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“Was it friendship, what you had with the Janes?”

They tipped their head, surprised. “The Janes? They’re married now, as I’m sure you know.”

Jane Slater. Jane Turner. Jane Ratcliff. Jane Tetley. Well, Jane Tetley’s real name was Mary. She was an honorary Jane. After Georgie’s first full year away from Twynham, they’d slackened as a correspondent, and by the third, they didn’t think to feel guilty. Sometimes friendships waned naturally. Friends grew apart, nudged along by geography and the marital imperative.

They sighed. “I called on each of them. Admired the husbands, and the sprats. We don’t have much in common these days. But we were friends, yes.”

She considered. “It strikes me as similar.”

They laughed in shock. “My friendship with the Janes, and your father’s with Sir Graham? That’s ridiculous. There’s no similarity at all. No one was trying to get the upper hand.”

“You weren’t.” A line appeared between Elf’s brows. “Because you had it. But they all competed for your attention. You paid them so little attention, you didn’t notice.”

“I didn’t realize you paid attention to me.” They scrubbed a hand through their hair, discomfited.

Elf went pinker. “You make it hard not to. You’ve very…obvious.”

Georgie’s skin felt too tight. The Janes had been inseparable, and easy to excite, always ready for devilry and adventure—albeit of the modest sort available in a country neighborhood—responsive to Georgie’s whims and high jinks, trailing them to the pond, if midnight swimming were the thing, or to the gamekeeper’s hut, or Lord Fawcett’s hedge maze, or Mrs. Pattinson’s library.

Rather like a retinue.

“The Janes called themselves the Janes,” they pointed out, defensively. “I didn’t have a hand in it. The Janes were close. They’re still close, I believe, all of them.”

“Possibly closer, now that they’re not vying for favorite.” Elf sounded thoughtful, but Georgie flinched regardless.

“I may have been more careless than I understood at the time,” they said, “but I was never manipulative. Perhaps a bit too willing to be fawned over.” They remembered Rosalie’s unpleasant smile when they’d complained about their exile. Grow up with enough wealth and beauty, and you’ll accept anything as your due, until something, or someone, or many someones, teaches you otherwise.

They cleared their throat. “I have things to regret. But I refuse the comparison.”

Elf surprised them again by nodding. “I’m not an expert on friends, by any means. I’ve made observations, but I lack direct experience. I’ve told myself that sisters are like Latin. And friends are like Italian and French. But I suspect it’s more complicated.”

“Erm. That’s quite complicated enough.” They scratched their brow. “You’ve lost me.”

“It’s an analogy. If you know sisters, you can figure out friends. Just as, if you know Latin, you can figure out French.”

She sounded young, suddenly, and earnest, and more than a little like Agnes.

They knew not to smile.

“I advocate for experience over analogy.” They spoke seriously. Their heart picked up speed as they added, with deliberate offhandedness, “Why don’t we try it?”

She didn’t blink. “Try what?”

“Being friends.”

The not blinking continued.

“Friends,” she repeated slowly. “Friends who dislike each other?”

“The other kind.”

The blinking began, rapid blinks. “That would require liking each other.”

Her intonation said it all.

Georgie’s chest cavity iced over. “And that’s impossible.” It emerged as a flat statement rather than a question. They tilted up their chin and studied the ceiling. The Vesuvian red didn’t reverse the ice spreading through their limbs. “Impossible for you,” they clarified to the ceiling. “Not for me.”

After a moment of silence, they cleared their throat.