I worked hard, and another year passed. Each day followed the same pattern, though the words coloured them differently. There was the post, the slips, replies to letters. In the afternoon I still delivered books and checked quotations at the Bodleian. I was never restless or bored. Not even the passing of Queen Victoria could depress me; I wore black, like everybody else, but I was the happiest I’d been since my days beneath the sorting table.

When winter passed into spring, Mr. Bradley moved from the Press into his new Dictionary Room at the Old Ashmolean, and the third editor, Mr. Craigie, joined him with two assistants. Dr. Murray did not approve of the new editor and responded by pushing his own team to produce words more quickly. It was as if he wanted to prove the new editor unnecessary, although we all knew the Dictionary was already a decade overdue.

By the summer of 1901, Mr. Balk had finally started calling me Miss Nicoll.

“It will be hot in the Scrippy today,” said Lizzie, when I popped my head into the kitchen to say good morning.

“Will you make up some lemonade for us?” I asked.

“I’ve already been to the market.” She tilted her head towards a bowl of bright-yellow lemons.

I blew her a kiss and walked to the Scriptorium, sifting through the post as I went.

I’d developed a habit of guessing what was in the envelopes before opening them. As I made my way across the garden, I shuffled through the pile for a cursory assessment. A small number were addressed To the Editor, some so flimsy they were sure to contain nothing other than a slip. For me, I thought. There were several letters to Dr. James Murray—most from the general public (their handwriting and return addresses unfamiliar), a few from gentlemen of the Philological Society, and one in the familiar envelope of the Press Delegates. This last was likely to be a caution about funds; if it suggested Dr. Murray trim the contents of the Dictionary to speed progress, we would all suffer his bad mood. I placed it at the bottom of the pile so he could start his day with the compliments of strangers.

There were one or two letters for each of the assistants, and then, at the bottom of the bundle, there was a letter addressed to me.

Miss Esme Nicoll, Junior Assistant

Sunnyside, Scriptorium

Banbury Road

Oxford

It was the first letter I’d ever received at the Scriptorium, and the first time I’d been acknowledged as an assistant. My whole body tingled with the thrill, but the sensation dulled when I recognised the handwriting as Ditte’s. It had been three years, but I still couldn’t think of her without thinking of Cauldshiels, and I didn’t want to think of that place.