May 31st, 1906

My dear Esme,

Your new friends sound like an interesting pair. By interesting, I mean unconventional, which is generally a good thing, though not always. I trust you can judge the difference.

As to the inclusion of vulgar words in the Dictionary, Dr. Murray’s formula should be the sole arbiter. It is quite scientific, and strict application insists on certain types of evidence. If the evidence exists, the word should be included. It is brilliant because it removes emotion. When used correctly the formula does exactly what it was designed to do. When put aside, it is useless. There have been times when it has been put aside (even by its inventor), so that personal opinion can be exercised. Vulgar words, as you call them, are the usual casualties. No matter the evidence for their inclusion, there are some who would wish such words away.

For my part, I think they add colour. A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour, can express far more than its polite equivalent.

If you have started to collect such words, Esme, may I suggest you refrain from saying them in public—it would do you no good at all. If you do feel like expressing them, you may like to ask Mr. Maling for their translation into Esperanto. You’ll be surprised at how versatile that language is, and how liberal Mr. Maling can be when it comes to vulgarities.

Yours, with love,

Ditte

June 1906

Much Ado About Nothing opened at New Theatre on the 9th of June. Bill’s function on opening night was to help the actors with stays, stockings and wigs. Malfunctions were frequent, and so I sat with him in the wings and watched from the side.

“Are you ever tempted?” I asked, as we watched Tilda become Beatrice.

“I couldn’t act to save my life,” Bill said. “Which is why I’m so good at dressmaking.”

“Really?”

“And carpentry and front-of-house and anything else that may be required.” His hand brushed against mine. “And you? Have you ever been tempted?”

I shook my head. Bill’s fingers flirted with mine, and I didn’t move them away.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, stroking the scarred skin.

“Yes, but it’s far away, as if you were touching me through a glove.”

It was a poor explanation. His touch was like a whisper in my ear, the breath of it spreading through my whole body and making me shudder.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“How did it happen?”

When I was little, the answer had been a complicated knot of emotion in the middle of my chest—I’d had no words to explain it. But Bill’s hand was steady around mine, and I craved its warmth.

“There was a slip…” I began.

“A word?”

“I thought it was important.”

Bill listened.