Pandora(16)

Odd, Edward thinks, that in a place he once feared he now feels entirely safe.

The other workers, of course, have no notion. Cornelius brought them in when he took over the place, new blood from Staffordshire, country stock sent to the city to make their trade, as Edward had been once. But they resent him, Edward knows. They resent what they deem to be his privilege, the protection he receives from Ashmole coffers. They resent his frequent absences, the purpose of which they know nothing about. After his sojourn to Shugborough they could scarce believe it when Edward was reinstated to the back room as if nothing had happened at all.

They also hold their tongues. They are paid too handsomely to say a thing (Cornelius has always been far too generous with his money) and Fingle keeps them quiet, he makes damn sure of that, but Edward cares very little what they think. To him the bindery is a stopping point only, a place to bide his time. Admittance to the Society is all he cares about. It would be his pass to travel the world, to spend time doing what he loves – what a mighty thing, to be paid to immerse himself in study, to actually see and touch the things he spent so many years only reading about in book after book after book …

There is a knock. Edward lifts the pallet from the leather, looks up at the door. On the other side of the mottled glass panes he sees the distorted shape of a man whom he recognises to be Fingle. He looks down again, turns the book at a quarter angle, presses the pallet into the calfskin.

The door opens. Fingle leans on the handle, squinting into the candlelight.

‘We’re off to the tavern after we shut for the day. Care to join us?’

Fingle always asks. Edward always answers the same.

‘No, thank you,’ he says without looking up, but his usual dismissive reply does not succeed in getting rid of the man; Fingle hovers still at the door.

‘There’s more to life than keeping yourself cooped up behind a desk, you know. I thought perhaps we could see the New Year in, start afresh.’

Edward looks up at this. In the half-light of the doorway Fingle seems to be trying for a kindly smile. Edward forces a smile of his own.

‘I’m visiting Mr Ashmole this evening.’

Fingle hesitates, seems to make to say something then thinks better of it. Instead he says, ‘Are you sure? The boys were all set to have a meal, too. It would be a shame if you didn’t come along.’

Edward resumes his stamps. ‘I doubt they’d miss me.’

‘I might. For …’ The man pauses. ‘For old time’s sake. I think it would be good for you.’

To this Edward does not answer, concentrates instead on his patterning. A tendril of smoke curls upward as the hot metal sinks into the leather. He has always liked the smell of that.

Fingle hovers a moment more before he closes the door, leaving Edward in peace.

Edward works on.

When the distant bells of St Paul’s church finally strike five, Edward packs his things away, douses the stove, blows out the candles. As he makes his escape he senses the other men’s eyes on him like gnats. He ducks his head, continues by them without a word.



The Ashmole townhouse in Mayfair matches its owner perfectly: bright and warm and altogether ostentatious. Cornelius – even in a loose cravat, half-unbuttoned shirt and stockinged feet – makes a regal picture, and he greets Edward with a tight clasp of his hand, an affectionate look spread across the handsome plane of his face.

‘I’ve been worried about you,’ he says as Edward follows his friend into the library. ‘I was ready to come to your lodgings last night but somehow I felt you wanted to be alone.’

‘I almost came to you, but the weather turned.’ Edward is apologetic. ‘Cornelius, I—’

Cornelius raises his hand, shoots him a look of mock reprimand. ‘Don’t. I understand completely.’

‘I know you do,’ Edward says, shamed, ‘but I want to apologise anyway. I was a complete fool and acted like a bad-tempered child. I’m sorry, Cornelius.’

His friend grins, saunters over to the sideboard with a grace that makes Edward feel woefully inadequate.

‘Never apologise to me, there is no need.’ Cornelius pours Edward a tumbler of brandy which he hands to him along with a small bowl of walnuts. As Edward takes the bowl he looks down at them, is reminded of tiny wrinkled vertebrae. Cornelius throws himself into an armchair, gestures for Edward to take the other opposite him by the fire. ‘You’re allowed, on occasion, to have your moments of chagrin.’

Edward grimaces as he settles into the rich leather. ‘You permit me far too many allowances.’

Cornelius raises his glass from the table beside him, smiles softly over the rim. ‘Perhaps. But I certainly don’t begrudge you them.’

‘There will come a point, you know, when you can’t protect me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that moment has come and gone. You’ve done far more for me already than you should have.’ Edward sighs, turns his glass this way and that in his hand, and his friend’s eyes narrow; in the firelight his pupils look almost black.

‘Don’t think on it.’

‘But—’

‘Look, do not trouble yourself. You’ll ruin my surprise.’

‘Surprise?’

Cornelius’ expression falls once more into a lazy grin, and from the small table next to him he produces a little black box. He leans across the rug – a skinned tiger, magnificent head still intact – and passes it to him. His shirt gapes at the neck, revealing a smooth hard chest. Edward takes the box from Cornelius’ fingers.