School is school. We have mock exams this week, so the usual boring lessons are instead boring tests. I’m not fussed and get through Monday in a series of naps once I finish answering the questions.
Even though I catch Violet glancing at me a few times, I don’t think she knows, only suspects, and she can’t bring herself to actually say anything. It would hardly be defensible for her to outright ask me if I’m working as a commoner. Even saying something like, “There’s a girl who looks just like you in town,” would be straying close to bullying territory. The sort of thing the guys will think poorly of her for and make the other ladies uncomfortable. It’s one thing to nitpick my conduct, another to “insult” my looks by comparing me to a commoner.
Embroidery club is still on, but Evan skips to study. Not much reason for me to be there alone, yet I still go, taking stock of all the threads and fabrics Ms Berks got for us—I don’t want to spend all my pay on sewing materials.
Well, maybe I could sew some more dresses rather than buying them. It should be cheaper? I’ll ask Lottie.
As for actual embroidery pieces for the eventual exhibition, I don’t really know. When I think about Ms Berks’s wedding dress, I just… can’t believe I’ll make anything like that. I know she and Evan liked my little Friendship piece, but there’s a difference between “pretty” and “moving”.
She’s, well, her artwork has changed my life. I understood what she said, understood that it must have felt so painful to go through, but it was her art that conveyed the real depth of that pain, the real vastness of her emotions. Can I really make something that evokes those kinds of strong emotions in someone else?
I mean, all I’ve experienced is loneliness. Do I want to share those feelings? I said those words so easily to Evan, but can I say them so easily to everyone? I’m sure that part of what let Ms Berks put to thread her feelings was that she didn’t intend to show it anyone. Not “art”, but a “reflection” of herself, able to be honest because of that.
The reason why I made the Friendship piece is because I wanted to share my hope. Though I say that, when you hope for something, it’s like it’s out of your control, right? Hope it’s sunny, or hope you get top marks in a test, or hope to make friends. There’s only so much you can do to make it come true.
There’s only so much I can do.
I don’t want to make art about my loneliness. To me, it’s childish, and I’m sure others would see it the same way. I’m only sixteen, so it has to be childish. I might as well write a poem about how unfair homework is.
And I also don’t want that emotion to define me. I don’t want people to remember me as “that lonely girl”. It’s not me that’s lonely but my circumstances, and I’m doing my best to change them. It’s not like I want to hide my weaknesses and only show my strengths, really it’s not. I’d be fine making art about how stubborn I can be, how lazy I am when unmotivated, how shy I get when I feel left out. But I can’t imagine a way to show that and have it be interesting.
I want to ask Ms Berks about all this, yet I want to make sure I think through it properly first. So far, I’ve been entirely relying on her.
Ah, come on, this is why Evan needs to be around. I’m not suited to thinking.
After club finishes, I practise seamstress stitching, making a doll’s dress out of spare fabric in my room. Don’t want to mess up and waste my hard-earned cash if I do decide to make my own clothes. (Maybe a shirt and skirt this time? Elastic is rare, but I can use a slip of cloth as a belt….)
Tuesday is more exams, the only break being P.E. after lunch—a bit of a walk, avoiding the mud. At the end of the day, it’s water magic class. Being more like a club than an elective, there’s no exam, so I’m looking forward to another lecture on the history of water magic.
Wait, I’m not looking forward to that.
It’s no big deal. If it’s boring, I’ll just think about other stuff and daydream. Shuffling over to my “usual” seat (at the end of a middle row), I get comfortable.
Last week, Ms Rowhook talked about Roman times, today is about the middle-ages, specifically the Norwegian-Norman conquest stuff. The Battle of Hastings equivalent. Anglia being a more compact country than the original Great Britain, ten sixty-six became more of a three-way clash than the original. And while the conquests were repelled, there was still a lot of movement between Normandy and Anglia through trading, so the “Anglish” language still became “English”, suitably influenced by French culture through Normandy.
I think. All I really know is that I live in Anglia, I’m Anglish, and I speak English.
How water magic relates to all this, the Norwegians were able to navigate well thanks to a strong familiarity with the water and air faeries out at sea, so they came down south, wanting to strike at Lundein and the generally richer areas around there. That put them in conflict with the Normans who sailed over.
I know, it’s boring, but we’ll all get through it together.
The lecture eventually finishes, and I’ve come up with a cute design I’d like to sew into my next dress. Waiting for most of the rush to pass first, I then get to my feet and start heading off.
Only, on the way out, I notice a group of ladies. Curious, I lean over to see what they’re looking at.
It’s a guy, fast asleep in the corner of the room—not even sitting on a chair.
My brain working quickly, I walk over, nonchalantly sliding through the ring of ladies with an, “Excuse me.”
I ignore their mutters and lower myself to a (knees together) squat, keeping my dress neat. Then I say, “Lionel Basildon, is it?”
His face scrunches up, and he yawns, and he stretches out his arms, and only after all that do his eyes crack open, looking at me with a squint. “I prefer Leo,” he says, breaking into another yawn as soon as he finishes.
“I’m Nora de Kent, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I can’t exactly curtsey, so I bow my head.
“And you,” he says, his head more lolling than bowing. “If I may, where am I?”
“Water magic class.”
He nods, yet another yawn catching him. “Yes, I suppose I did sign up for that. Finished, is it?”
“Yes.”
Scratching the back of his head, he sits forward (rather than leaning against the wall). After a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, he elegantly stands up, the motion smooth. Though he offers me a hand, I raise myself myself with what elegance I can cobble together.
“Well then, I shall take my leave,” I say, this time able to curtsey.
“Ah, thank you for waking me. I would hate to have slept through supper.”
I smile, but say nothing more, turning around and walking through the (now looser) circle of ladies; they move aside for me, narrowed eyes staring.
So that was “sleepy” prince, living up to his name. I couldn’t imagine anyone else (male or female) falling asleep like that, and I’m glad I wasn’t mistaken. He’s the second son of a count and apparently had a leisurely childhood without the pressure of succeeding his father. His older brother is eight years older and, by now, married and has a son and daughter of his own, if I remember correctly.
Anyway, Leo’s basically a good-natured person whose sleeping presence is regarded as art in of itself, often attracting a group of ladies to gaze upon him. He doesn’t particularly mind that, but being late for class ends up being troublesome, and missing a meal a common problem. In the story, Eleanor often woke him up, and he would often hold her hand or whisper sweet words to her in a half-awake state. (I made sure to keep some distance for that reason.)
As for looks, he has a similar build to Gerald, both normal enough looking guys with a bit of an aristocratic touch to some of their features. A bit tall, a bit slim, brown hair that’s on the lighter side with streaks of navy blue, that colour reflected in his eyes. While Gerald appears stern, Lionel appears friendly yet a bit out of it, in a way always looking like he’s just woken up from a nap—and that’s usually true.
I’ve not been thinking of the princes much. A wish, huh. I do still think it would be nice to go to Ellie’s world. But, for now, I think I’ll be happy enough if I can make friends. As scary as the future is at times, I’m lucky enough to be born who I am. My status guarantees a pleasant life. My parents kind, I don’t feel that worry about being forced into a marriage, forced to be the “ideal” lady.
Bashful Evan and grumpy Cyril, I’m sort of on track to be “friends” with them. Sneezy Julian, well, I sort of bossed him around last week, but I don’t think he hated me for it, so we’ll see. Clever Gerald is, um, complicated, because I don’t want to get between him and Violet.
Sleepy Leo, I don’t know. Eleanor didn’t really know him. Well, she certainly knew him—if you know what I mean. But she didn’t talk with him much or ask other people about him. To me, he’s nice in the same way all well-brought-up boys are, and that’s most of the guys here. There’s something to be said about his casual atmosphere, yet I wouldn’t call that a personality.
I guess that just means I should get to know him better. If I go by the book, I should be able to run into him now and then (entirely by accident).
The last two princes, Happy and Dopey, aren’t quite as easy. Eleanor met Happy one evening in late October when he put on a light show sort of thing, being talented with light magic. I can turn up on the same day, just there’s no guarantee it’ll happen like it did in the book. As for Dopey, she met him at metal magic classes… which have been cancelled. It was only the two of them attending it in the book, so of course the class would be cancelled in real life.
Ah well, I’m sure there’ll be a chance eventually.
Besides the princes, there’s no reason I can’t be friends with other people. Sure, I won’t get a wish from it, but friends basically are a wish, right? It’s hard for me to approach guys in general beyond the culture or etiquette or whatever you want to call it. I don’t have anything to talk about; small talk isn’t really my thing. The same is kind of true for the ladies, but I can compliment them and try and work from there, I think? “Oh I love what you’ve done with your hair!” (Or something less dramatic.) Styling hair, makeup, (to an extent) fashion—I can probably talk for a bit on those topics.
How did Ellie do it? She smiled, and greeted the girls she knew, and eventually got pulled into a conversation with Hatty. Clicking with someone, I don’t really understand it. I guess no one does? Every person is like their own puzzle piece, full of jagged lines, and some people just happen to fit together.
I don’t know. Do I need to know? I don’t know if I need to know.
To distract myself, I spend the evening thinking about what would make a nice dress pattern, trying to remember what I’ve seen Iris and the other waitresses wearing. Oh, and Lottie. She has more of a mature image than I want to have, but I might need that sort of outfit one day.
Oh no. Now that I’ve thought of Lottie, all I want to do is make a cute dress for Gwen. But, if I dote on Gwen this much, how bad is it going to be when Clarice gets married and I have a little niece or nephew? Double oh no—if I ever have children, aren’t they going to be so incredibly fat? How am I supposed to stop myself from feeding them cake and sweets every day?
For now, I distract myself with sewing. That I’m sewing doughnuts and cupcakes (each with a cherry on top) is merely a coincidence and nothing to do with what I was just thinking about.
The next couple of days aren’t as full of exams. There’s only one exam per subject and, by Thursday, there’s only a couple of classes I haven’t sat an exam for yet. Unless I’m forgetting something, it’s just accounting tomorrow left.
Since the weather’s been nicer this week, I’m hoping earth magic class might involve gardening, eyeing up the ground as I walk over after the last lesson. Like last week, the room mostly fills up by the time Mr Churt arrives and he shuts the door behind him. He strides to the head of the room, putting down his briefcase on the desk before turning to face us.
Not wasting any time, he clears his throat and starts, his clear yet soft voice making me think of a butler. However, that image is at odds with his look, a little on the short side and a ratty face that seems to settle into a snarl. Not that he’s scary or anything, but I guess he’s “ugly”. In the upper-class, one of the hiring requirements for servants (that are seen) is that they’re pleasant to look at. Maids especially need a youthful beauty, manservants a good height. It’s not enough to hire help, you have to show you can hire the best (looking) help. Anyway, I’m saying all that, but I just mean it’s unusual for me to see someone who’s “ugly” at the school or at home. That said, you can’t exactly put the same requirements on the actual people who make up the upper-class, so it’s a mix of beautiful and average people (with makeup, good tailoring, and so on).
Oh right, he’s talking.
“—project per term. For this short period until the winter break, we shall look to establish the basics of what plants require to grow—”
And I’m losing interest, his words piling up in my head. Once he finishes, I skim through what he said, reducing it to: We’ll grow some cress. Wonderful. It’s not like Ellie did that by herself when she was five, using cotton wool and half an eggshell.
Nothing really matters, so we can also work in whatever size groups we want and, though he prattles a bit, all we have to do is keep the cress from drying out. I mean, I’m pretty sure you can grow cress in water, so we probably can’t even overwater it.
And while all the ladies split up into their friendship huddles, I look around for a certain sneezy prince. It’s only out of kindness, of course, no doubt difficult for him being the only guy in the class. Though he’s easy to miss, I spot him and tiptoe my way around the others to sit down next to him.
“Lord Hastings,” I say, bowing my head.
After a moment, he says, “Lady Kent, was it?” His tone is dry, and there’s a certain sentiment of “You again?” to his words.
But I’m not easily deterred. “Won’t you join my group?” I ask.
“And who exactly is in your group?”
“Well, excluding myself, no one,” I say, keeping count of everyone on my fingers. “So you would be a founding member as it were.”
He can’t catch himself in time, a brief laugh escaping. “You certainly have a way with words.”
“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head.
“You’re welcome; though, I didn’t precisely intend it to be a compliment.”
“Then you should take care lest you leave a lady less level-headed than I with the wrong impression,” I say at him.
He gently shakes his head, but can’t shake his smile. “I am rather sure the blame in this case lies squarely on your shoulders.”
“So if I water the cress Monday through Thursday, would you do so Friday through Sunday?”
Rubbing his face, he hides his mouth behind his hand. “You changed the topic rather suddenly there.”
“It’s called being considerate. I wouldn’t want to linger on how rude it is of you to blame me for what you yourself said, or do you mean to make me out as that sort of woman?”
His hand sliding higher, he rubs his forehead and a groan slips out of him. “You’re the worst sort of person to deal with.”
“I really would prefer it if you could at least do just the weekend, but if you are also busy then then I wouldn’t mind splitting it between us, one day each.”
He sighs. “You’re doing it again.”
Leaning forward, I make sure to catch his eye. “As tolerant as I am, I will send a letter to your mother,” I say sternly.
“Shouldn’t you complain to your own parents instead?”
Nodding my head, I say, “You have entirely underestimated me.”
Despite his words becoming sharper until now, he asks, “In what way?” with a light-hearted tone.
“I will simply introduce myself as a good friend of yours and thank her for raising such a gentleman. This will inevitably lead to you being questioned about our relationship. No matter how much you deny it, that will only further fuel her misunderstanding. Can you imagine how fun Yule will be? Constantly being asked if I should come for a visit, or what sort of present would I like. Of course, I will send you a greeting for the holiday—and make sure the contents are such that you couldn’t possibly show it to them.”
Pausing to catch my breath (not wanting to become breathless), I smile at him.
“Need I go on?”
He returns my gaze with a mask, not showing any of his emotions. Well, I say that, but that he isn’t just spitting back some reply tells me I’ve suitably chastised him.
“As long as you understand,” I say, breaking away to check for the teacher. It doesn’t look like he’s back yet, still getting the greenhouse ready for us.
Barely a whisper, he says, “I can’t tell if you like or hate me.”
After a short giggle behind my hand, I say, “I would like to be friends and nothing more. Is that strange?”
His lips curl into a reluctant smile. “I stand by what I said.”
Really, who knows what he means by that.
“So, can you do weekends or should we split them?” I ask, pushing the conversation back there now we’ve sorted things out. He goes along with me, but it’s half-hearted.
Mr Churt comes back soon and has us all follow him to the nearest greenhouse. They’re big, about half the size of a classroom. Not enough room for us all to stand inside (only a couple of aisles of free space inside, the rest being tables with trays of plants), we loosely crowd around him on a patio in front of the greenhouse.
After explaining what we’ll do, he has us come in, one group at a time. Julian and I naturally fall to the back. So far, I think we’ve avoided attention because he’s easily overlooked (pun somewhat intended), but when it comes to our turn, even Mr Churt gives us a bit of a look before walking inside.
This greenhouse is just a greenhouse. The other one is actually heated by an enchantment, allowing for some things to be grown out of season or for more exotic plants to be grown. Cress is pretty hardy, I think, so no need for the fancy greenhouse.
Inside, I basically leave it all to Julian. It’s putting soil and seeds in a pot, not exactly a great teamwork exercise, and he doesn’t say anything. I sprinkle a bit of water on after.
On the way out, we’re subjected to more than a few looks. I smile for our audience.
“We shall finish here for today,” Mr Churt says, following out behind me and Julian. “Next week, weather permitting, we will start to look at how to care for plants while making use of earth magic.”
After that, he lists off the times the greenhouse is “open” during the week and on weekends, reiterating his expectation that we make sure our cress is kept suitably watered. Then he finally dismisses us.
I’m not in a rush to leave, some congestion as the fairly broad patio narrows to a path. Julian isn’t that eager to go either, his gaze settling on some of the plants inside the greenhouse.
Having read Snowdrop and the Seven Princes, it really is like I’m cheating. If I was anyone else, I’d wonder if he likes plants, not knowing why he does. But I do know. I can vividly remember the few conversations “he” had with Eleanor. He’s close with his mother, and she did flower pressing as a young girl, books full of pretty flowers that she would show him, sharing the memories of her youth. And he was teased for it at his last school: a short boy, cute at an age where boys don’t like being called cute, and he liked flowers.
I don’t know how true what the Julian in the book said is compared to the Julian with me now, but I think it’s mostly the same. A story has to be more extreme to be interesting, unlike real life, so the truth is probably softer than what I read. Still, I probably also liked him because we went through similar challenges.
“Have you started looking for a snowdrop yet?” I ask him.
“Why would I?”
I hum to myself, wondering what a good reward would be. “Ah, I can sew your sweetheart’s initials onto a handkerchief,” I say, pleased with myself for thinking of it. “Isn’t that a most refined gift for a lady?”
“I don’t have a sweetheart,” he says.
“But you must have someone you like, do you not? In your class, or maybe a friend’s sister from when you visited….” I didn’t think that through. Clearing my throat, I continue. “Or a friend of your sister?”
Muttering more to himself than me, he says, “I have someone I’d like to go away.”
You know, didn’t I like him because he was a warm and gentle sort of character in the book? I mean, he quickly forgave Eleanor for their unfortunate first meeting, so why is he still having a go at me?
Though, I don’t hate talking like this with someone.
“Will you truly not help me?”
I hadn’t thought about it at the time, but shouldn’t it be really hard for him to turn down someone who wants to get her mother a beloved flower? Like, this is ticking all his boxes, right? Don’t tell me I’ve left that bad of an impression on him.
“As I said, there is simply no reason for me to go out of my way for a stranger,” he says.
Ah, I knew it. Smiling to myself, I happily say, “My birthday is November third.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Since this is the first time, I shall only tell you one thing. Next time, it will be two things, and then three things. Of course, when I am no longer a stranger to you, I’ll stop.”
He lowers his head and takes in a deep breath, rubbing his face. “You act like my sister does. No, you’re worse than her. If I had an older sister, is this what it would be like?”
“As someone with an older sister, I assure you this is nothing.”
Most of the others have gone by now, patio empty as the last of them walk down the path. I reach into my pocket, choosing a handkerchief at random to offer to him.
He glances, then looks away, sniffling; it’s not just flowers that give off pollen. At least for now it’s not too bad, being nearly winter and all. In the book, Eleanor only started really spending time with him in spring, so sneezes were common. However, it’ll be a lot worse than just sneezing, won’t it? Puffy eyes, runny nose—hardly a romantic image. Well, maybe he gets over the worst of it, or he actually has a bit of a cold at the moment.
The path clear, I head off first. I’m not sure if I’ve made him think better of me, but I guess I’ve at least made him think of me? That’s a start, right?
Whatever. Let’s just take each day as it comes.
With Friday, the mock exams are finished! I mean, it was only the accounting exam left (and that was super easy), so it was mostly a normal day. It’s actually unfortunate, really, since we’ll be getting homework again next week. Oh well.
On the bright side, Evan doesn’t have a reason not to come to embroidery club, so we’re walking there together. It wasn’t exactly lonely on Monday without him, but I ended up thinking way too much. Even though I know I’m kind of a serious person, it’s easy for me to lose sight of what’s important and talk around in circles, growing more depressed by the minute.
While we wait for Ms Berks outside the room, I look over at Evan. “Is something the matter?” I ask.
He winces. “That is… the exams… were maybe more tough than I expected.”
“Oh don’t worry, they’re only mocks,” I say, resisting the urge to pat him on the head.
He sort of pouts at that, and I can’t help but think he wanted to brood and now he’s upset I’ve said something sensible. It’s probably not that, but I like to amuse myself.
Ms Berks comes along shortly and lets us in and we go about our usual activities. For me, I’m idly sewing patterns onto handkerchiefs, practising different stitches and seeing how they look in different colours and alongside other stitches. Evan is still learning the basics. Spirit magic does help, but it’s, like, a multiplier rather than an addition. If his skill level is two, then spirit magic can double it to four, but double zero is still zero. In other words, spirit magic just helps him make mistakes quicker until he gets better.
As always, Ms Berks is reading.
I was ready for that to go on for the whole hour, a few bits of conversation here and there, maybe asking him more about the accounting exam (we’ve chatted the rest of the week about the other exams already, sitting next to each other and all).
However, there is knock on the door.
I pause, and look around, and I can definitely see both Evan and Ms Berks in the room. My gaze lingering on Ms Berks, she looks up from her book and gestures to the door with her eyes.
Trying not to smile, I can’t help but think she’s perhaps chosen the wrong career, even if she’s been very helpful to me. “You may enter,” I say, speaking up enough to hopefully let whoever it is hear.
Through the small window in the door, I can just see hair. At my words, though, the person moves and the door opens, and someone a little familiar enters.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says—Lady Horsham.
I’m not sure how true it is in general, but I would say half the ladies in the junior year are somewhat chubby. It varies from a bit of a chubby face to somewhat fat, mostly the former and just a few of the latter. I think it’s probably a lot to do with being spoiled and just being something grown out of—as in growing taller and adopting an “adult’s” eating habits. Even here, you can go to the dining hall between meals and be served tea and cake. (Maybe that’s actually the cause….)
Anyway, Lady Horsham is one of those ladies with some chubbiness to her face, and is still on the shorter side. I want to reiterate that I’m not calling her fat, but I do want to pinch her cheeks. Otherwise, she has fairly long, brown hair, which she keeps tied in a side ponytail and has a plain-but-golden hair clip for her fringe. Not wanting to stare at her too intensely, it’s hard to judge her eye colour, but it seems a normal enough brown; she has some darker streaks to her hair that probably matches the shade of her eyes. Her nose is cute, small and upturned. Nothing else about her really stands out.
Since she didn’t attend Queen Anne’s—the finishing school most of us ladies at King Philip’s went to—I don’t actually know much about her, other than she’s now friends with Violet. Well, I guess she came to the café. Can’t say I learned anything from that.
“This is the embroidery club, yes?” she asks.
“It is. May we be of assistance?” I ask in reply, thinking she might want us to fix something.
She reluctantly steps inside, not quite letting the door close behind her. It looks like no one else is here with her. She can’t possibly be here… to join the club? I shouldn’t get my hopes up, right?
“I… heard that spirit magic can help with braiding hair?”
Ah, right, that happened.
“I suppose it can?” I say, feigning a little innocence. “Would you like me to try? We could certainly do something quite nice with your hair, long and well-kept as it is.”
She hesitates.
I don’t.
On my feet in an instant, I take her hand and lead her to a seat, having her sit before she gets second thoughts. Without a brush on hand, I comb through her hair with my fingers. “You normally wear your hair to the side, so a side Dutch braid would like rather nice without changing your look,” I say, more to myself. “Although a French braid would be more flashy, I think small steps, yes?”
She can’t exactly nod, so she softly says, “Yes?” sounding only half convinced.
Smiling to myself, I start by getting the parting in the right place, and then lightly pulling up a bunch of hair, splitting it into three. On purpose, I do the braiding by hand at first before letting out an, “Oh.” Pausing the braiding, I chant, and I slowly feel the faeries’ magic tug at the hair, eager to pick up where I left off.
“It seems you can use spirit magic for this,” I say to her.
While I could go quicker, I fumble now and then, making a mistake, keeping the pace slower. Of course, I don’t compromise the quality. Each bunch of hair thick, it still doesn’t take all that long to finish.
“There we go,” I say, using her small ribbon to neatly tie the end. “How wonderful—it really does suit you.”
We don’t have a mirror on hand, but she can see some of my handiwork since it is a side braid and it’s long. Her gaze lingers on that bit at the end, and it would have stayed there for longer if I didn’t interrupt.
“Lord Sussex, what do you think of my lady?”
As if only now realising there’s a man in the room, she jerks, and then seems to tighten up, her nerves on full shown. Well, it probably is embarrassing for her to have been seen with her hair down—I should have thought of that earlier.
Never mind. You live and learn.
Evan doesn’t look much better off than Lady Horsham, as he has spent all this time until now staring straight down and blushing at the slip of fabric in his hands. Whether he actually did any sewing, I can’t say, but probably not since he didn’t prick himself.
His gaze reluctantly raising, he only gives her the shortest look before looking down again. “Oh, um, yes, it looks lovely.”
“You hear that? How nice,” I say, not entirely sure it’s a helpful thing to say.
“It, it does seem so,” she says, competing with him for who can mumble the quietest. Fortunately, I’m right next to her.
Expanding on hair, we ladies are still at an age where we are “children”, and so it’s acceptable for us to have our hair however as long as it’s tidy. Once we have our debut, or if invited to a formal event, then we will have to wear our hair up in some fashion, and adorn it with combs and flowers and whatever else is popular. That’s another reason why (like with complicated dresses) I’ll be more reliant on maids in the future, the sort of styles that are fashionable inevitably demanding, impractical for one person to do herself.
Since commoner women also have hair, they generally loosely follows high-class fashion. In her teenage years, she’s expected to start braiding her hair, and there’s all sorts of wishy-washy things like single women of marriageable age wearing a certain flower in her hair. Which flower, or what colour, are prone to change depending on who you ask and what week it is.
Anyway, that really just means that Lady Horsham has a youthful style, especially when paired with the somewhat childish (slight) chubbiness to her face.
“You should go find a mirror and see if it is to your liking,” I say. “A maid can easily do this for you, so it can be your new look if you so wish.”
For some reason, those words depress her. “Yes,” she whispers.
I think. As I said, she’s new to me from this year, so I don’t know much of her. Helena Horsham, an easy-to-remember name. I don’t precisely know her status. Rather than in the county of Kent, I believe Horsham is in Sussex. It’s fairly big, but not exactly, Horsham district large from incorporating little villages and hamlets around it while Horsham town only covers a small part. That much I know from the area being popular for horses.
Of course, we wouldn’t dare go so far as to ride horses for fun, but they’re viewed as noble creatures, treated well in compensation for the work they provide.
It’s likely far from the truth, but, if I make an educated guess, I would say that Lady Horsham’s family is “on the up and up” but not quite “up” just yet. Maybe she’s a baron’s daughter, maybe a count’s, and she’s maybe at this school to make some useful connections. Not that that’s an actual thing, but it’s like gambling, or an investment with a risk. You send your daughter to where other noblewomen are and see what happens. We’re all in the upper-class, so any friend can be an avenue for business ventures or into social circles.
I say all that, really I just mean to say she might not have a luxurious life at home. If her father is more focused on money, then maids and footmen are certainly costly, especially personal maids. (Someone still has to cook and clean and such.)
Smiling to myself, I put that “gossip” away, and rest my hand on top of hers. “Say, would you like to learn braiding? It can be a fun way to pass time without being idle.”
She really does wear her heart on her sleeve, clearly showing every emotion as it comes to her. Warmer now, she says, “I… would rather just learn the magic.”
“I am afraid magic doesn’t do everything for you, merely helps. However, braiding is easy to learn and easy to practise, so let us take the first step before the second one,” I say, shuffling over to the embroidery club’s shelf.
While the threads are for sewing and thus thin, they’re not unreasonably fiddly. I pick out a shade of red along with a pink and orange to complement it. Even if it’s only for practice, we can make a cute strap to tie onto her bag.
“All you really do is go from the outside to the middle, left then right then left then right,” I say, slowly showing her the basics.
She watches me before awkwardly trying herself, finding it hard. Her fingers on one hand get in the way of her other hand’s fingers, the thread often slips loose, her nails making it tricky to pick it up from the table. Different but similar to when I was teaching Evan, and still just as much fun.
There’s a phrase on the tip of my tongue, something like: A person is clever, but people are dumb. Whatever the phrase actually is, I’ve found the same is true for kindness. Or, rather, that hate seems to mostly be a group behaviour. No matter what horrible rumours floated around about me, my old roommates never said a word to my face when we were alone in the bedroom. My things only went missing from classrooms. And even now, Lady Horsham was all too happy to glare at me over Violet’s shoulder, yet acts so meek by herself, letting me boss her around without offering any resistance.
That’s why I find it hard to actually blame any of them. I mean, everyone is stupid in their own way, and teenagers locked together in a school are especially stupid about these things. As far as I know, I haven’t done anything (yet) to actually make someone hate me, so I don’t think anyone actually hates me, so what’s the point in hating them?
Whatever. There’s no need for me to justify myself.
In the end, she makes some progress, but not enough to actually braid her own hair. She’ll hopefully practise in her free time to get better and then I can teach her how to do her hair.
Well, if she comes back.
Submitted September 29, 2019 at 06:35PM by mialbowy https://ift.tt/2nCY6ec
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