Megan. Meg. MeggyMay.

She had a name and She was thriving. That was all I needed to know. All I could hold without bursting.

Two more birthdays passed. Megan turned three, then four. An account of Her became part of Ditte’s annual gift, as Lily’s story had once been. She would send a book, a letter, Her first steps, Her first words. The book was always put aside, and Ditte’s news soon forgotten. I struggled to recall the motion of my days.

December 1912

Time marked the Scriptorium in subtle ways from one year to the next. Books piled higher and pigeon-holes were built for more slips, the shelving creating a nook for an old chair that Rosfrith brought over from the house. It became a favourite retreat for Mr. Maling when he had need to study a foreign text. The beards around the sorting table were greyer, and Dr. Murray’s grew ever longer.

It was never a noisy place, but the Scriptorium had an ensemble of sounds that combined to create a comforting hum. I was used to the shuffling of papers, the scraping of pens and the sounds of frustration that identified each person like a fingerprint. If a word was troubling him, Dr. Murray would grunt and get down from his chair to take a lungful of air from the doorway. Mr. Dankworth would make a metronome of his pencil, a slow tap marking the rhythm of his thought. Da would cease to make any sound at all. He would remove his spectacles and rub the bridge of his nose. Then he’d rest his chin on his hand and raise his eyes to the ceiling, just as he would if our dinner conversation had stumped him.

Elsie and Rosfrith had their own accompanying sounds, and I loved to hear the hems of their skirts sweep the floor, catching slips that had been carelessly dropped (such windfall, I sometimes thought, and I would watch to see where they ended up so I could collect them if no one else did). The Murray girls—I still thought of them this way, though we had all passed thirty—would also disturb the air with lavender and rose. I would breathe it in as a tonic against the sometimes careless hygiene of the men.

Once in a while, the Scriptorium would be stilled and silent and all mine. It was usually just before the publication of a fascicle: the editors and their senior assistants would meet at the Old Ashmolean to settle last-minute arguments, and Elsie and Rosfrith would take the opportunity to be somewhere else.