I thought about it. “No thank you, Lizzie. Mr. Mitchell said I could be a lexicographer.”

For the next few mornings, after helping Da with the post, I’d crawl to one end of the sorting table to wait for falling words. But when they fell, they were always quickly retrieved by an assistant. After a few days I forgot to keep an eye out for words, and after a few months I forgot about the trunk under Lizzie’s bed.

April 1888

“Shoes?” Da said.

“Shiny,” I replied.

“Stockings?”

“Pulled up tight.”

“Dress?”

“A bit short.”

“Too tight?”

“No, just right.”

“Phew,” he said, wiping his brow. Then he took a long look at my hair. “Where does it all come from?” he muttered, trying to flatten it with his big, clumsy hands. When red curls sprang between his fingers, he made a game of catching them, but he didn’t have enough hands. As one lock was tamed, another escaped. I began to giggle, and he threw his hands in the air.

Because of my hair, we were going to be late. Da said that was fashionable. When I asked him what fashionable meant, he said it was something that mattered a lot to some and not at all to others, and it could be applied to everything from hats to wallpaper to the time you arrived at a party.

“Do we like to be fashionable?” I asked.

“Not usually,” he said.

“We’d better run, then.” I took his hand and dragged him along at a trot. We were at Sunnyside ten minutes later, just a little out of breath.

The front gates were decorated in As and Bs of every size, style and colour. Colouring my own letters had kept me quiet for hours in the previous week, and I was thrilled to see them among the As and Bs of all the Murray children.

“Here comes Mr. Mitchell. Is he fashionable?” I asked.

“Not at all.” Da held out his hand as Mr. Mitchell approached.

“A big day,” Mr. Mitchell said to Da.

“A long time coming,” Da said to Mr. Mitchell.

Mr. Mitchell kneeled down so we were face-to-face. Today there was enough oil in his hair to keep it in place. “Happy birthday, Esme.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.”

“How old are you now?”

“I turn six today, and I know this party isn’t for me—it’s for A and B—but Da says I can have two pieces of cake anyway.”

“Only right.” He pulled a small packet from his pocket and handed it to me. “You can’t have a party without presents. These are for you, young lady. With any luck you’ll be using them to colour the letter C before your next birthday.”

I unwrapped a small box of coloured pencils and beamed at Mr. Mitchell. When he stood up, I saw his ankles. He wore one black sock and one green.