The next day, the Scriptorium was even more crowded. Dr. Murray was sitting at his high desk, and Elsie and Rosfrith Murray were moving about the shelves as they so often did when their father was at work. They each greeted me with an embrace, the warmth of which was unprecedented but not unwelcome.

“I hope you are quite well now, Esme,” Elsie said quietly, and I wondered what story she had been told. But before there was any more conversation, Dr. Murray interrupted.

“Ah, good,” he said, when he saw me standing with his daughters. He came over with a sheet of paper in one hand and a pile of slips in the other. “The etymology of prophesy has caused Mr. Cushing some concern. It is obvious where he has strayed.” Mr. Cushing caught my eye and nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you could review his efforts and make the necessary corrections? They will need to be ready for typesetting in a week.” Dr. Murray handed me the materials. Then, as an afterthought, he said, “A good walk. It does one the world of good, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He looked at me as if trying to judge the truth of my answer, then he turned and went back to his work.

I made my way around the sorting table, said good morning to Mr. Sweatman and bonan matenon to Mr. Maling, and rested my hand on Da’s shoulder for just a moment. He patted my hand, and when he turned to look towards the back of the Scriptorium, I realised it was a conciliatory gesture. I could barely see my cherished workspace beyond the bulk of Mr. Dankworth, whose desk had been placed perpendicular to mine.

When I was closer, I saw that the surface of my desk was piled with books and papers that I knew I hadn’t left there a month ago. I remembered the stray slips with women’s words sitting inside it, waiting to join the others in the trunk under Lizzie’s bed. Anxiety fluttered in my chest.

Mr. Dankworth must have heard me approach, but he didn’t turn round. I stood beside him for a moment, taking him in. He was large, not fat, and everything about him was as neat as a pin. His dark hair was short and parted in a straight line, right down the middle. He had no beard and no moustache, and his fingernails were as well-kept as a woman’s. He must have chosen to sit with his back to everyone.

“Good morning, Mr. Dankworth,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Good morning, Miss Nicoll.”

“Please, call me Esme.”

He nodded and looked back to his work.

“Mr. Dankworth, I was wondering if I could reclaim my desk?” There was no indication he’d heard me. “Mr. Dankworth, I—”

“Yes, Miss Nicoll, I heard you. If I could finish this entry, I’ll attend to it.”