“Well, she doesn’t like to talk about it because she’s embarrassed by it. She only really told me when I started to read for her, although I’d already guessed because when I brought the lilacs in—”

“Wait, wait.” Lulu waved a slowing hand. “You’ve been reading to Mrs. Scott-Ramsay.”

“It’s so sad,” said Sophie. “She loves books, really loves them, she’s been reading all her life, and now she can’t read anymore, and she hates Books on Tape because she always wants to stop them and go slower, but she can’t work out how, so we’ve worked out a deal, she and I. I’m going to go down there every day and read David Copperfield to her, which is, like, her favorite book in the whole world, it’ll be good for both of us, because it’ll give her a reading fix, and it’ll be good practice for me at the same time, and if you want to know, I think it’ll be good for all of us up here, too, because I bet you anything you like that once she gets into a bit of a better mood with life, she’ll stop pounding on the floor.”

There was a silence while Lulu and Charlie exchanged glances.

“Sophie,” said Charlie. “If you can manage that, I will bless you forever and a day.”

“Then get exercising that blessing hand, Charles,” said Sophie, “because she’s really excited about this.” She picked up the leather-bound book from the table and brandished it. “Look, she’s given it to me so I can read ahead and know what’s going on. It’s long, isn’t it? Seven hundred and twelve pages in teeny-tiny print. But so much the better, she says, because there’s that much more of it to enjoy.”

“Huh.” Lulu picked up the book and flicked through it. “Can I ask you a major favor?” she said after a moment.

“What?” said Sophie.

“Please,” said Lulu. “Please, please, please can I be there when you tell Mom you’re going to spend the summer reading Dickens?”

Sophie grinned.

“It’ll be good, won’t it?” she agreed.

Concord, January 1868.

Dearest Amy,

What a relish it was to receive your fine fat letter, so full of romantic castles and lofty mountains and glassy-surfaced lakes that I shouldn’t think you’d ever in your life be sad about anything again for very long, for every time you felt blue you could go to the little secret place in your mind that remembered such wonders and see them all over again and marvel anew. Dearie, I don’t suppose for one moment that aunt and uncle would be “offended” if you were to present them with a collection of your sketches at the end of the trip. I would think it altogether proper and graceful on your part to give them such a handsome thanks for their generosity, and one which is particular to them, besides, which must surely make it more precious still. They can always purchase pictures to hang in their home, but they can’t buy your skill and they can’t buy sweet memories, and both of these your sketches will have aplenty.