Dr. Murray closed the lid and stood a little awkwardly. “Well, then,” he said. “This is where you’ll sit, and your father will employ you to do whatever is useful.”

With that, he gave Da a curt nod and returned to his own desk.

I threw my arms around Da and realised, for the first time, that I had to bend for my cheek to rest against his.

The next morning, I dressed more carefully than usual. I noticed the creases in the skirt that I’d left on the floor and so chose a clean one from the wardrobe. I spent half an hour trying to tame my hair into a tight plait, as Lizzie had once done, but ended with a messy bun, as usual. I spat on my shoes and gave them a rub with the corner of my bedspread. Then I went into Da’s room to look in Lily’s mirror.

“You can have that in your room, if you like,” said Da, startling me. “Your mother wasn’t a vain woman, but she loved that mirror.”

I blushed, shy of my own reflection and conscious of being examined, and compared. Lily had been tall and slender, like me, and I had her clear skin and brown eyes. But instead of her flaxen tresses, Da’s flame-red curls crowned my head. I saw him in the glass and wondered what he saw.

“She would be proud,” he said.

At Sunnyside, Da checked the morning post, and instead of joining Lizzie and Mrs. Ballard in the kitchen I walked with him to the Scriptorium. He turned on the new electric lights and tended the coals until they glowed. The temperature barely shifted, but there was an illusion of warmth. I stood by the sorting table, nervous and awaiting instruction.

Da passed me the bundle of letters. “This will be your job from now on, Essy,” he said. “Collect and sort the letters as you’ve seen me do it. You’re lucky Dr. Murray no longer makes appeals for words; we used to get sack-loads. But you still need to open everything to check for slips.” He opened one of the envelopes. “This is a letter, so it gets pinned to the envelope and left for whomever it is intended—you know where everyone sits?”

I nodded. Of course I knew.

I took the letters to the back of the Scriptorium. My desk sat in the alcove made by two shelves of old dictionaries and the only visible section of wall. I imagined it as a large pigeon-hole, built especially for my dimensions. From it, I could see the assistants at the sorting table and Dr. Murray at his high desk. To see me, they would have to turn and crane their necks.