In the weeks after Gareth left, I had imagined him dying a hundred different ways. My sleep had been restless, and I woke with dread. So his first letter was a tonic.

“Lizzie. A letter!”

“Who from? The King?” She smiled and made herself comfortable at the table, ready to hear it.

“It does sound a bit like a holiday, doesn’t it?” I said, when I’d read it through.

“It does. And he’s made an interesting friend, by the sound.”

“Yes. Mr. Invincible. Which reminds me.” I took the slip from the envelope and read what Gareth had written on it.

“Isn’t it a wonderful word?” I said. “I’ve decided to use it as often as I can.”

“You’ll have more cause than me.”

More letters arrived, one every few days, and August passed into September. There was little sign that work had slowed since Dr. Murray died, and as no one packed a box or cleared a shelf I thought, maybe, the Scriptorium would stay as it was. When Mr. Sweatman (“Fred” never came easily) started to give me words to research, I felt some equilibrium return to my days. I resumed my errands to the Old Ashmolean and to the Press. Mr. Hart was indeed in a depressed mood, but contrary to Gareth’s hope, I was unable to bring him any cheer.

Every weekday at five o’clock, I went straight from the Scriptorium to the Radcliffe Infirmary. On Saturdays I was there most of the afternoon. There was almost always a boy from the Press in one of the beds. If they’d just come in, the sisters would make sure I was told and the boy would become part of my rounds, but most were not short of visitors. The Radcliffe was a stone’s throw from the Press, and the women of Jericho had claimed it. The wards were full of mothers and sisters and sweethearts fussing over wounded strangers in the way they would fuss over their own, if they could. When a local boy came in they’d swarm around, trading biscuits and toffee for scraps of news that might convince them their own boys were still alive.

I’d always have my evening meal with Bertie.

“He still doesn’t comprehend anything,” Sister Morley said. “But he seems to eat more when you’re beside him.”

The Radcliffe provided my dinner on the same tray as Bertie’s. It was always bland and repetitive. Sister Morley apologised and blamed rationing, but I didn’t mind: it meant I didn’t have to go home and cook for one.

“Bertie,” I said. He gave no response. “I came across a word today that I think you might like.”

“He don’t like any words, Mrs. Owen,” his neighbour said.

“I know that, Angus, but the doctors only use familiar words. This will be unfamiliar.”

“Well, how will he know what it means?”