Lizzie took a clean cloth from the drawer and spread it over the plate of sandwiches she and Mrs. Ballard would eat later that day. She straightened and took a deep breath, her hand finding the crucifix around her neck.

“Oh, Lizzie. I didn’t mean—”

“Choice would be a fine thing, but from where I stand things look much the same as they always have. If you’ve got choices, Esme, choose well.”

The final performance was sold out. They had three curtain calls and a standing ovation, and the performers were drunk on it before they’d even raised a glass. Tilda led them from New Theatre to Old Tom, each arm entwined with that of an actor, both of whom leaned in with an intimacy that turned the heads of the evening crowd.

I walked behind with Bill. It was our usual position in this weekly procession, and as usual he found my hand and encouraged me to rest it on his forearm, bringing us close. But the mood was different. His own hand rested on mine, his fingers tracing an intricate pattern on my bare skin. He spoke very little and was less intent on keeping up.

“They’re jubilant,” I said.

“It’s always like this on the last night.”

“What will happen?” I leaned in closer, as if conspiring.

“There will be at least one arrest, one dunking in the Cherwell, and…” He looked at me.

“And?”

“Tilda will find her way into the bed of one of those two—whichever is able to sneak her into their rooms.”

“How can you know that?”

“It’s her habit,” he said, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. “She denies them all season—fucking is bad for the play, she says—then she lets them have her.”

I knew it already; Tilda had said as much. At the time I’d blushed, and Tilda had said, “If the gander can do it, why not the goose?” She’d refused my arguments, and I’d begun to hear them as borrowed and not truly my own.

“You know, Esme,” she’d said, “women are designed to like it.”

Then she’d told me how.

“What is it called?” I’d asked the next day, the memory of my fumbling and the exquisite pleasure of it still fresh.

Tilda laughed. “You managed to find it, then?”

“Find what?”

“Your nub. Your clitoris. I’ll spell it for you, if you want to write it down.” I took a slip and a stub of pencil from my pocket. Tilda spelled it out. “A medical student told me what it was called, though he had little understanding of it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.