“I need to check something in the Scriptorium,” I said.

“You won’t put your new words in the trunk?”

“Not yet. I want to check to see how cunt was defined for the Dictionary.”

“Esme.” Lizzie looked desperate. “You can’t say that word out loud.”

“So you know it?”

“No. Well, I know of it. I know it’s not a word for polite society. You mustn’t say it, Essymay.”

“All right,” I said, delighted at the effect the word had. “Let’s just call it the C-word.”

“Let’s not call it anything. There is no reason it ever needs to be used.”

“Mabel says it’s a very old word. So it should be in the volume for C. I want to see how close I came to defining it.”

The Scrippy was empty, though Da’s and Mr. Sweatman’s jackets were still on the backs of their chairs. I went to the shelf behind Mr. Murray’s desk and took down the second volume of words. C was even bigger than A and B; it had taken half my childhood to compile. When I searched its pages, Mabel’s word was not there.

I returned the volume and began searching the pigeon-holes for C. They were dusty from lack of attention.

“Looking for something in particular?” It was Mr. Sweatman.

I folded Mabel’s slips into my hand and turned. “Nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” I said. “Is Da with you?”

Mr. Sweatman took his jacket off the back of his chair. “Stopped by the house to have a quick word with Dr. Murray. He should be here any minute.”

“I’ll wait for him in the garden,” I said.

“Righto. I’ll see you on Monday.”

I lifted the lid of my desk and placed the slips between the pages of a book.

I began going to the Covered Market alone. Whenever my work took me to the Bodleian or the Old Ashmolean, I would make a detour through the crowded alleyways of stalls and shops. I wandered slowly; I loitered at the window of the milliner so I could eavesdrop on the grocer and his boy standing on the street; I took my time choosing fish on Fridays in the hope of catching an unfamiliar word passed between the fishmonger and his wife.

“Why won’t Dr. Murray include words that aren’t written down?” I asked Da as we walked to the Scriptorium one morning. I had three new slips in my pocket.

“If it’s not written down, we can’t verify the meaning.”

“What if it’s in common use? I hear the same words over and over at the Covered Market.”

“They may be commonly spoken, but if they are not commonly written they will not be included. A quotation from Mr. Smith the greengrocer is simply not adequate.”

“But some nonsense from Mr. Dickens the author is?”

Da looked at me sideways.