A sudden memory asserted itself, one I’d thought buried under time and kindness. I was smaller, the desk was similar, but the feeling that I had no control over what would happen next was so strong. I felt winded. I’d allowed myself to imagine my life unfolding differently to that of so many of the women I observed. But at that moment, I felt as constrained and powerless as any of them.

And then I felt furious.

“It will be of no consequence to you,” I said. “Though it is important.” I pushed with more force against the chair until Mr. Dankworth was obliged to move out of the way.

I stood close to him, as close as we might have been just before a kiss. His forehead was creased as if in permanent concentration, and wiry white hairs sprang from the slick black either side of his perfect part. They were unruly, and I was surprised he hadn’t pulled them out. He stumbled back. I put my hand out for the slips, but he held on to them.

He turned towards the sorting table, taking my slips with him. He spread them out like they were a pack of cards. Then he fingered them, moved them about. Manhandling, I thought. I would write a slip for it when he was done.

Mr. Dankworth stopped to read one or two words as if considering their value. I could tell when the philologist in him was intrigued: his forehead softened and the purse of his lips relaxed. I was reminded of those rare times I thought we might have something in common. The longer he considered my words, the more I wondered whether I had overreacted.

My shoulders dropped, and my jaw relaxed. How I longed to talk with someone about women’s words, their place in the Dictionary, the flaws in method that might have meant they were being left out. In that moment, I imagined Mr. Dankworth and I as allies.

Suddenly he swept the slips together, unconcerned with their order. “You were right and you were wrong, Miss Nicoll,” he said. “Your project is of no consequence to me, but it is also of no importance.”

I was too stunned to respond. When he handed me the pile of slips, my hand shook so much that I dropped them.

Mr. Dankworth looked at the slips strewn across the dusty floor and made no move to help pick them up. Instead, he turned back to the sorting table and searched his own papers, found whatever he had come for, and left.

The shake in my hand travelled into every part of my body. I kneeled to gather the slips but could not place them in any kind of order. I couldn’t focus, and they seemed meaningless. When I heard the Scriptorium door open again, I closed my eyes against the dread it might be Mr. Dankworth—the humiliation of him seeing me on my knees.