Edmund had been coming to the library on Thursdays for three years — long enough to have a favourite chair, a favourite lamp, and a particular understanding with the librarian about the large-format atlases. He had never noticed Isadora, which was, in retrospect, entirely his failing.

She had been there every Thursday too, in the architecture section, three rows behind. She had noticed him. She had, in fact, been waiting for him to stop being so thoroughly absorbed in his own research long enough to look up. On the third Thursday of February, he finally did. She was holding a first edition of Ruskin's The Stones of Venice and wearing an expression that suggested she was not particularly impressed. He asked if it was good. She said it depended entirely on whether he already knew the answer. He said he didn't. She handed him the book. They have been reading to each other ever since.