I really enjoyed yesterday. Thursday now, I enjoy it just as much. Greeting everyone I see, chatting to Evan between classes, it’s a lot of fun. Although I spent some time last night thinking about those strange lights (the ones I saw when I made the pinky promise with him), nothing really came to mind. I must’ve just been seeing things.
Anyway, today, I also say hello to the guy in front of me. The way the seating plan is arranged is a checkerboard of boys and girls, so my front, back and either side neighbours are boys. Well, they would be, but I’m in the back corner, so I only have a neighbour in front and one on my right (Evan).
Getting off topic. Alan Watford, that’s the name of the guy in front of me, and he returned my greeting while not quite being able to meet my eyes. It’s a start.
I barely make it through history after lunch, but, knowing there is the earth magic class on the other side, I manage to stay awake for the last lesson of the day. Not much point in rushing, I let the worst of the traffic pass before heading out back to the classroom.
Though the rain drizzled for most of the week, there are covered walkways to all the other buildings and they have high sides to stop the rain from being blown under (unless it’s really windy). And so only one class has actually been cancelled because of rain this week: a “physical education” kind of class, separated by gender, and for us ladies it’s nothing more than walking and stretching (they call it “calisthenics”, but we really only stretch and balance). From what I’ve heard, there will be dancing and actual gymnastics sort of stuff once they finish the “ballroom” over winter break, apparently the repairs unable to be completed in time for this term.
Of course, women (noble women, I should say) wouldn’t be expected to do anything if not for health problems in later life. It’s not exactly written down in a book, but I’ve guessed that corsets and overly heavy dresses have also fallen out of fashion with the back problems and such. That said, I’m still at the age where I wear simple dresses, but there’ll be outfits I do need maids to help with awaiting me in a year or two, maybe sooner if my family attends a particularly important ball or event.
Well, back to the present, I’ve been happy to skip the pointless walks, spending that Tuesday lesson (and probably tomorrow’s) pretending to read while thinking of embroidery patterns. I do plenty of walking already.
Coming to the earth magic classroom, I check the flower garden, surprised at how colourful it still looks. I guess it pays to properly plan them out.
Despite dawdling a bit, I’m not the last one to arrive, the room half full. From what I can see, there’s a few seniors and a more juniors. No one from my class. Still, I recognise the ladies, all of them from my old school.
Of course, I politely greet them on the way to an out-of-the-way seat.
Five more people trickle in over the next few minutes. I was expecting a full room, but I guess that was just a “see what it’s like” lesson. Mr Churt strolls in and shuts the door behind him. I guess no one else is coming, whether they want to or not.
Then it’s a history lesson. How lucky.
Well, I half know everything already from my lessons with Ms Oare, but there’s new bits sprinkled in. Earth faeries are rather abundant in Anglia, so we’ve always had good harvests and stuff, so we don’t have to rely on the mainland for food imports. Earth magic itself is mostly used for research, growing new plants (or new strains, or whatever the right word is) and working out the best conditions for them. Rather than a colonial power, we’re strictly trading, gathering plants to grow ourselves and buying those that we can’t grow natively.
Incidentally, that’s why tea is popular here. After we brought back some, we started to grow our own and, since there’s so many earth faeries, a lot of people can use a little earth magic and grow herbs or tea for personal use. While I grew up on blends imported from India and China, there’s local strains and those are what commonfolk have.
On a smaller scale, curry leaves and chilli peppers and turmeric and all sorts of similar spices have been “imported” and then grown natively, but I think the taste is probably different, and they’re more for the middle-classes or particularly well-to-do commonfolk. Again, the upper-class imports spices from abroad.
The only other thing to say about all this, sugarcane apparently isn’t a thing? A lot of fruits have been bred sweeter to make syrups instead. It’s not horrible, but I miss having something sweet that isn’t also fruity. Not that I’ve ever actually had anything like that, relying on Ellie’s memories for such a thing.
Mr Churt has his talk on the first point mainly—the history of important Anglish cultivars, mainly wheat, potato and tea. For us children of the nobility, we won’t have anything to do with botany, but we can sound educated regurgitating the facts. A second or third son could go on to university and become an academic botanist, but the only guy here is sneezy prince who is the heir to a county. Though it wouldn’t be impossible for him, well, it’s not important, nothing to do with me.
Of course, a woman attending university is national news, given the “time period” of this world. Even for the middle-class, girls aren’t given a full high-school-equivalent education like I’m getting.
By the time the bell rings, I’m half-asleep. As always, I wait for most of them to shuffle out first before I get moving, stifling a yawn. Hopefully next week will actually be about plants.
“Isn’t he just so adorable?”
Idle whispers reach me from the ladies in front, and it’s easy to tell who they’re talking about. Julian is looking at the flowers. From the side, I can see his nose is red. Though he hasn’t reacted to anything in the second or so as I walk over, there’s tension in his face, almost pouting.
“Lord Hastings, are you admiring the flowers?” I ask, stopping at his side. Like him, I rest my gaze on the chrysanthemums and asters, some carnations (wilted by the cold snap), not sure what the other flowers are.
“Is that strange?” he asks, his voice calm rather than the petulant that would have suited his childish stature.
I think for a moment, and then say, “Yes, but I think it shouldn’t.”
He sniffles. It likely has nothing to do with what I said.
“Would you like a handkerchief?” I ask, hand already in my pocket.
“No, I couldn’t—”
Now with a wad of handkerchiefs out, I flip through them, saying, “There’s a rose, an oak, a rabbit, a dragon, a robin—”
“Wait, what was that last one?”
“A robin?” I say, holding it up for him to see.
He shakes his head. “No before that.”
“Oh, the dragon? I thought I should have some more exciting ones in case I met a stubborn boy who needed a handkerchief and wouldn’t accept one with a flower on it.” Dragons, being mythical, do still “exist” in this world.
His lips press together, thin, while his cheeks still puff out—trying not to smile. “I see.”
“Would you like it? I have many spare,” I say.
He looks away then, bringing up a hand to rub his eye. It must be uncomfortable for him so close to the flowers. “No, thank you. Though, if I may ask, why do you have so many?”
“I like to embroider them. Is that strange?” I ask, leaning over to try and see his face better.
Still hiding from me, he says, “Yes. However, perhaps it shouldn’t.”
I want to poke him in the unguarded side he’s showing me for that. “Don’t just parrot my own words back to me,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
He actually laughs this time, a short few before he controls himself. “My apologies,” he softly says, and then he slowly turns around. After looking at me, he asks, “And again, my apologies, but have we met before?”
“Nora de Kent,” I say, curtseying.
“Julian Hastings.” He bows in reply, a sort of shoulders forward and ducking head bow that men (of good etiquette) use, rather than the deep bend-at-the-waist bow of servants. In the same way, my curtsey isn’t all that fancy, a slight bend of the knees with one foot behind (heel up) and pinching my uniform at the waist.
Poor Clarice, she’s having to practise a “royal” curtsey, which is (more or less) squatting down to nearly the floor and holding that position until given permission to rise. (Apparently, my mother is rather fond of counting how long before Clarice falls over—Clarice is less fond of this.)
Ah, those thoughts give me an idea. “Say, would you help me with a present? It will be my mother’s birthday in early February and her favourite flower is a snowdrop, so I would like to grow one for her.”
“What makes you think I could help? Or would help, for that matter,” he says. “We barely know each other.”
“Then isn’t this a good chance to get to know each other? I’m always willing to make another friend.”
He chuckles, trying to rub the smile off his face. “Friend, huh?” he mutters, probably not intending me to hear. “You are teasing me, right? You’re hardly the first.” Those words are flat, distant, his expression losing all humour.
“Of course I am. That’s an important part of being my friend, after all.”
Lowering his head, he shows off all those blond curls to me, and I notice the amber threads amongst them. A warm orange, like the sunlight at dawn and dusk. “I see,” he whispers.
Ah, I just want to cuddle him when he acts all meek. Or, more accurately, I want to hug Joshua. My little brother’s going to be bigger than me soon, so I have to get all the hugs while I can. Knowing he’ll one day tell me, “Stop it, Nora, I’m too old for this,” is enough to make me cry.
Maybe that’s why I have so many handkerchiefs with me, to make sure I’m prepared for that day. Given he’s started at a boarding school, it’ll likely happen when I go home for the winter break.
The cold weather and thoughts getting to me, I shiver and give my arms a quick rub. “Well, I shall see you next week. Have a good day,” I say, giving him another shallow curtsey.
As if an automatic response, he mumbles, “And you.”
No bow. I guess I can forgive him, just this once.
Something I’ve not thought of much, my memories of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes are actually quite clear. Like, I can’t recall every word of it, but it has always been like I read it yesterday. All of Ellie’s memories are like that, as if she was copied into a computer and put at the back of my head at the time of her death. Things like what cake she had for her tenth birthday are a weird blur of, “Maybe a sponge cake with her name on it?” while I can remember exactly what she had for her last breakfast—jam toast and tea.
So, even though it’s been sixteen years, nearly seventeen, I can remember reading about Julian. Eleanor met him when she visited the flower garden, and she mistook him for a child who was lost. Because of course she did. Never mind that he was wearing the uniform and that he wasn’t crying or upset.
Then she called him cute, and he didn’t much like that. It’s hard to say exactly, but, rather than a short complex, he has a short-complex complex. He doesn’t like being called short or cute or anything that sounds childish, and that’s pretty reasonable I’d say. Everyone has flaws and he doesn’t overreact or anything when it does happen. What he hates, though, is people telling him he shouldn’t get upset about being called cute, stuff like that. Again, I think that’s fair. The worst feeling in the world is when someone pesters you, asking you why you’re angry until they make you angry—and then get all defensive, asking why you’re shouting at them, saying they’re sorry.
That Clarice comes to mind at this time is merely a coincidence.
Anyway, Julian is… a precious character, I think. Um, in that he has worth. That is, I found his character one of the more authentic and interesting portrayals in the otherwise cliché and dull book. He just was a really warm character to read about, nothing more to it. I know that the story and this reality aren’t the same (even if they’re similar), so I’ve not fussed over him. But… I hope we can be friends.
I guess all I can do is wait for next week to see if I can experience some of that warmth in person.
Friday means… embroidery club! I’ve been busy since I talked with Ms Berks. Well, since she talked to me. Anyway, I finished a piece last night and I’ve been excited all day and it’s finally the end of the day. It was hard to stay focused in the study session, and harder still in accounting. I mean, it’s just arithmetic with money, not even balance sheets or something else scary sounding.
Finally, the bell rings.
“Ah, before you go, do remember to prepare for the mock exams next week,” Mr Milton half-heartedly says over the din of chairs scraping and books and bags rustling.
I hurriedly pack, beating Evan for a change. When he’s ready, we start shuffling through the crowd, making it out to the walkway and over to the reference building. Ms Berks arrives a little after us, but not enough to be “late”.
No one else turns up. It’s expected, yet a bit sad. I really hoped someone would at least be interested enough to come see us. Never mind.
We settle in as we do, Evan sitting diagonally opposite me at two tables pushed together, Ms Berks in the corner. Careful, I take out my piece. It’s… simple, really. Seven rings arranged in a circle, overlapping like a chain that links to itself, no beginning or end. They’re almost touching in the middle, the overall look like a flower. Each ring is a different colour and they follow the colours of the rainbow. If you look closely, you’ll notice that each ring really does “link” to its neighbours, and each ring is made with a different stitch that I feel suits the colour.
Friendship—that’s what I’ve called it.
Just, I feel embarrassed now I’m actually here. I mean, really, am I actually going to show her this? It looks like it only took a few minutes to make. Well, a few hours. It was crazy, though, like, the needle did exactly what I wanted it to do, no fumbling or hesitating. And I remembered not to cut the thread with my teeth (that was probably the hardest part).
But I really spent a lot of time coming up with the pattern, or maybe design is a better word. An idea of something in my head, that I then tried to represent as a pattern, making it real.
Ugh. I’m sounding pretentious, aren’t I? Oh well, I have to start somewhere.
Pushing myself up, Evan glances at me, and I’m sure Ms Berks is still reading her book. I turn around and, yup, she is. I lower my head to hide my nervous smile, and then walk over to her. “Miss?”
She shows no sign of having heard me, but I patiently wait. After a few seconds, her eyes flicker up to me, eyebrows asking, “What is it you want?”
“I, um, made this. Would you give me your opinion on it?” I say, offering the square of linen (not my usual handkerchief) with both hands.
Sighing, she shuts her book—the clap almost making me jump. “Very well.”
She takes it from me, looks at it from arm’s length and then up close, turning it over, testing some of the stitches with her nail. My heart beats quick, clasped hands anxious. “This is, I tried to—”
“Shush.”
“Yes, miss.”
When did I last go to the bathroom? Lunch, right?
Interrupting my thoughts, she says, “This is something like the Bonds of Friendship, is it not?”
I freeze for a second, and then I can’t help the broad smile that overwhelms me, even as I try desperately to downplay it.
“Ah, that reaction. I am correct, then,” she says, holding out the embroidery for me.
Taking it, I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I’m glad my trust hasn’t been misplaced,” she says softly, her gaze lingering on the linen. When she continues, her voice is normal. “Art is… an experience created between the piece and the viewer. Can you call something locked away art? No, you can’t. Art isn’t what you make but what other people see. Do you understand?” she asks.
Maybe, it’s hard to say without time to think.
She gently chuckles, not hiding her mouth—something unusual enough for me to notice. “I want to put on an exhibition,” she says, “so do your best.”
“W-what?” I ask, staring at her.
“Haven’t you noticed yet? I’m an unreasonable person and have little regard for others,” she sweetly says, smiling at me with a knowing look. “I thought it would be enough to avoid the staff meetings, yet now I see a way to have some fun. Aren’t you happy for me?”
I manage to hold back the (many) emotions and say, “Of course I am, miss.”
“Don’t worry, I shan’t spring it on you soon. There is a period towards the end of the year, after the exams, where the school somewhat opens to prospective pupils. Now, if I do remember to request a room, wouldn’t it be wonderful to put on a display?”
If she remembers to! Even when it comes to things she wants to do, she’s like this?
“I believe I asked you a question,” she says.
Swallowing my pride, or something like that, I nod, saying, “Yes, miss.”
With a self-satisfied smile, she opens up her book. “As you were.”
While I return to my seat, I catch Evan looking at me. Ah, it can’t be helped, so I put down my embroidery in the middle of the table for him to see. He doesn’t pick it up, so I roll my eyes and push it closer to him.
My head is… a mess. Too much of a mess to care what he thinks right now. It’s just, ideas trying to get my attention, worries drifting like clouds to cover my excitement. Afraid of putting all my love into something only to be told it’s crap. But… I’m braver than that. At least, I’m trying to be, trying to be as brave as Ellie was.
“I like it.”
He said those words so softly, it took me a while to hear them, a moment of doubt giving me pause. “You do?”
“I’m… not familiar with art, and didn’t understand anything of what miss said, but I do think this has a prettiness to it. Something about friendship, was it? A flower blooming,” he says, trailing off to mumbles by the end.
Ah, I think I understand a little more of what she said. “If you’d like, you may have it,” I say.
“What? I couldn’t,” he says, looking up from the embroidery. “Won’t this be in the exhibition?”
For someone so shy, he’s talking awfully sweet today. That was what Eleanor thought as well, wasn’t it? Cyril has a way with words, but Evan has just the right words—when he doesn’t get stuck in his own head.
“It’s enough for me to know it will be appreciated,” I say, bowing my head to him. “Besides, this is just a first draft. There’s a lot more to it that I would like to try and express, and a lot more I have to learn.”
His expression is complicated… so I have to tease him, right? This isn’t something worth thinking about.
“Or is it that you wouldn’t want anyone to ask you who gave it to you?” I ask.
The familiar blush starts to blotch on his cheeks. “It’s not that,” he mutters.
I giggle at his reply—and that only makes him redder.
“Oh, Lady Kent? I should have said earlier, but make sure to sign your piece. That is your mark of pride as an artist,” Ms Berks says.
Poor Evan, no one to help him.
“I will, miss,” I say, picking up the linen and bringing it to my side. While I quickly yet neatly sew my “initials” on (“E de K”), I glance up a few times, catching him watching me. Done, I slide it back across the table to him. “There we go. Now, when I’m famous, you can proudly show off this original piece and brag to all your fr—, acquaintances.”
He sinks in his seat, coming to hide his face in his arms. When he dares to look up, his gaze catches on my signature, frowning.
I guess why. “My name is Eleanor,” I say.
“Oh. It’s a nice name.”
If only it wasn’t ruined for me by a certain character in a book. “I shall let my mother know you think so—she’s the one who chose it for me.”
He doesn’t hide from me again, but he looks like he wants to.
The rest of the club passes with just a little more teasing, and then I merrily return to my bedroom to prepare for the weekend and start noting down my other ideas of embroidery (including changes I want to make to the Friendship pattern). Luckily, the mock exams next week means no homework. I mean, the homework is to study, but that sounds like a problem for other people.
Saturday morning, I go about my routine quickly. The weather outside is gloomy, but not actually raining, so I want to head into town early.
I think I make it to the river by half eight and that gives me an hour to get done what I want. Rather than going left to the middle-class shops (including the café), I go to the more residential area. There’s still a few shops here, but they’re less flashy. Food, mostly, grocers and bakeries and pubs.
A fabric store taking my interest, I pop in, walking out with a few pieces of cheap fabric cut to different sizes—my pocket a shilling lighter. It’s for the best there wasn’t any pricier cloths I liked the look of.
Still, the grey and moody sky worries me. I only came this early because I wanted to buy an umbrella and gloves (that won’t stand out). However, only luck has kept me dry so far. I doubt Neville would appreciate me skipping out on work because it’s raining.
As I’m rambling to myself, I walk along the river (afraid to stray in case I can’t find my way back), and a voice pulls me out my thoughts.
“Ellie!”
I nearly fall over, a blob glomping into my side. “Gwen? Gwen!” I reply, peeling her off so I can lower myself and give her a proper hug. “How are you?”
She giggles, grinning at me like the adorable little squirt she is. “I am well, and you?”
Oh she sounds just like Lottie giving a greeting, and I look at that mother of hers who wears an expression which says, “What can you do?”
“Wonderful, darling,” I say, really putting it on. “Just last night, I met the Queen at a garden party—you should have been there.”
Gwen gasps, and she asks, “Did you weally?”
That lisp! But no, I must focus. “Of course not. However, wouldn’t that be a fantastic story? Imagine you got to meet the Queen, wouldn’t that be so exciting?”
“Yeah!” she says, nodding so hard I worry for her neck.
I boop her on the nose and push myself back up, neatening my dress as I do. “Well, if I’m ever invited for tea with the Queen, I’ll make sure to tell her I’m only coming if you’re invited too.”
“Really?”
I nod, making a most serious expression. “Of course. That is, if it’s okay with your mother.”
As if rehearsed, we both turn to face Lottie, and I caught sight of such incredible puppy dog eyes (not that that’s a metaphor in this dog-less world) coming from Gwen.
Lottie, obviously, is entirely unfazed. I gave her a lot of practice resisting these kinds of looks back in the day.
“Well, if that day comes, then you better hope you’ve been eating properly, brushing your teeth twice a day, and going to sleep on time,” she says to Gwen, no room for nonsense in the Grocer household.
Gwen eagerly nods, saying, “Yes, mama!”
“Then it’s a pinky promise,” I say, holding out my pinky for her. Without me saying anything else, she catches on and sticks out her pinky. “If I break it, faeries will pluck out my eyelashes, so I’ll definitely keep it.”
At her surprised expression, I gently laugh, finally letting out the hubris I’ve built up. Then, with everything settling down, I ask Lottie about the things I’m looking for, and the two of them lead me to some shops to buy them, before also showing me the way to their house from the main intersection. It’s, well, I just have to remember to go right until Baker Street, go down it, and then take the third left onto King Philip Close and it’s number fourteen—about halfway along the road. Not trusting me at all, they then walk me back to the café.
What a great start to the day.
After a pleasant Saturday, I’m looking forward to Sunday as well. Not in a rush to buy anything today, I take my time in the morning, lounging in the bath and trying out a few different styles for my hair. I do like fancy braids. For some reason, my talent for spirit magic seems better lately (maybe some of Evan’s talent rubbing off on me), so braiding is easier than before.
In the end, I go for my usual updo. While I can’t exactly change my hair colour, I can make it look shorter and, keeping it out the way, make it less noticeable. Every little bit adds to my “disguise”.
Newly bought gloves and umbrella in hand, I stroll into town, happy as can be. Even after messing around, I’m still the first waitress to arrive (other than Iris), quickly getting changed and offering to help set the tables and such.
Yesterday, Terri pulled me aside and put on my makeup despite my protests of, “I can do it myself.” But, unlike Iris, she actually can do a better job of it than me, so I had to begrudgingly thank her while she laughed at my wounded pride.
I still like her, but, really, I’m not a child…. Well, not that much of a child.
Anyway, I’m reminded of that when Iris brings down the makeup set and I put it on myself, trying to copy how Terri did it.
As with the last two Sundays, the church bells ring as mass ends at ten o’clock and the first customers come a bit after. I don’t actually know if they’re coming from church or they just use the bells as a prompt since the café won’t be open any earlier. I guess it doesn’t matter.
It’s not an easy job, I think, but I’m good at it. Because I don’t have any sort of ego about my status, I’m fine acting as a “servant”. And since I basically grew up learning etiquette and poise, I am already half-trained for the job. The trays are a bit heavy, but I’m not frail, and serving tea isn’t exactly difficult to remember when I’ve watched it be done so much.
Besides, more than the pay, I’m working to make friends. Though I don’t think it’s possible to not be Iris’s friend, she praises me a lot. It’s… nice in its own way. I was praised tons when I was a child, a prodigy in reading, writing and arithmetic, but—just as I knew it would—that sort of talk trailed off as I got older. Like on Friday, with my embroidery, it’s nice to feel appreciated and validated.
So I’m glad I work here and that I can make Iris happy by working hard. It’s, well, I’m not all that keen on putting in hours of work for a sheet of homework covered in ticks and a “well done” scrawled at the bottom. This is better.
The other waitresses, while not as straight-forward as Iris, are kind in their own ways. Millie said to me that she’s glad there’s someone else to attend to the girls from King Rupert’s; she finds them intimidating since they’re proper upper-class daughters, not the usual middle-class women she attended to—she only joined the café at the start of the long summer break. (This makes her the newest weekend waitress after me, unsure of the waitresses working weeks.)
Len, on the other hand, has been working here for two years. She’s engaged and, though sad to be leaving in a few months time, is happy that someone capable (me) will be here to help fill her shoes when she goes. She’s only nineteen, but she’s quite motherly, so I guess she has been worrying over Millie and Annie since they joined.
Lastly, Annie. While Millie is a bit childish, and Len motherly, Annie is just Annie. She’s competent and nice and happy for the help. Not for herself, but for the others, since it was mostly Iris and Len taking on the extra work before I joined. She likes to talk about my hair, someone who keeps her own hair too short to do much with. I feel like she’s working up the courage to ask me if she can play with it—the last few working days (when we’re changing after our shift), I’ve seen her fiddling together a short plait in her own hair only to give up with a sigh.
I would still call them all normal girls. Well, maybe not exactly Iris, a bit too much like her father, or her mother, or both. But, in general, the way they talk to each other and what they talk about sounds like what “friends” talk about, what “normal” people talk about. Annie and Iris always asking after Len’s fiancé, all of them making comments on each other’s outfits (ah, I might need more dresses if they’re going to pay attention to me!), plans to meet up in the week, how the family is.
I’d be lying if I say I’m not envious of their friendship, but I understand that these things take time and I’m willing to wait. No, I’m willing to work for it, not just wait around and see what happens.
After the lunch rush settles down, Iris, Millie and I go through for our break.
“You’re doing so well, have you really not done anything like this before?” Iris asks me.
Smiling, I shake my head. “I probably won’t get any better, though,” I say.
“Oh don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s not like the Queen’s going to turn up.”
“Well, I’d do my best if she did,” I mumble to myself, but Millie hears me, giggling.
We chat a little more as we finish eating, not going too far as we don’t want to leave the others waiting. My bladder getting the better of me, Iris lets me upstairs to the Thatcher’s “home”, a flat made up of two bedrooms and a bathroom. I guess they use the café’s kitchen and lounge. With that sorted, I come back down to work.
The afternoon trickles by at first, seeming like it’ll be peaceful and just more of the usual. I don’t mind that. Then I catch sight of a familiar shade of hair outside.
“Ladies Dover, Horsham, Challock and Lenham. Miss Ellie will attend to you.”
I don’t have to remind myself to smile, nervous excitement happily bubbling up inside me. Walking over to them, it is Violet, coming along with one of her friends as well as two regulars at the café. I guess they told her about it. A pair of maids are outside, I guess their attendants.
“Welcome, mistresses. May I show you to your seats?” I ask, curtseying a little more thoroughly than I normally would—have to give my friend a good impression.
Her expression stern, voice clear, Violet says, “If you would.”
I walk briskly, stopping at a table near the middle of the floor. Once they sit, I help tuck them in, bring them menus, and then go to take my leave.
Only, I look at Violet and notice her braid is loose.
At her side, I quietly ask, “My lady, may I fix your braid?”
Her eyes showing the barest hint of surprise, she reaches up, feeling it. While not undone entirely, the end appears frayed as her hairpin was maybe pushed over or not quite put in at the right place.
“Can you?” she asks.
“I can,” I say, amusing myself by imagining what her reaction would be if I asked her just who did that for her the first time.
She mulls it over for a second, and then says, “You may.”
I waste no time, taking out the hairpin and lightly combing out the braid with my fingers. As I do that, Lady Horsham asks, “You do always have your hair done like that, why is it?”
Violet wouldn’t do something as uncultured as blush, but I could hear the reservation in her voice, a little embarrassed. “It is simply something a friend did for me a long time ago, which I like the look of.”
Ah, I want to tease her, saying such sweet things about me. Even if we aren’t close like we used to be, knowing I left a mark on her, that’s enough to make me happy.
My hands don’t stop as I think. When I finish brushing out her hair, I softly chant, and I imagine all these tiny faeries coming together in groups of ten, picking up strands of her hair and moving them into a braid. I gently move my fingers along, guiding the magic. And while her braid before looked well done, no one can beat me at my own game, especially since I’m cheating and using spirit magic.
The other ladies almost gasp, controlling themselves to an, “Oh,” and an, “Ah.” I feel Violet tense. Though tempted to see what her face shows, I keep my focus on braiding.
It doesn’t even take me a minute before I’m done. Carefully putting in the hairpin, I give it a light pat because I feel like it.
Without saying anything, I step back and bow my head. Before I go, though, Lady Challock asks, “Miss, was that magic?”
It’s not an accusation. While in most fantasy stories magic is something offensive, used to kill or whatever, magic here is, well, it’s not even defensive. Faeries cast the magic and so they just won’t do it if it’ll hurt someone—at best, you can make them uncomfortably warm (say, enough for their skin to prickle). If you manage to get around that, then the faeries will abandon you entirely, no more magic. Enchantments are different but the same, and I won’t get into that now.
“Yes, my lady. That was spirit magic.”
“I see, and it can be used to style hair?” she asks, looking intently at me.
I bow my head in a nod.
Their curiosity satisfied, they look at one another and start discussing what to get. Except, as I turn to go, I catch Violet’s eye. Oh I want to wink, see what face she would make if she realises it’s me. But I hold back.
For the rest of their visit here, I notice Violet looking at me a few more times, her expression giving away nothing. Even when she leaves, nothing else is said. However, from what I hear, Lady Horsham liked it here and so maybe this won’t be Violet’s only visit.
From there, it’s not much longer before the café closes. The moment the door closes behind the last customer, I’m surrounded, Iris and Millie looking at me with excited smiles and wide eyes.
“D’you think—”
“That lady—”
Both talking at the same time, they stopped themselves, and then looked at each other, bursting into a giggle. Iris recovers first, taking my hands and asking, “Well? What did you think of her?”
“Who?” I ask, even though I’m sure I know.
“The lady whose hair you did! She took a fancy to you, didn’t she? What will you do if she asks you to be her maid?”
Millie chimes in, saying, “She looked so proper, do you think she’s a duke’s daughter? Wouldn’t that be wonderful!”
There’s a duke’s daughter right in front of you, Miss Millie, I think to myself. Jokes aside, I just smile, wondering if there’s something about me that makes employers want to be rid of me as soon as possible, already feeling like I’m being pushed onto the next job.
“I couldn’t,” I say. “I already have a job here I’m most happy with.”
Iris waves me off. “Don’t be daft, papa won’t mind if it’s for that. It’s, like, a dream come true to be a Lady’s maid, isn’t it? Treated as a top servant and stuff, and all you have to do is make her pretty and draw her baths!”
Seriously, is this what it means to be a heroine in a story? Even if I was born a commoner, I would have risen up to be the personal maid for some important Lady, maybe falling in love with a baron and shocking the world with a romance that transcends class and status?
Okay, that last bit’s definitely a stretch. And anyway, it’s not like I’d be a good maid, right?
“Let’s leave the dreams for bedtime,” I say, walking away to get changed. “It’s not like she’s actually going to ask me.”
“Such a spoilsport.”
I giggle to myself, a little happy to be the centre of attention even if they’re teasing me.
Submitted September 21, 2019 at 02:22AM by mialbowy https://ift.tt/32W7fOu
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