“Have you got the right measurements for the margins? And remember the new obligations for typography and binding.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What are they, then?” Ursula said half-seriously.

“Type area not less than fifty-five percent of the printed page, no more than four introductory pages.” Alice squinted again at the poster on the back wall. The print was barely legible from where she sat, but she knew it listed all the wartime requirements.

When she looked back at her work, the proofreader symbols appeared as unfamiliar as Arabic script, and she realized she had mistaken colons for semicolons and inserted hyphens instead of transposing words.

How can I be here when I still have no idea where my daughter is?

Ursula leaned forward, touching her forearm lightly. “Alice, are you really all right?”

“Yes, of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re crying.”

Alice brushed her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Oh, really? You don’t look fine.”

“I am,” Alice said, more tears springing from her eyes.

“What is it, Alice? I know there’s something wrong. You haven’t been the same since . . . well, since you came back. I don’t understand—I thought you’d be so pleased that the book’s going ahead.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Ursula said, keeping her hand lightly on her arm. “Let me help. At least let me try.”

Alice’s fingers played with the edge of her sleeve, running back and forth across the seams, but she stopped as soon as Ursula noticed.

A moment passed before Alice said, “I really admire your strength, your courage.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It just seems as if nothing bad has ever happened to you, like you’ve never been touched by sadness.”

Ursula laughed. “Well, you know that’s not true.”

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. How stupid of her. She knew all about Ursula’s estrangement from her family and her frequent spells of loneliness and depression. “You’re right, there is something,” Alice said, and sniffed, her eyes stinging. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve not told you the truth . . . about the baby.”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that . . .” Alice hesitated. She was on the verge of telling Ursula about Eadie when a memory emerged of a conversation in which Ursula had claimed she would never have a child. At the time Alice had brushed the comment away, but Ursula had been adamant, and now Alice didn’t want to be insensitive a second time. She also cautioned herself against sharing the truth unnecessarily. “My cousin’s baby hasn’t been well, and it’s not been easy with Mum since we fell out. I think it’s all just got to me.”