He opened to the middle, turned page after page, then took a deep breath when he found the right place. His eyes scanned the columns, and the assistants began to shift. Even Da was nervous, his hand reaching into his pocket to worry the coins he kept there. Dr. Murray scanned the page again, returned to the top, then looked more closely. His finger traced the length of a column. He was searching for a word. We waited. A minute seemed an hour. Whatever word he was looking for was not there.

He looked up, his face volcanic. Then he paused, as if he was about to deliver a sentence. Dr. Murray looked at us, each in turn, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring above his long silver beard. His gaze was stern and steady, as if searching for the truth in our hearts. Only when it came to me did it flicker. His head tilted and his eyebrows raised. He was remembering my years beneath the sorting table. As was I.

Who hath yow misboden? I imagined him thinking.

Da was the first to follow Dr. Murray’s gaze to where I sat. Then Mr. Sweatman. All of the assistants craned their necks to look at me, though the newest assistants were confused. I had never felt so visible as I did in that moment, and I surprised myself by sitting up straighter. I did not fidget or look down.

If Dr. Murray had thought to accuse me, he made a decision not to. Instead, he picked up the letter again and re-read it, then he glanced at the open volume; there was no use searching it a fourth time. He put the letter between its pages and left the Scriptorium without a word. Elsie followed close behind.

The assistants breathed out. Da wiped his brow with a handkerchief. When they were sure Dr. Murray had gone into the house, a few men ventured into the garden to seek a breeze.

Mr. Sweatman got up and went to the volume of words on Dr. Murray’s desk. A and B. He picked up the letter and read it through. When he looked at me there was sympathy in his eyes, but also the hint of a grin. Da joined him and scanned the letter, then read aloud.