I kneeled down and peered under the bed. At one end were Lizzie’s winter boots; at the other, her chamber-pot and sewing box. My trunk lived right in the middle, its resting place marked by an absence of dust. There was nothing else. No pencils. Of course.

I looked at the trunk, still open on the floor, the latest word lying face-up on all the others. Then I looked at the hat pin on Lizzie’s bedside table and remembered how sharp it was.

The Dictionary of Lost Words. It took me all afternoon to scratch it inside the lid of the trunk. My hands ached from the effort. When it was done, Lizzie’s hat pin lay bent out of shape on the floor, the beads as bright as the day I’d found it.

Something filled me then, some strange and awful queasiness. I tried to straighten the pin, but it refused to be made perfect. The end had become so blunt I couldn’t imagine it piercing the felt of even the cheapest hat. I searched the room but found nothing that would fix it. I placed the pin on the floor beside Lizzie’s bedside table, hoping she’d think it had bent in the fall.

For the next few months, I mostly stayed away from the Scriptorium. Lizzie collected me from St. Barnabas, fed me lunch, took me back. In the afternoons, I read my books and practised my writing. I alternated between the shade of the ash, the kitchen table and Lizzie’s room, depending on the weather. I pretended I was ill when they celebrated the publication of the second volume, the one containing all the words beginning with C, including count and counted.

On my twelfth birthday, Da picked me up from St. Barnabas. When we came through the gates of Sunnyside, he kept hold of my hand and I walked with him towards the Scriptorium.

It was empty, except for Dr. Murray. He looked up from his desk as we came in, then stepped down to greet me.

“Happy birthday, young lady,” he said. Then he peered at me over his spectacles, unsmiling. “Twelve, I believe.”

I nodded; he continued to peer.

My breath faltered. I was too big to hide beneath the sorting table, to escape from whatever he was thinking. So instead, I looked him in the eye.

“Your father tells me you are a good student.”

I said nothing, and he turned and gestured towards the two Dictionary volumes behind his desk.

“You must avail yourself of both volumes whenever you have the need. If you don’t, there is no reason for all our efforts,” he said. “If you require knowledge of a word beyond C, then the fascicles are at your disposal as they are published. Beyond that—” again he peered, “—you must ask your father to search the pigeon-holes. Do you have any questions?”

“What is avail?” I asked.