The Dictionary without Dr. Murray. I pushed the thought away. “My pleasure,” I said.

She rested her hand on my knee, a sad smile on her face. “I’m afraid it will mean you can’t be in it.”

“I’ll make sure I’m here when the real photographer comes,” I said.

“Yes, of course. I’d hate you to be left out of the official spread. You’ve been part of the project for as long as I can remember.”

Rosfrith went to the house to fetch the Brownie. I’d used it once or twice to take photographs of the Murray family in the garden, but she explained the mechanism again. When Lizzie had cleared the sorting table of tea things, Elsie arranged everyone where she thought they should be.

There were only seven of us left. Dr. Murray was assisted to a chair in front of one of the bookshelves, and Elsie and Rosfrith sat either side of him. Mr. Maling, Mr. Sweatman and Mr. Yockney stood behind.

I looked through the lens and focused on Dr. Murray. It was the same face that used to spy me beneath the sorting table and wink conspiratorially. The same face that looked grave when he read letters from the Press Delegates, or agitated when he read copy from one of the other editors. It was the face that used to delight in slipping into Scottish brogue when he spoke to Da, and that gave way to a restrained smile when Gareth delivered proofs. He sat in the middle of the frame, all the elements of the Dictionary around him: books and fascicles, pigeon-holes bursting with slips, his daughters and assistants. How could it ever be otherwise?

“Something is missing,” I said.

I went to the shelf behind Dr. Murray’s high desk. There were eight volumes of words, with room for four or five more. In the empty space was the mortarboard Dr. Murray used to wear when I was a child. I picked it up and beat the dust off it. I let the tassel slip slowly through my fingers and gave myself the briefest moment with memory. I’d worn it once, when it was just Da and me in the Scriptorium. He’d put it on my head and sat me on Dr. Murray’s stool. With a serious face, he’d asked if I approved of the corrections he’d made to the word cat. “They are adequate,” I’d said, and his face had broken into a grin.

“I think you should wear this, Dr. Murray.”

He thanked me, but I could barely hear it.

Rosfrith helped him position the mortarboard properly, and I took up the camera again.

“Ready,” I said.

They all looked towards me, their expressions serious. Until the end of time, I thought. I blinked back tears and took the photograph.