There was a room in the back of the British Library where the ventilation system hummed at a frequency too low to hear but high enough to make your teeth ache. Eleanor Whitcombe had found it by accident during the third week of her employment as a manuscript conservator, which was fitting because accident was the only word that applied to whatever had brought her to Bloomsbury in the first...
Eleanor Ashworth-Cross had spent eleven years learning the geometry of absence.
She worked as a conservator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, restoring the ceremonial regalia that no living person would ever wear—the coronation crowns of monarchs long turned to dust, the coronets of nobles whose estates had crumbled into car parks, the simple gold rings of soldiers whose names were carved into...
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