Gerald doesn’t call me back, which I guess is good because I wouldn’t listen if he did. Really, he must think I’m such a “woman”, full of mood swings and secret malice, always getting upset over nothing and not telling him why. Well, whatever. He’s only the future King of Anglia.

Despite my attempts to lighten my thoughts, that depressing mood follows me to the dormitory. My friends can tell something has happened, but I can’t exactly say, the privacy of private conversations rather important.

Besides, would they understand? My eccentricity is something my family tolerates, that Violet tolerates, but it is abnormal. Whether I like it or not, this is the natural order of things in this world. Not all men and women are born equal. In Ellie’s world, a lot of social constructs were torn down, but, in a way, that just made it harder to see the inequality, or made it easier to deflect criticisms of the world. Things like poverty were still an almost inherited condition, poor children given poor chances at success. Even in the face of the law, I mean, without getting into anything too complicated, rich people could simply hire better lawyers, couldn’t they?

Like indigestion, those thoughts continue to return and pester me. I retire to my room after dinner and try to clear my mind by working on the pattern for Iris’s dress. At least that is going well, the pattern mostly complete. A good distraction.

By the next morning, my head is clear of that gloom. Still, I try not to look at Gerald if I can avoid it—just to be careful.

We have our first art lesson last thing today, so I am looking forward to that. When it’s finally time, we pack up our things and move over to the art room down the corridor, past the stairs and on the left. It’s a larger room, the chairs and tables sort of thinner. I guess it’s to make them lighter and so easier to move. At the front of the room, the blackboard is squashed to one side, double-doors the other side leading to a storage room? I don’t notice until I sit down, but the floor is speckled with all sorts of colours and the chair has a few spots and splodges of paint on it as well. We won’t be painting watercolours here. Probably. Although Ms Berks said nothing when we came in, we’ve copied our normal seating plan as far as I can tell. I’m in the back-left corner, Evan next to me, Lord Watford in front and so on.

There isn’t a bell for the start of the class, so we wait for Ms Berks. I’m actually quite excited to see what she’s like as a teacher. While she usually acts rather frivolous, the times she was serious have stuck with me. Well, maybe it’s my bad habit showing up again, wanting to see another side of her.

After a couple of minutes, she stands up.

“Greetings, my lords and ladies. I am Ms Berks and, for this term and the first two terms of your senior year, I will be teaching you what is listed as either ‘Fine Arts’, ‘Art History’, or ‘Art and Culture’. They are all similar subjects, but with subtle differences that will become more pronounced with each term. In general, we will be studying art and using what we learn to create art, and by creating art, we will deepen our understanding of what we have studied.”

The way she holds herself and the way she speaks are captivating, powerful. Rather than confidence, it’s more like she’s an actress on her stage, a clear voice that begs to be listened to and a posture that’s relaxed yet professional. Maybe it’s her underlying passion that makes the scene so compelling.

Those thoughts bubble through as she carries on, loosely detailing the syllabus for our first term. We will be painting, and painting a lot, and there will be a lot of painting. Specifically to us ladies, she emphasises that it will be much different to watercolours and sketching.

However, for today, she brings out a painting from behind her desk and hangs it at the front. “Next lesson, you will be making an imitation of this. I painted it myself over the break and you may recognise it as a landscape of the school grounds. Today, you will make a rough sketch and, for homework, use your sketch to try and find the exact location I stood when painting it. Use that time searching to also observe the colours and textures you see. Take notes for personal use if you wish, but I will not ask for anything to be handed in.”

I smile to myself, thinking it’s very… Ms Berks to set homework that doesn’t have to be marked. But even this whole exercise, I appreciate how vibrant it is compared to every other class. I was worried we’d just be reading biographies of artists and painting fruit bowls.

She then sets a perimeter around the painting so we don’t crowd it, but otherwise says we may do as we wish. So some people move their chairs closer, drawing with their notebooks on their laps, while others group up with friends, whispering to one another. Ms Berks doesn’t call for silence or break them up, so I end up with my friends by Violet’s desk. Although there’s quite a few people in front of us, the painting is high enough that we can easily see it over their heads.

“Miss is the advisor for you club, is she not? Is she always like this?” Belle whispers, glancing at the front desk.

I hum a note, my mind busy appreciating the painting. “I suppose? It is really only me as a member, so she lets me do what I want.”

While they then talk to each other, I focus on the painting. There’s no buildings in sight to act as landmarks, yet it feels very familiar, the rise and fall of the grass, the trees—almost like seeing a photograph of a place I’ve been. Almost. I feel more than see her influence, a tingling sense that the colours aren’t quite right. Thinking that only reinforces the unease. If we find the spot, we’ll see the real colours? A trick?

When I realise that, it clicks in my mind. She said she painted it in the break, but not which break. It couldn’t be winter, and the grass lacks the spring buttercups and daisies that are everywhere, so what if she painted it last summer? Yes, everything looks so very vivid, yet a touch dry, yellowed—not the green of spring.

Lost in those thoughts, I carefully try to copy down the sloping of the ground in her painting, and then add rough height and width markers for the trees. An afterthought, I add the shadows as well and loosely work out where the “sun” is. Fairly low, behind the point-of-view. The sun… rises over Tuton, so she was probably at the back of the school looking away (something easily worked out by the lack of buildings or town). But, if she started in the morning in summer, it would have been difficult to keep painting through the harsh sunshine—unless she was in shade?

I put down most of my thoughts onto the page, writing in the blank spaces of my sketch. Focused, I’m caught by surprise when the bell rings; I guess the introduction part went on longer than I thought or I got really lost in thought.

Going back to my table for a moment, I put away my things and then hurry back to my friends. As I get there, Jemima asks, “What should we do now?”

“It didn’t look like it would rain earlier, shall we go for a walk?” Helena says, peering over at the window. I look too, but it’s hard to see the sky from the middle of the room.

“We could do the homework?” I say, my head still full of those thoughts.

Violet lightly claps her hands together. “While the painting is still fresh in our mind—now that is a wonderful idea,” she says.

She makes it seem a much better suggestion than it is, but, well, I like being praised by her. Anyway, everyone else agrees, so we shuffle through the rush of students and go to the back of the school.

“Where shall we look first?” Belle asks.

I scan across the landscape. “It’s likely a bit far because there isn’t a gap in the painting for where the sports fields and pitches are,” I say.

Violet hums a note of agreement. “Yes, either far ahead or far to either side.”

Jemima giggles at our deductions. “It is rather a good thing we have you both with us or else we would be entirely lost,” she says lightly.

“Speak for yourself,” Belle mumbles, which makes the rest of us laugh.

Taking it as a challenge, Jemima pointedly asks Belle, “Then do you have any suggestions to add, hmm?”

Silence is the only reply she gets. Before the two of them start winding each other up, I say, “If you look at the shadows, I think she painted it in the morning looking in this general direction,” and gesture ahead of us (pointing would be awfully rude).

“Ah, really?” Violet asks.

I nod and, bringing around my bag, I take out my notebook to show her my sketch. “See how the shadows are long? But if it was the afternoon, it would be hard not to get any school buildings in, or the town if she went out front.”

Rather than my drawing, I notice she’s inspecting my notes. I feel embarrassed, my thoughts there fairly rambling, and it’s mostly conjecture based on my impression of Ms Berks.

“You are very observant,” Violet says, a whisper so light I nearly miss it.

“I’m really not. This is… more overthinking than anything,” I say.

However, I forgot how futile and dangerous it is to downplay praise from Violet. “No, this is most impressive, and I think likely correct. To notice not just the shadows, but the unusual colours as well, and to then contextualise it not as a mistake on the teacher’s part, but attribute it to something of a test she secretly set—you certainly have a rare combination of skills.”

It’s so over-the-top, I can’t take her seriously. “You make me sound like a genius,” I say, laughing off her words.

She looks up from my notes, showing a small smile. “Yes, I suppose you rather are,” she says.

Before I can feel even more humiliated by the undeserved praise, Jemima and Belle chime in in agreement with Violet, and then Helena says, “I wouldn’t have thought of any of that if left by myself.”

Rather than say anything else, Violet merely widens her smile into something rather… smug.

“Let’s just go,” I mumble.

So we do. I’m nominated as the “leader”, and I don’t dare say a word otherwise after what just happened. Based on my feeling of familiarity seeing the painting, I lead us towards our picnic spot—that being the only place we’ve really gone to that’s far from the school. We walk slowly, our sketches out as we look for trees that match up or for anything else recognisable, sometimes wandering this way and that to check.

To cut a long meandering short, I was fairly close to right: I saw the scene of the painting from the picnic spot, but it’s still a good few minutes of walking away. We don’t notice right away, spending maybe a quarter of an hour walking around the general area of the picnic spot, but then Violet picks out an evergreen that matches with the painting. It’s easy enough for us to then circle around until the other trees line up, moving back from that point to get the perspective correct (ending up under a rather leafy oak tree).

And just as I thought, the view here is a lot greener, more lush. The grass is rather long, buttercups and daisies and even a couple of very early poppies poking out. Other flowers… dog violet? Cow parsley? I’m not entirely sure, but there’s touches of purple and white and yellow and pink all lurking amongst the thick grass.

A different sight entirely compared to Ms Berks’s painting.

“It’s a good thing we came to check, isn’t it?” Violet quietly says.