Lizzie had been adjusting her one good dress for years. It had never been fashionable, but I’d always thought its shamrock green made her look lighter. As we walked along Magdalen Street, I thought it made her look pale. Lizzie crossed herself as we passed the church.

“Oh, Lizzie, there’s a stain.” I touched a greasy patch above her waist.

“Mrs. B needed help with the basting,” she said. “She’s not so steady as she used to be, and it splashed as she took it from the oven.”

“Could you not wipe it clean?”

“Best to soak it, and there was no time. I figured it was only you and me and no one would pay it any mind.”

It was too late to change plans—Tilda and Bill would be waiting at Old Tom. I looked at Lizzie through their eyes. She was thirty-two, a month older than Tilda, but her face was lined and her hair hung lank, grey already mixing with the brown. Rather than reminding me of a Pears’ soap advertisement, her shape was tending towards that of Mrs. Ballard. I’d barely noticed before.

“Shouldn’t we turn down George Street?” Lizzie said, as I continued straight into Cornmarket.

“Actually, Lizzie, I thought you might like to meet my new friends. We’ve arranged a drink at Old Tom before the play.”

“The pub on St. Aldate’s?” she said.

Her arm was in mine, and I felt her stiffen.

Bill’s smile was wide, and Tilda gave a wave as we entered Old Tom. Lizzie hesitated in the doorway as I’d seen her hesitate on the threshold of the Scriptorium.

“You don’t need an invitation, Lizzie,” I said.

She followed me, and I had the feeling that I was the elder and she was the child.

“This must be the famous Lizzie,” said Bill, bowing and taking the hand that hung limply at her side. “How do you do?”

Lizzie stuttered something and pulled her hand away a little too soon, rubbing it as if it had been slapped. Bill pretended he didn’t notice and shifted attention to Tilda.

“Tilda, the bar is three-deep. Use your charms to get us a round.” He looked to Lizzie. “Watch them part to let her through. She’s like Moses.”

Lizzie leaned in to me. “I won’t be needing a drink, Esme.”

“Just lemonade for Lizzie, Bill,” I said.

Tilda was nodding and smiling her way through the tight crowd of men waiting to order drinks. Bill had to shout, “Lemonade plus our usuals, sis.”

Tilda raised an arm in acknowledgement. When I turned to Lizzie, I caught her looking at me as though we’d just met and she was taking stock of who I might be.