“The cleaning supplies are kept here,” she said, opening a tall cupboard. “The coal chute is through that door. Mind you wipe your feet before you go upstairs. We send over to the chop shop for a nooning, and I told your aunt that we can provide you a meal in return for your labors. Nothing fancy, but one does not work at one’s best without sustenance. You are free to leave after the midday meal, or you may use West Bart’s as your study. I cannot promise quiet, but we do keep the place warm, and we have a Welsh Bible you can consult.”

“A Welsh Bible?” Who was this Mr. Dunn, and why would he need a Welsh Bible? “Miss Armstrong, I’m afraid there’s been a slight misunderstanding.”

She bustled up the curving steps. “No misunderstanding. Your aunt has arranged a curate’s post in Swansea for you, but you don’t speak the language. If you work here on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, you may use our Welsh primers and Bible to learn something of Welsh in the afternoons. Come spring, I will not have spent the coldest months hauling coal and sweeping mud, for a pleasant change, and you will be somewhat better prepared for your first post.”

“First impressions do matter,” Dunfallon said, “but there really has—”

The front door swung open. “Miss Emmie! I’m here!” A dirty little boy beamed great good cheer at the librarian while letting in a gust of frigid air.

“And I’m that glad to see you, Caspar,” Miss Armstrong replied. “Please do close the door and moderate your volume. You are the first to arrive, so you will choose our story.”

“Who’s that?” Caspar turned hostile perusal on Dunfallon. “Ain’t seen him afore. Did he remember to wipe ’em great big feet a’ his?”

“Dunn—Mr. Dunn, at your service.” Did one bow to a cheeky boy? Dunfallon supposed not, because nobody had bowed to him when he’d been a cheeky boy. “I’m to assist Miss Armstrong with general duties as assigned, and yes, I did most conscientiously wipe my feet.”

“Ye’re a dogsbody for Miss?” Caspar asked as Miss Armstrong took the boy’s cap from his head. “Lucky bloke. I’ll show you how to sweep the hearth if you like. I know what story I want.”

Miss Armstrong slapped the cap against the nearest bookcase, sending a cloud of dust wafting across the morning sunbeams.

“You’ll want one of Mr. Dingle’s tales,” she said. “Winter is bearing down hard, so I suspect you want the one about the hot soup and the icy bridge.”

“That story makes me hungry,” Caspar said, “but ’em’s clever kittens, Miss Armstrong. I always like to hear the stories about the clever kittens. They’re my favorites.”