“Mr. Cushing, Mr. Pope, this is my daughter, Esme.”

Mr. Cushing and Mr. Pope both stood. One was tall and fair, the other short and dark, and each offered a hand in greeting then pulled it back to allow the other to go first. My own hand hung awkwardly, unshaken, between us. If they weren’t so preoccupied with each other I might have wondered if they were avoiding the touch of melted skin, but they laughed. Then each urged the other to proceed, and the farce continued.

“Just bow to the young lady and try not to bang your heads,” said Mr. Sweatman from the other side of the sorting table. “You see what happens when you leave us, Esme? We must make do with music-hall comedians.”

Mr. Cushing, the taller, bowed, which gave Mr. Pope the opportunity to take my hand.

“Well, that’s cheating,” said Mr. Cushing.

“Opportunistic, my friend. Fortune favours the bold.”

They began addressing me in turns. They were pleased to meet me, had heard so much about my work on the Dictionary, were delighted when Da told them about my research for Miss Thompson—they had studied her history of England at school. They hoped my lungs had felt the benefit of my time in Shropshire. I blushed at the thought I’d been the topic of conversation, at the truth and lies of it.

“Dr. Murray will be glad for the sight of you, Miss Nicoll,” said Mr. Cushing. “Only yesterday, he mentioned in passing that we take up twice the room but produce half the copy of the young woman who works at the back of the Scriptorium. I presume that is you, and it is a pleasure.” Again, he bowed.

“We weren’t offended,” Mr. Pope was quick to say. “We’re blow-ins. Here for the semester. Our reward for studying philology. I think I’ve learned more this past month than I would in a year at Balliol. I also take my hat off to you, Miss Nicoll.”

There was an audible sigh from the back of the Scriptorium.

“You are disturbing the peace, Mr. Pope,” Da said with a smile.

“Quite,” said Mr. Pope, and he and Mr. Cushing nodded towards me and lowered themselves back into their chairs.

Da took my elbow and led me to the back of the Scriptorium.

“Mr. Dankworth, may I introduce my daughter, Esme.”

Mr. Dankworth finished the edit he was making, rose from his chair and offered a curt nod. “Miss Nicoll.”

I returned the nod and the greeting, and he resumed his seat. His attention was back on the pages in front of him before Da and I had turned to leave.

“Not a blow-in,” Da said, when we were out of earshot.