She hurries back to the sitting room and takes the bracelet from the high bookshelf where she had put it for safekeeping. She does not put it on—making a silent promise to herself that she will do so very soon—but tucks it into the pocket of the oversize tartan shirt she often wears to work in. Next she fetches the books loaned to her by the professor and returns to the studio to sit at her workbench, wrapping a woolen blanket around her shoulders. The stove in the studio is lit and burning quite well, but the single-glazed glass doors of the studio let out far more heat than they keep in. She puts a match to the wick of an oil lamp beside her and turns through the pages of the first volume, uncertain of what she is searching for, simply trusting that she will know it when she finds it. Thistle lies down on the rag rug at her feet, curling up tightly, her nose beneath her wiry-haired tail, the better to keep warm.