He’d been living in the house this past September, because that was the last month with dates marked in his copy book that sat beside those of his brothers on the shelf in Archie’s office. Each boy had a copy book, and diligently, every day, they practiced writing in those books with pen and ink as if they were at school.

Lily was not privy to those sessions, but she dusted Archie’s office and had come across the copy books and seen the one with Matthew’s name, unopened since last autumn. He had written with a flowing hand, and formed his letters finely. But to Lily it did seem a waste that he’d left half the copy book unfilled.

She longed to learn. Sometimes when cleaning Archie’s office she wished she could take down the books and open them and read them, even those she knew she wouldn’t understand. This was her favorite room in all the house. She loved the scents of ageing paper and old leather, and the way the writing table felt beneath her hands while she was dusting it—the smoothly worn imperfections of its wooden surface.

One day when she was putting everything in place again as Archie liked it, Lily let her fingers flutter through the quairs of paper, just to feel them.

From the doorway, Archie asked her, “Would ye like to learn to write your name?”

She jumped a little at his voice, but Lily did not ever feel uncomfortable with Archie in the room. He always left the doors wide open and he always gave her space, and did not stand too close.

She told him, “I can write already.”

“Can ye, now?” He was not doubtful, but encouraging. “Come, show me.” And he chose a pen and inked it for her, setting out a sheet of paper.

Lily wrote her name as Anna and Emelia Moray had once taught her, with a flourish at the finish.

Archie said, “That’s very lovely, Lily. Where did ye learn how to do that?”

She did not wish to spoil this new, unblemished start in life by telling him too much about her former one, but she allowed, “I used to serve a laird, and his granddaughters taught me how to read and write.”

“To read as well?”

“Aye, sir.”

“I’m not a sir, my dear. I’m only Archie.” He did not ask her to prove that she could read, but took her word, and after thinking for a moment asked, “How would ye like to join the lads for lessons to improve your writing?”

Lily answered in a rush. “Yes, please, sir.”

“Archie. Good. I’m sure we’ll find an hour or two each day where ye’re not doing chores.”

That night was the first time Lily overheard an argument between Barbara and Archie. It was not an argument such as her father had oft had with Jean. There were no voices raised, but Barbara’s tone cut through the wall of the next chamber and left no doubt of her feelings.