Edith glanced at her mobile again, neurotically checking the office location for the hundredth time. Reaching the third floor, she slowed her pace, willing her heart to stop racing. She hated this, hated meeting new people and trying to be cool and collected, hated doing her father a favor, even if it could help her in the long run.

She was glad to find the hallway completely deserted, lit only by the yellow and green light filtering through the great stain glass window at the end. There was a reverence demanded by this building, by the age and the beauty of it. Edith had felt it the moment she stepped from the cobblestone walk onto the great marble stairs of the entry.

Something, though she wasn't sure yet what it was specifically, assured her she had come to the right place. Dublin was the place Edith would finally find what she had spent her whole existence searching for, whatever it was. Always just half a step out of synch with her life, Edith had never before been sure of anything but that she didn't quite belong. But now, something about this school—the ancient wood and atmospheric stone buildings, about the little apartment she'd rented for herself between the college district and Old Town with creaky wood floors—something told her she was going to find what she'd been missing.

Edith caught her reflection as she passed a large glass case. It was filled with bronze busts of the department's legends. As if I needed a reminder of my ineptitude, she scoffed.

Edith didn't waste much time examining her pale face, dark eyes, and braided strawberry hair, or the simple cream silk blouse and gray cardigan she was wearing. It was the same disappointing reflection she'd seen her whole life—slight, plain, too thin to be womanly and too short to be statuesque. No, there was no point in staring at herself. After twenty-four years she knew what she looked like.

Edith moved on, her old brown riding boots padding down the hall, her stomach in knots. There was no earthly reason to be nervous. She'd gotten her degree with honors, and had been accepted to her dream graduate school. She'd somehow broken from her parents and gotten herself to Dublin on her own, to study writing, which she loved more than practically anything in the world. Surely, after all that, calling on an old friend of her father's—the last of many, many obligations fulfilled on behalf of her stuffy family—would be no problem.

But it was Edith, and she knew herself well enough to expect the next twenty minutes would be filled with stuttering, blushing, involuntary evasion of eye-contact, and nervous laughter.

Yes, Edith Crawley hated meeting new people.

When she finally came to a stop before office number 314, she took a steadying breath and knocked. "Come in," called a rather vacant and indifferent voice.

The office, compared with the hazy light and dark wood of the hall, was unexpectedly bright and cheerful. It had high ceilings lined with windows which let a great deal of sun into the relatively small space. To the left an entire wall was made of built-in shelving, lined floor to ceiling with books, and on the right were a collection of filing cabinets and an antique desk of modest size. Directly ahead two comfortable looking chairs were set around a little round end table and a well-worn rug covered nearly the entire floor.

But all of that was secondary to the man standing before the shelves, two leather-bound volumes in his hands. He was tall and a bit lanky, but broad and somehow imposing. He had a slight stoop, a habit likely picked up after a lifetime of being taller than everyone in the room. He wore slacks and a blue shirt with a neutral cardigan that looked impossibly soft. His hair had a curl to it which, despite its being gray-blonde, gave him a sort of disheveled, boyish quality. Most striking of his visage were the brilliant blue eyes, like sea glass, that glanced up distractedly from his reading and landed on Edith.

"Hello," Dr. Anthony Strallan said brightly, with a surprised but pleasant smile.

"Hello, I'm Edith Crawley," she said shyly, wishing this man, like everyone else in Dublin, could have no idea what it meant that she was a Crawley.

"Oh are you really? How delightful, yes," he stuttered quietly. His voice, though soft-spoken, was deep and rich. "Well, do come in, please. Would you like a cup?"

"Yes, alright. Thank you," she replied stiffly.

Anthony gestured for her to take a seat as he moved to the little electric kettle on the window sill.

"I was surprised to hear from your father. It's been far too long."

"Yes, he was less uncomfortable with my moving when he remembered he had a friend in Dublin," she said awkwardly, feeling as though neither party really knew why they were meeting.

"Well, how are you settling in?" he asked, handing Edith a mug of tea and taking the chair across from her. He was all limbs as his long legs crossed elegantly before him, looking far too large for the chair. Edith, meanwhile, had never felt smaller.

"Very well, thank you. I've only been here a few days, but everything is lovely, really. I have a tiny flat on the edge of Old Town with a hotplate and a view of the alley, and I couldn't be happier."

"Did your parents bring you over?"

Edith shook her head and frowned. "I thought you knew my father," she scoffed. "He wouldn't step foot over here because it wasn't his idea for me to come." Dr. Strallan raised his eyebrows, and Edith immediately felt out of line. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"Not at all. I take it your coming to Dublin didn't have strictly to do with the school?"

"Not entirely."

"In need of a change of scenery, hmm?"

"More like a change of people," Edith muttered, blushing into her tea. She was quite happy to find that her shoulders weren't tense, and her palms weren't clammy, and she wasn't dying to leave.

"And how is your family?"

"They're fine. The same, I'm sure. Papa must be getting bored because he's started growing grapes on one of the properties in hopes of making a decent red blend, but he's the only one who thinks it stands a chance. Granny is still terrorizing the neighborhood, of course. Sybil is at university, and Mary's just been married." Edith was used to listing off her family's endeavors, as they were almost always the only reason people talked to her.

"Yes I did hear something about that. Congratulations. Do you like the fellow?"

"I do, actually, though I wonder how he'll hold up in our family. A bit soft for our type, I think." Feeling as though she might have been a bit too honest, a common problem for Edith, she blushed. "Sorry, I don't know why I said that."

Anthony shrugged as though her apology was totally unnecessary. "When I was in school with your father, he used to complain about his parents, how pernicious his mother was with her 'old money' ways, and how he would never take over their land. Funny, really. He used to say they were nothing more than glorified farmers."

"He doesn't seem to mind it now," Edith laughed.

"Indeed. Well, at least you've had the nerve to make up your own mind, hmm?"

Edith blushed again, looking around the room. Dr. Strallan taught literature at the college, specializing in the Victorian and romantic eras. Judging by the framed picture of Oscar Wilde that sat on one of his shelves, he had a special fondness for the enigmatic playwright.

"You're in the writing program, aren't you?" Dr. Strallan asked. "Have you met with your portfolio advisor yet?"

"No, I meet with him next week. I've been assigned to," she paused with a frown, trying to remember, "Professor Gregson?"

"Ah," Dr. Strallan said curtly. "Well, he's good at the editing side, from what I'm told." Something in his general manner made Edith wonder what history Gregson and Strallan had, because Dr. Strallan clearly was not a fan.

"Should I be worried?" she asked with a small, nervous laugh.

"Oh, of course not," he smiled, his eyes snapping back to hers. "Say, I haven't been on the advising side of things for years, so I'm quite alone here most of the time. If you'd like a quiet place to write or study, you're more than welcome here."

Edith was surprised by his offer. "Here, as in your office? It wouldn't be terribly intrusive?"

"Oh, terribly," he teased dryly, "but I'm afraid I insist."

"Thank you, Dr. Strallan, that would be lovely."

"Good," Dr. Strallan nodded, "and please call me Anthony."

"Anthony," Edith repeated shyly. "I was surprised when Papa mentioned he had a friend up here. Have you lived in Dublin long?"

"Oh, I suppose it's been about ten years now. I was also looking for a change, and cushy teaching jobs are hard to come by," he smiled.

"Have you always taught?"

Anthony nodded. "Yes. My father wanted me to take over the family company manufacturing farming equipment, but I'm afraid I inherited my mother's love for reading and none of his head for business. Young man by the name of Barrow runs it now, and I'm happy just to receive the occasional stock report."

Edith smiled at the idea of Dr. Strallan behind a desk or in front of a great board, a suit and tie and a severe look as he discussed the annual sales.

"Ridiculous to imagine, sitting here, isn't it?" he laughed, apparently reading her mind.

"You have a lovely collection of books," Edith complemented, craning her neck to examine some of the spines.

"Bit of a hoarder, I'm afraid. You're welcome to borrow them any time."

Edith took a deep breath as she thanked him, wondering how she could have been so nervous to meet such a kind and personable man. She had a feeling it would be nearly impossible to be uncomfortable in his presence, even for someone as socially inept as she.

When they finished their tea and said goodbye, Anthony offered to show Edith around the city the following day, which she accepted gladly.

"It can be a bit daunting, not knowing anyone, I realize. It would be my pleasure," he assured.

"Thank you, Dr. Strallan," she said, ducking through the door.

"Anthony," he replied with a smile, "please."

Later that night, as she unpacked another of her boxes, this one containing the books of her childhood she couldn't bear to leave behind, her mobile sounded. She was relieved to see it was Anna calling and not her mother for the hundredth time.

"Hello," she sighed, sitting back in the middle of her bare floor.

"Don't sound so excited, really," Anna teased by way of greeting.

"I'm very happy to hear from you, just exhausted as well."

"I wanted to check in, see how everything is going."

"Oh, still fine. More than fine, I think."

"Happiness takes some getting used to, eh?" Anna asked sagely.

Of all the people in the world, Anna was probably the only one who really knew Edith, or at least attempted to understand her. A few years older, they had been roommates in London while Edith was at university and Anna was working as a manager at a small hotel.

Edith was about to answer when she heard Anna let out an "oomph."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm moving too, remember? John and I are hauling more boxes into the new flat."

"Ah, wedded bliss," Edith said mordantly. Anna had recently been married to John Bates, who worked for Papa at Crawley Properties. They were the kind of couple that most everyone envied, not because of looks or status, but because they genuinely adored everything about one another. Edith harassed Anna for it endlessly, but really found it quite admirable.

"Yeah, you should try it."

"Tell John he still owes me twenty quid for introducing you two," Edith teased.

"John, Edie says she's misses you like mad."

"I think he's a daft old prig."

"She wishes she'd gotten to you first."

Edith heard John mumble something along the lines of 'it's not too late,' causing Anna to giggle and mutter, "Silly beggar."

"Anyway, how do you like the new flat?" Edith asked, bringing Anna's attention back.

"Oh it'll be great once I can sway John on the apricot color for the entry."

"Good luck with that."

"And you? Tell me you've got plans to go out with some young, Irish ruffians? A night of debauchery in the works?"

"Anna, have you met me?"

"Well are you at least meeting people?"

"I met with Papa's friend, Anthony Strallan," Edith said casually, working hard to steady her breath.

Anna seemed to hear the blushing smile over the phone though. "Oh? That old mate of your dad's? I take it the meeting was pleasant?"

"It was, yes. He's incredibly kind. And he's offered me some work space in his office."

"Huh," Anna chirped knowingly. It was quiet on the line for a long while.

"Look, he's a really kind person, and very likeable. I think he's going to be a good friend here. He's taking me out tomorrow to show me around the city."

"Well that figures," Anna laughed.

"What does?"

"That the one and only friend you find is twice your age and probably just as bookish. Is he handsome?"

"Anna, I've got to run, someone's at the door," Edith fibbed.

"There's no one at the door, Edie."

"There is. I'll call you later."

"No you won't!"

"Bye."

Edith silenced her mobile before setting it on the table. She spent a while longer unpacking, everything feeling more permanent with each book she shelved and each picture she hung.

As she laid down for bed the stillness and the silence settled in. As with most nights, her mind suddenly began to race. She looked up at the bare ceiling, then at the space beside her. Not for the first time she longed that someone would be in that empty space, sleeping lightly, or holding her hand, or listening to her little anxieties and hopes. When she imagined this man before it had always been a faceless amalgam of traits and feelings.

But on that particular night, when her head rolled on the pillow to look at the ghost of her loneliness stretched out beside her, he took the form, quite clearly, of Dr. Anthony Strallan, complete with blue eyes and crooked grin and sincere goodness.

Edith had imagined it effortlessly before she even knew what was happening, before she realized she was grinning like a fool at nothing and her cheeks were flushed. Admonishing her lack of self-control and horrified by the warm pang thrumming inside her at the thought of Dr. Strallan between her sheets, Edith turned on her bedside lamp. Knowing full well she would not be sleeping soon, she moved to the little desk she had set up under the window.

Her manuscript lay in a tidy pile, bound with two thick rubber bands. She eyed it with the wonder of a new mother at her child, asking Did that really come from me? Unable to bear the thought of looking at any part of it again, she took out a clean, hard-bound journal, dated the first page, and began with the words:

Dublin. Today is the first day of my life.