tomatoes, flavoured by a drizzle of Caesar salad dressing (I don’t think the author knew it was a recent invention, not named after the Roman Caesar). When I see it, I’m again reminded of her aversion to calories. I’ve not had a good opportunity to talk to her about nutrition, maids often floating around at the townhouse and I usually only remember at meals, but there should be a chance after dinner today.

Of course, I still make sure to request an extra dessert for her.

Looking at me with one eyebrow lowered, she asks, “Really?”

“You’ll like it,” I say.

She’s too polite to leave it uneaten, but she makes me move half of it to my bowl.

Although we didn’t say anything, she follows me to my room, returning to her position on my bed and picking up her book. I sit on my chair, thinking about how to talk to her about her diet.

After a few minutes, she asks, “Is something wrong?”

Ah. I’ve just been staring blankly, haven’t I? Didn’t take her long to notice….

I guess I should be straightforward—she’s clever and sensible, no need to dance around it. “How are you feeling about your weight recently?”

Her expression becomes complicated, her mildly worried look replaced by a slight frown, pursed lips, thoughts hidden behind her eyes. Not upset, I think. “Well, talking with you did help somewhat, but I still….”

“… feel insecure,” I think, finishing her sentence in my head. Taking a measured breath, I steady my mind. “If you don’t want to try, or don’t believe me, that’s fine; however, I think you have trouble putting on weight because of what you eat.”

That marks the beginning of my modern lecture on calories, and Violet is thankfully receptive to it. Still, even if it is for different reasons than what’s normal, talking about food with my friend late into the night is rather fun.