I began to rise early on Saturdays to accompany Lizzie to the Covered Market. I filled my pockets with slips and two pencils, and followed Lizzie like Mary’s lamb. We would start with the fruit and vegetables—the freshest were had first thing. Then the butcher’s stall or the fishmonger’s, the bakery and the grocer. We would go down one alley and up the other, looking in the windows of the little shops selling chocolates or hats or wooden toys. Then we’d go into the tiny haberdashery. Lizzie sometimes came home with a new thread or needles. More often than not, I came home disappointed. The stallholders were friendly and polite, and every word they said was familiar.

“They want you to spend your money,” Lizzie said. “They ain’t about to risk offending your delicate ears.”

Sometimes I caught a word as we passed the fishmonger’s or a group of men unloading carts piled with vegetables. But Lizzie wouldn’t ask them what it meant and she wouldn’t let me anywhere near them.

“I’ll never collect any words at this rate, Lizzie.”

She shrugged and continued on her well-worn path around the market.

“Maybe I’ll just have to go back to saving words from the Scriptorium.” That stopped her, as I knew it would.

“You wouldn’t…?” she said.

“I might not be able to help myself.”

She contemplated me for a moment. “Let’s see what old Mabel’s peddling today.”

Mabel O’Shaughnessy repelled and attracted like two ends of a magnet. Hers was the smallest stall in the Covered Market: two wooden crates pushed side by side, their contents of found objects displayed on top. Lizzie usually steered us in a different direction, and for a long time Mabel had been nothing more to me than a passing image of sharp bones ready to tear through papery skin, and a tattered hat that barely covered patches of naked scalp.

When we approached, it was clear that Lizzie and Mabel were well-acquainted.

“You eaten today, Mabel?” Lizzie said.

“Ain’t sold enough to buy a stale bun.”

Lizzie reached into our groceries and handed her a roll.

“Who’s this then?” Mabel said, her mouth full of bread.

“Esme, this is Mabel. Mabel, this is Esme. Her father works for Dr. Murray.” She looked at me apologetically. “Esme works for the Dictionary too.”

Mabel held out her hand: long, grime-covered fingers protruded from the scraps of fingerless gloves. I didn’t shake hands, ordinarily, and instinctively wiped my funny fingers against the fabric of my skirt, as if to rid them of something distasteful. When I offered my hand, the old woman laughed.