I finising up t day’s notes. All dozen pencils  noed to turn times get to t and dangle in a single drop all to t tonigired, and t breaking under t.

    I t about tory. I o tor and  of motives, but I suspected tervention in to no good.

    t ot of t t speak properly; t understand ot t I didn’t kno toryteller t. In telling ale, Miss inter  t illuminates everyt itself. S at t of tive. Sly s perplexed me  be t o distance ory in this way?

    If I o ask  it, I kne one or tails of tory, and time to time s  to, s meeting. “No cing. No looking aions.”

    I reconciled myself to remaining curious for a long time, and yet, as it  very evening t cast a certain illumination on tter.

    I idied my desk and ting about my packing  to find Judithe corridor.

    ‘Miss inter o see .“

    te translation of a more abrupt Fetc.

    I finis doo the library.

    Miss inter ed in ion and t othe room was in darkness.

    ‘ould you like me to put some lighe doorway.

    ‘No.“ antly to my ears, and so I oers ars, ed in the mirrors.

    from t Miss inter racted. In silence I sat in my place, lulled by taring into t sky reflected in ter of an ed, and I ed.

    then she spoke.

    ‘ picture of Dickens in udy? It’s by a man called Buss, I believe. I’ve a reproduction of it some for you. Anyure, . ers from ing in ted beed do on t? ted er  be as real as  are sketc  of a line o a gly nothingness.

    ‘ure no be  so  it seems to be an image of tudy door on t myself aion. For nearly sixty years I y on t exist. I o s and bats. I o follos of quills as te love letters, rains ransported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents  my bidding. I y and nessed ty of t so lo t  my breatheir dreams.

    ‘My study ters ing to be ten. Imaginary people, anxious for a life,  my sleeve, crying, ’Me next! Go on! My turn!‘ I o select. And once I  for ten montil I come to tory, and tarts up again.

    ‘And every so often, ting years, I ed my  ter, or in t pause for t after a deatimes just searc eady green-eyed gaze. I knoly o see ime so catcen so speak to me, but for decades soo far ao be  my gaze and pretend I  seen , I taken in.

    ‘People ’s because of arted a nees after finis, it is because to look up from my desk ing her eye.

    ‘tly ting in tudy  I ten, ter, tle in my tention  t nearer ing.

    ‘t of my final book. I e t sentence, placed t full stop. I kne ’s just t. ’It old  oo long ago, I en.‘ tions.

    ‘’But I  forgotten,‘ sable w. I do remember.“

    t vibration in till. I turned from my stargazing to Miss inter. aring at a spot in t t very moment seeing the copper hair.

    ‘the girl is you.“

    ‘Me?“ Miss inter’s eyes turned slo cion. ”No, s me. Sated. ”So be. t cing a long, long time ago.

    o an end t of thing.“

    ‘But your career… tories…“

    ‘s. It fills a void.“

    t in silence and cime to time Miss inter rubbed absently at her palm.

    ‘Your essay on Jules and Edmond Landier,“ ser a time.

    I turned reluctantly to her.

    ‘ made you c? You must icular interest? Some personal attraction?“

    I shing special, no.”

    And t tillness of tars and the fire.

    It must er, w sime.

    ‘Margaret.“ I believe it  time s name. ”omorrow…“

    ‘Yes?“

    ‘You  you?“

    It  ell rembling in  of fatigue or illness, but it seemed to me, in t before I ans Miss inter was afraid.

    t morning Maurice drove me to tation and I took train south.