Dear sir,

I write to thank you for your excellent Dictionary. I subscribe to receive the fascicles as they are published and have all four volumes so far bound. They occupy a book case made especially for them, and I hope, one day, to see it filled, though it may be a satisfaction I leave to my son. I am in my sixth decade and not in full health.

It is my habit, since you have furnished the means, to reflect on certain words and understand their history. I had cause to refer to your dictionary while reading The Lord of the Isles. The word I sought in this instance was “bondmaid.” It is not an obscure word, but Scott uses a hyphen where I thought it was not needed. Its male equivalent was adequately referenced, but bondmaid was not there.

I must admit I was perplexed. Your Dictionary has taken on the status of unquestionable authority in my mind. I realise it is unfair to burden any work of Man with the expectation of perfection, and I can only conclude that you, like me, are fallible, and it was an accidental omission.

I enlighten you, sir, with good intentions and all due respect.

Yours, etc.

I walked as slowly as I could across the lawn and past the assistants stretched on the grass, each with a tall glass of lemonade in his hand. As I started up the stairs to Lizzie’s room, Mrs. Ballard emerged from the pantry, two eggs in each hand.

“Not like you to pass through my kitchen without a by-your-leave,” she said.

“Is Lizzie around, Mrs. B?”

“Well, good morning to you too, young lady.” She peered at me above her spectacles.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. B. There’s been an upset in the Scriptorium and we’re all taking a minute. I was hoping Lizzie would be around, maybe I could just…”

“An upset, you say?” She continued to the kitchen bench, and began cracking the eggs on the rim of a bowl. She looked at me to respond.

“They’ve lost a word,” I said. “Dr. Murray is furious.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Do they think we’ll stop speaking it if it’s not in their dictionary? Can’t be the first word they’ve lost.”

“I think Dr. Murray believes that it is.”

Mrs. Ballard shrugged and transferred the bowl to her hip. She beat the eggs till her hand was a blur and the kitchen filled with a comforting thrum.

“I’ll wait for Lizzie in her room,” I said.

Lizzie came in just as I was reaching for the trunk. “Esme, what on earth are you doing?”

“It’s filthy under here, Lizzie,” I said, my head under her small bed, my hands searching the void. “It’s not at all what I would expect from the most accomplished housemaid in Oxford.”

“Come out from under there, Essymay. You’ll soil your dress.”