The taxi horn sounded again. Behind the glass, oblivious to the bright spring morning, Roz fretted and fumed. She was late and getting later. Celia would already be there now, waiting and growing anxious.

Roz had been looking forward to this day for weeks and she didn’t want it spoiled in any way. She was to meet her cousin at the National Gallery, one of their favourite haunts in the old days. As the taxi inched forward, Roz remembered.

She pictured her younger self lighting the lamp in their shared rooms, glancing through the diamond window panes down into the courtyard below, its red brick reflecting violet against moon-whitened stonework. They had cycled along the Embankment, sunlight glinting on the grey river and there was the stillness of the library and the comfortable weight of thinking...

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