London, 1987. The fog had been clinging to the Thames for three days, thick as wool and tasting of iron. Beatrice Ashworth sat at her drafting table in a Bloomsbury garret, surrounded by the detritus of a life spent measuring things that refused to be measured.She was a surveyor by training, trained at the Guildhall School of Geomatics in the early seventies when women were still considered...
The bonsai sat on the windowsill of her flat in Kensington, pale as a forgotten prayer, and Beatrice Ashworth stood before it the way one stands before a grave—not because anything had died, but because something had been interrupted mid-breath.
She was thirty-seven, a restorer of textile fragments at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and she had spent sixteen years of her life learning how to...
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