“Oh, of course.” I stood, waiting for permission to proceed. How easily I was put in my place.

He continued to bend over his proofs. From where I stood, I could see ruler-straight lines through unwanted copy and neat corrections noted in margins. His left elbow rested on the desk, and his hand massaged his temple as if coaxing the words out of his brain. I recognised something of my own attitude in this posture, and my first impression of him, not at all charitable, moved a little towards the positive.

A minute passed. Then another.

“Mr. Dankworth?”

His hand fell with a thump against the desk, and his head jerked up. I saw his shoulders lift with a deep breath and imagined his eyes rolled towards the heavens. He pushed his chair back and moved between his desk and mine. There was barely room for him.

“Let me help you,” I said, picking up a book from my desk and trying to catch his eye.

He took it from me, his eyes averted. “No need; there’s an order. I’ll do it.”

He removed the last book, and I waited, fingertips kneading my skirt, to see if he would turn back to my desk and lift the lid. For a moment, I was back at school, lined up with all the other girls ready for inspection. The insides of our desks, our stockings, our drawers. I never understood why they mattered. Mr. Dankworth returned to his chair, and the sound of its protest brought me back to the Scriptorium. He’d finished. My desk was bare. But there was now a wall of books along the front and side edge of Mr. Dankworth’s desk. An effective screen.

I sat down and spread out the pile of slips for prophesy. I ordered them by date, then referred to the notes Mr. Cushing had prepared.

A week went by, and the Scriptorium felt like an old friend I had to reacquaint myself with. Mr. Pope and Mr. Cushing rose from their chairs every time Elsie, Rosfrith or I entered, and competed to help or pay the nicest compliments. Their loquaciousness was an irritation to almost everyone except Da, who rewarded their attentions to me with small smiles and nods. Dr. Murray was not so encouraging.

“Gentlemen, the more words you employ to flatter the ladies the fewer you define. Your constant use of the English language is, in fact, doing it a disservice.” They quickly turned to their work.

Mr. Dankworth was a different matter altogether. The only words that passed between us were related to the inevitable inconvenience of me having to pass by his desk to get to mine. “Excuse me, Mr. Dankworth”; “My apologies, Mr. Dankworth”; “Your satchel, Mr. Dankworth, perhaps you could keep it under your desk so I don’t have to keep stepping over it?”