He looks, she thought, like a someone from a Dickens novel. Dickens novels were items of large fascination and acclaim in the Chrestomanci household, and Helen had somehow been conned into reading them. Jamie, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his scarlet dinner finery (it had been borrowed from Chrestomanci because he was the closest in size to Jamie, though it did look a trifle baggy on him), looked like that poor boy who got adopted by the rich man.

At a glance, you could mistake Jamie for a member of the gentry, but if you actually looked at him he didn't quite make the cut. Of course, Helen didn't mind. She herself felt quite out of place in her clothes. The dress was, naturally, black, though Signora Angelica had convinced her to allow some color in her attire; the petticoats and shift were both light yellow. The Signora had gone off on how they "brought out the gold" in her eyes.

Before dinner, Helen had spent a great deal of time looking at herself in the mirror. Partially to see if Signora Angelica was right, and partially just to see if she looked good. Mentally, she scolded herself for vanity. She didn't usually care about that kind of thing.

The truth was that some part of her was concerned how she looked. If she tried, she could bury it underneath her studies and small practicalities, but it was always there.

"I'm growing up, you know," she told her reflection wearily. It was a nice enough reflection. A kind maid called Maria had fixed up her hair so that part of it was up in a wispy knot woven with yellow ribbons in the back of her head and the rest cascaded down about her shoulders. There was quite a bit of hair there, she noted. She used to wear it shorter, but she hadn't cut it for quite a while now.

Now she was reliving the trouble that came with looking good. Every night she struggled with it, and every night Signora Angelica gave her small pointed looks out of the corner of her eye. The trouble was, you see, that there was a large metal contraption underneath the skirt that kept it bell-like. One had to manuever just so so the metal wasn't crushed or sticking you in the behind. For Helen, who had dressed in pants all her life, never, until she came to Chrestomanci Castle, had to deal with anything like it. On top of it all, it had to look right too.

She finally managed it, and noticed Jamie watching her. They had been guided to two seats right next to each other at the high table by a giggling maid. When they sat down, Jamie had been instantly preoccupied by the entrance of Crestomanci and Signore Tonino. Until the point we were at, of course. Let us continue.

"What?" she mouthed irritably, scowling into the finger bowl offered by a server. The server in question saw her expression and left as quickly as he could after she had dipped her fingers.

Jamie started to say something but was cut off by Chrestomanci starting grace and just reached for Helen's hand. It was rough and warm, thought Helen. His hand, that is. Hers, she was sure and embarrassed, was clammy. At the end of the grace, she pulled away quickly.

"What were you saying?" she said as she tackled the hoop skirt again.

"It's just that...you look really nice tonight."

She looked up sharply from her rustling petticoats. His face was nearly the same color as his suit and he wasn't meeting her gaze. That was probably for the best, because Helen wouldn't have been able to handle it anyways.

"Oh," she said dumbly. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

'Think nothing of it'? She wondered. It was hard not to.

It was also hard, she discovered, to keep her eyes off him for the rest of the dinner. Then he would glance at her and she would drop her eyes quickly before he noticed her staring. As silly as it was, the game went on until the end of the evening, at which point Helen was more than happy and also a bit sad to go.

Everyone bade each other a good night, and Jamie was lead off to a guest bedroom that had been hurriedly dusted for him. Helen walked back to her room alone.

When she got there, she found, as she undressed (there had been a maid at first which had been given the job of doing so, but Helen had made sure she did not come back), that one of the wires in the skirt had bent inward so that it looked like she had a sort of dent in the upper half of the back of her legs. Yet another had poked through one of the petticoats. For a bit she was quite snared on the wire and ended up having to take some scissors to it. There was a satisfying snap! and she was free.

Nightgowns in this world were nearly as complicated as the formal wear. The one Helen was struggling into had embroidered blue roses on it and a dizzying amount of ribbons that needed to be tied in bows. It was her favorite, not because of the decor, but because it was the simplist. Signora Angelica said that it "was a bad color for her" (meaning the roses, Helen assumed, because it was completely white otherwise, just like the rest of them).

"Good night," she said in her native language, just because it felt good. No one but Jamie could speak it at all, and even he only spoke a little.

She blew out the candle.

Thanks to all reviewers!

silversilk: bad computer! Computers are evil! Except for my Dad's new PowerMac G4 (yum).

Jacqueline Black: Diana Wynne Jones is perhaps the best writer I know of. Her and Diane Duane. Her books are worth reading multiple times (Can't WAIT for Wizards at War to come out).

bob: mmm...pairings! Yes, there's more fluff in this chapter cackles.

sonchika: Thank you thank you thank you!