Pandora(104)

εδ? βρ?σκεται η τ?χη των κ?σμων



Cornelius squats down beside them. ‘What does it say?’

Dora licks her lips. ‘Edó vrísketai i t?chi ton kósmon.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Another beat.

‘Herein lies the fate of worlds.’

There is a palpable pulse in the air.

‘Dora,’ Edward breathes, his jealousy forgotten.

Cornelius looks at Edward. ‘Greek pottery never has writing on it. Does it?’

‘It is rare,’ Edward says in a rush, ‘and even then never whole sentences.’

‘What are you saying?’ asks Dora dubiously.

Edward takes a deep breath. Could it really be?

‘Has it not occurred to you that perhaps …’ But he struggles for the words. No matter what Hamilton said, there is no arguing this.

‘What?’

He tries again.

‘This pithos is so old that not even Gough’s scientists could date it. It depicts the story of Pandora’s creation. All the things that have happened, that are happening –’ Edward ticks them off on his fingers – ‘the sinking of the Colossus, the illness of your uncle, the deaths of the Coombe brothers. And then there’s this godawful weather to account for. Even Bonaparte! The divisions in Europe, the pressures on the economy, our trade routes … We are on the brink of invasion, Sir William said so himself. Has it not occurred to either of you that these things have happened for a reason? That this pithos might actually be Pandora’s Box itself?’

Cornelius stares at him as if he has gone mad.

‘Oh, Edward, no. Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Pandora’s Box is a fable! Fable is fable, a mere story told to entertain.’

‘But all fanciful concepts grow from concrete reality!’

Cornelius stands up, is shaking his head. Edward implores instead to Dora.

‘You conceive of it, don’t you?’

Dora looks struck.

‘It is mad. It can’t be, it just can’t. But …’

Cornelius folds his arms across his chest, looks down at her with ill-concealed frustration. ‘Not you too? Honestly, I thought you at least had more sense.’

But Dora is biting her lip. ‘If my mother taught me anything it was to always look for a factual and historical basis for myth. It is ludicrous to think the pithos was created by a god. Besides,’ she adds, gesturing at the carvings circling the pithos, ‘what mythical artefact would recount its own creation? It is mad,’ Dora says, her voice strained. ‘There are just so many ways to explain it all away. Logical explanations. And yet, Edward does have a point.’ She gestures at it again, and Edward is gratified that Dora has not rejected the idea completely. ‘Why does it not break, how has it survived intact all these years, why did Hermes fear it so? Animals know, they always know. What power does this thing hold?’

Cornelius is raising his hands in mock defeat. ‘For pity’s sake. I’m disappointed in the both of you. Of all the hare-brained, ridiculous …’ He catches himself as the basement door opens and Lottie appears at the top with a tray. Cornelius lowers his voice. He looks between Edward and Dora, dark eyes serious. ‘There will be plenty of time to argue about this later. The last thing I want is to discuss nonsensical theories. I’m sure I have far better things to do with my time.’





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE





In the four days that have passed since their visit to the shop, Dora has thrown herself into finishing the sketches of the pithos. It has rained, rained so hard the guttering leaks and Mrs Howe must fetch for a man to fix it and Dora, sitting at the window seat in her new bedroom that has a pleasing view of the garden, watches the water run rivers down the glass.

She is not dressed, and so she has not gone downstairs to work. A lunch tray was left outside the door, replacing the breakfast tray from this morning, the dinner tray from the night before; all were returned to the kitchen untouched.

Three times already today Mr Ashmole has knocked on the door, and three times Dora has ignored him.

She does not want to speak yet. Is not sure she can.

Dora flexes her fingers, takes a firmer grip on her pencil. Her original compositions of the individual carvings require finer details adding, the sketch of the pithos in its entirety redrawing completely; and a further three sketches need to be drawn to demonstrate its detailing on all sides. Then, the wording. Dora bends over the sketchbook balanced on her tucked-up knees, narrowing her eyes through her spectacles as she creates the flick of the lowercase kappa, adds the final Greek letters to the phrase.

Herein lies the fate of worlds.

Dora does not know what to believe. As she said to Edward, everything that has happened has a logical explanation. The Colossus – any ship for that matter – is susceptible to the elements, but most especially in December. Hezekiah’s wound came from a rusty nail, left untreated. The streets of London are filthy, after all; no wonder his wound became infected. Dora remembers Matthew Coombe’s words the day they took the pithos to Lady Latimer’s. That damn cargo happened. Well. His wound, too, can be accounted for in much the same way as Hezekiah’s, she is sure.