Inside, I stood with Gareth in front of the vicar. Mr. Hart stood to Gareth’s left; Ditte stood to my right. Four rows of pews were occupied by Dictionary and Press staff, with Dr. and Mrs. Murray, Mr. Sweatman, Beth and Lizzie in the front. There might have been more, but Gareth’s closest friends from the Press were in France, and Tilda had joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Her matron at St. Bartholomew’s in London would not give her leave to come.

I have no memory of what was said. I can’t recall the face of the vicar. I must have spent a long while looking into the bouquet that Lizzie had gathered for me, because its delicate white flowers and strong scent stayed with me. Lily of the valley. When Ditte reached to take them so that Gareth could put his ring on my finger, I refused to let them go.

We came out of the church and were caught in a downpour of rice thrown by a small group of women from the Press bindery. Then I saw the choir of printers and compositors, apron-clad. Gareth and I stood, delighted, holding each other’s arms as they sang “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.”

Rosfrith took a photograph. For a terrible moment, I imagined us frozen on a mantelpiece, Gareth remaining ageless; me old and wrapped in shawls, sitting alone by a fire.

We walked in procession through the streets of Jericho. When we got to Walton Street, the bindery women and the printers’ choir returned to the Press, and some of Mr. Bradley’s and Mr. Craigie’s staff walked back towards the Old Ashmolean. The rest of us continued to Sunnyside, where we had sandwiches and cake beneath the ash. It reminded me of all the afternoon teas we’d had over the years to celebrate the completion of a letter or the publication of a volume. When Mrs. Murray helped Dr. Murray into the house, we took it as a sign that everyone’s two hours were up. Mr. Bradley and Eleanor returned to the Old Ashmolean; Mr. Hart led the way back to the Press. Ditte and Beth walked Mrs. Ballard into the kitchen, and Rosfrith and Elsie insisted on helping Lizzie with the cleaning up. Of the Scriptorium men, Mr. Sweatman was the last to return to work. He shook Gareth’s hand and took mine to kiss it.

“How proud and happy your father would have been,” he said, and I held his gaze, knowing the memory of Da was stronger when it was shared.

We stood at the front door of Da’s house. My house. As if waiting to be let in. There was some confusion about who should open it.

“It’s our house now, Gareth,” I said.

He smiled. “That may be so, but I don’t have a key.”