There were no slips, so I did a survey of the assistants’ shoes. Each pair suited its owner perfectly, and each had its habits. Mr. Worrall’s were finely tanned and sat very still and pigeon-toed, while Mr. Mitchell’s were the opposite: his shoes were comfortably worn with the toes turned out and heels bouncing up and down without pause. He had a different-coloured sock peeping out of each shoe. Mr. Maling’s shoes were adventurous and never where I expected them to be, Mr. Balk’s were pulled back under his chair, and Mr. Sweatman’s were always tapping out a pattern that I imagined as a tune in his head. When I peeked from under the table, he was usually smiling. Da’s shoes were my favourite, and I always inspected them last. On this day, they rested one on the other, the soles of both exposed. I paused to touch the tiny hole that had just started to let in water. The shoe waved, as if to shoo a fly. I touched it again and it stopped, rigid. It was waiting. I wriggled my finger, just the tiniest bit. Then the shoe fell sideways, lifeless and suddenly old. The foot it had shod began stroking my arm. It was so clumsy that I had barely enough room in my cheeks to hold all the giggles that wanted to escape. I gave the big toe a squeeze and crawled to where there was just enough light to read by.

We were startled by three sharp raps on the Scriptorium door. Da’s foot found his shoe.

From under the table, I watched as Da opened the door to a small man with a large blond moustache and hardly any hair on his head. “Crane,” I heard the man say as Da ushered him in. “I’m expected.” His clothes were too big for him, and I wondered if he was hoping to grow into them. It was the new assistant.

Some assistants only came for a few months, but sometimes they stayed forever, like Mr. Sweatman. He’d come the year before and, of all the men who sat around the sorting table, he was the only one without a beard. It meant I could see his smile, and he happened to smile a lot. When Da introduced Mr. Crane to the men around the sorting table, Mr. Crane didn’t smile once.

“And this little scapegrace is Esme,” said Da, helping me up.

I held out my hand, but Mr. Crane didn’t take it.

“What was she doing under there?” he asked.

“Whatever children do under tables, I suppose,” said Mr. Sweatman, and his smile met mine.

Da leaned towards me. “Let Dr. Murray know that the new assistant has arrived, Esme.”

I ran across the garden to the kitchen, and Mrs. Ballard walked with me to the dining room.