He returned his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and turned a few pages. “It’s an interesting project, but it’s of no scholarly importance.”

“And what would make it of scholarly importance?”

“If it had been compiled by a scholar, for a start. Beyond that, it would have to be a topic of significance.”

It was ten in the morning. Scholars billowed by in their gowns, long and short—though there were fewer men and more women than the first time I stood at that desk. I turned to where Lizzie sat. It was the same bench I’d occupied years before while Dr. Murray argued my case to become a reader. She looked as out of place as I had felt. I rose to my full height and turned back to Mr. Madan.

“It is a topic of significance, sir. It fills a gap in knowledge, and surely that is the purpose of scholarship.”

He had to tilt his head up a little to look me in the eye. I felt Lizzie shift behind me, saw his gaze flick towards her, then back to me.

I would stay there until Women’s Words was accepted, I thought. If I had a chain, I would have gladly locked myself to the grille in front of the desk.

Mr. Madan stopped turning pages. His cheeks flushed and he covered his discomfort with a cough. He had scanned page six. C words.

“An old word, Mr. Madan. With a long history in English. Chaucer was quite fond of using it, and yet it does not appear in our Dictionary. A gap, surely.”

He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around, searching for an ally. I looked around also.

Our conversation was being observed by three old men, and Eleanor Bradley—there to check quotations no doubt. She smiled when I caught her eye, nodding her encouragement. I faced Mr. Madan again.

“You are not the arbiter of knowledge, sir. You are its librarian.” I pushed Women’s Words across his desk. “It is not for you to judge the importance of these words, simply to allow others to do so.”

Lizzie and I walked arm in arm along the Banbury Road to Sunnyside. We came through the gates as Elsie and Rosfrith were coming out. They embraced me in turn.

“Will we be seeing you at the Old Ashmolean today, Esme?” Elsie asked, her hand gentle on my sleeve. “The pigeon-holes are all in place, and the only thing missing now is you. It’s a bit tight at the moment, but Mr. Sweatman has made some room for you at his desk.”

I looked from one Murray sister to the other, and then to Lizzie. We were children together, once. Would we grow old together?

“Could you wait a moment, Elsie, Rosfrith? I’ll be right back.”