I sat at my desk and listened to the hush. There was a whisper from the hole in the wall, and I raised my hand to feel the breath of cold air. It was sharp, almost painful, and I thought about those native peoples who mark their skin at moments in life that define them. Words would be inscribed upon me. But which words?

There was a clang against the Scriptorium wall, and the whispering stopped. I pulled my hand back from the hole and looked through. It was Gareth.

He propped his bicycle and straightened, checked inside his satchel and closed it with care. I had spied him a hundred times and come to love how he ushered the words back and forth as if they were fragile and precious.

But I was nervous. I checked myself. Curls had sprung from my bun, and I tucked them in. I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips. I sat with my back uncomfortably straight, expecting Gareth to come through the Scriptorium door. I was afraid of what he might say.

He didn’t come. I bent to my work and let the curls fall loose.

A quarter-hour passed before I heard the Scriptorium door open.

“Does Dr. Murray know you’re here from sparrow’s?” he asked.

“I like the solitude,” I replied, searching his face for some clue to his frame of mind. “But I’m glad for the interruption. I heard you arrive; what took you so long?”

“I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, with Lizzie. I couldn’t say no when she offered me tea.”

“She likes you.”

“I like her.”

I looked at Gareth’s satchel, supported by his hand. “It’s a bit early to be delivering proofs.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he gazed at me as if recalling my confession. I looked down.

“No proofs. Just an invitation for a picnic lunch,” he said. “It’s going to be another beautiful day.”

I could only nod.

“I’ll be back at midday, then.” He smiled.

“All right,” I said.

When he left, I took a shuddering breath and leaned my head against the wall. Light from the hole fell across the old scars on my hand. When Gareth approached the back of the Scriptorium to retrieve his bicycle, the light dimmed then brightened. Dimmed again. Morse code, I thought, but I couldn’t read it. I felt the weight of his body as he leaned against the iron wall, heard the metal hum through my skull. Did he know how close he was to me? He stayed there a long while.

Just before midday I was sitting at the kitchen table with Lizzie.

“Let me fix that hair of yours,” she said.

“There’s no point. It always finds a way of escaping.”

“When you do it, it does.” She stood behind me and rearranged the pins. When she was done, I shook my head. The curls stayed put.