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breed of scholar. That had led to bad luck in the past.
    There was one time in particular, three years back, when trying to rent in London she had accidentally found herself in contact with Nigerian scam artists, with the result that the magically underpriced flat she’d purportedly rented in Bloomsbury had turned out to belong to a confused and overworked accountant who wouldn’t put her up for anything. The summer being the height of the tourist season, Nora had barely managed to find herself a place in a hostel. When she had clumsily dragged her oversized suitcase up five flights of stairs into blistering humidity—heat rises, she remembered and cursed—and then hauled herself into a top bunk that, with its black privacy netting slung over the side boards, resembled a coffin for all intents and purposes, she vowed that never again would she find herself in such a place. It wasn’t the closeness she hated, the small cramped space; no, it was the noise and the people, their demands, their excesses. No one whispered; music and conversation in foreign languages spilled out from the bunks, snores, such heavy breathing. A clotted tangle of black hair in every shower drain.
    Because of that memory—a memory that came back to her with such grim vividness in any time of social unease, in the crush of the subway, at department parties, moments of forced camaraderie and feigned intimacy—Nora had been careful to check in advance that Mrs Moreland, the purported owner of a house on Observatory Street in Oxford, was indeed real. A friend of Nora’s from her undergraduate days, now positioned as a Lecturer at Magdalen College, had stopped by to investigate on her behalf. She had reported the place to be clean, if a bit cramped, but entirely trustworthy. On the subject of Mrs Moreland herself, the friend had little of note to add.
    “I don’t expect you’ll have any problems with her,” Nora was told, “she keeps to herself. Nothing too fussy. By my count she’s no madder than anyone else here.” It was enough of a recommendation to seal the deal. Nora’s needs were few, in any case, and she was used to keeping to herself. No matter how mad the old woman was, provided she had a single furnished bedroom available on the cheap, she could be handled, of course she could be handled. Or avoided entirely, if Nora kept out late enough at the Bodleian. The place would do nicely, she thought.
     
    #
     
    It was—when Nora found it, thoroughly soaked from a fresh burst of rain whipped up by gusting January winds—exactly as advertised: a narrow terraced house along a nicely maintained street in Jericho where the facades had each been brightly painted in yellows, robin’s egg blues, and pinks. Hers was salmon-coloured with a dark green door. Nora took a deep breath, nervous. She hated the formality of lodging in a stranger’s house, but in some ways it was easiest—strangers could be put off more easily, their questions avoided with pat answers about the nature of her work, the weather back home. Yes, strangers were easier. She could cope. She needn’t stay very long at the house. The Bodleian would be open for several hours yet, and if she hurried she could still get a Reader’s Card. Come back late in the evening after dinner, creep back to her room. She only had to smile politely and get the keys. Thinking this, she took a breath and knocked very gently using the brass ring.
    Nothing.
    She waited.
    Should she try again? No. Best not to appear too eager. It might be considered crass.
    She waited several more minutes. The sky opened up in a downpour. Nora gritted her teeth.
    Finally, she knocked on the door furiously. It opened amidst the rain of blows with an unexpected suddenness, as if the owner had been waiting directly on the other side. The knocker was almost wrenched out of her hand.
    “Nora Higgins?” asked the old lady who stood in the doorway.
    Nora tried on what she expected was a rather sheepish and apologetic