Everyone returned to the Scriptorium after lunch, and I waited for Mr. Dankworth to betray me. I was too old to be sent away, but there was enough time and silence for me to imagine a dozen other punishments. All of them began with the humiliation of my pockets being turned out, and ended with me never returning to the Scriptorium.

But Mr. Dankworth never mentioned my words to Dr. Murray. For days, I watched him, holding my breath every time he had cause to consult the Editor, but they never looked in my direction. I realised that not only were my words of no consequence to Mr. Dankworth, but the fact I was spending time on them when I should have been doing Dictionary work was also of no concern.

I was responding to a spelling enquiry, one that had become all too common since the publication of “Ribaldric to Romanite.” Why, asked the writer, does the new Dictionary prefer rime when rhyme is so ubiquitous? Habit and good sense insist on the latter. Am I to be judged an illiterate? It was a thankless task as there was no reasonable response. The familiar sound of Gareth’s bicycle was reason enough to leave it unfinished. I put down my pen and looked towards the door.

This was his third visit to the Scriptorium since he had helped pick my words off the floor a few weeks earlier.

“A nice young man,” Da had said the first time he noticed Gareth saying hello.

“As nice as Mr. Pope and Mr. Cushing?” I’d asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Da had said. “He’s a foreman. One of the few people Mr. Hart trusts to convey concerns about style.” He’d looked at me then and raised his eyebrows. “But usually those conversations occur at the Press.”

When the door opened, a pale daylight shone in. The assistants looked up, and Da nodded a greeting before glancing in my direction. Dr. Murray stepped down from his stool.

I was too far away to hear what they said, but Gareth was pointing to a section of proof and explaining something to Dr. Murray. I could see that Dr. Murray agreed: he asked a question, listened, nodded, then he invited Gareth to come over to his desk, and together they examined some of the other pages. Mr. Dankworth, I noticed, diligently ignored the entire interaction.

Gareth waited as Dr. Murray wrote a quick note to Mr. Hart. When it was written, and Gareth had put it in his satchel, the young man and the old walked together into the garden.

I saw them just beyond the door. Dr. Murray stretched as he sometimes did when he’d been bent over proofs all morning. Their demeanour changed, became more intimate. Mr. Hart was ill with exhaustion, Da had told me, and I guessed a mutual concern.