My slips would be no different from Dr. Murray’s, I decided, and I began collecting all sorts of paper to cut to the right size. My favourite slips were cut from the blue bond paper Lily once used. I’d taken a few sheets from the drawer of Da’s writing desk. I would save these for beautiful words. The rest were a mixture of ordinary and extraordinary: a pile of original blank slips from the Scriptorium, forgotten in a dusty corner and surely missed by no one; slips cut from school essays and algebra exercises; a few postcards bought by Da but never sent (almost the right size, but not quite); and wallpaper offcuts, a little thick but beautifully patterned on one side.

I began to carry them around, hoping to capture more words like knackered.

Lizzie was a great source. In a week, I recorded seven words I was sure weren’t in the pigeon-holes. When I checked, five of them were. I threw my doubles away and put the remaining two in the trunk with knackered, tying them together with my ribbon.

The Scriptorium was not so fruitful. Every now and then Dr. Murray said something interesting in his Scottish brogue, usually under his breath. Glaikit was a common utterance in response to incompetency or slow work, and I dared not ask him to repeat it, though I wrote a slip and defined it as idiot or nincompoop. When I searched the volume with F and G, I was surprised to find it was already there. The other assistants spoke nothing other than words they read in well-written books. I doubted any of them had ever spent much time listening to what was said in Mrs. Ballard’s kitchen or what flew between the traders of the Covered Market.

I didn’t have to help in the kitchen anymore, but sometimes I did. I preferred it to going home alone when Da worked late. The new curtains and fresh flowers brightened up our house, but during the long summer evenings I preferred to stay talking with Lizzie. Then when it was cold, it seemed a waste to use the coal for just one person.

“Could I ask you to do something for me, Lizzie?” We were standing side by side at the sink.

“Anything, Essymay. You know that.”

“I’m wondering if you’d help me collect words,” I said, looking at her sideways to gauge her reaction. Her jaw clenched. “Not from the Scriptorium,” I quickly added.

“Where would I find words?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the potato she was peeling.

“Everywhere you go.”

“The world ain’t like the Scrippy, Essy. Words don’t lie around waiting for some light-fingered girl to pick them up.” She turned and gave me a reassuring smile.