Pandora(18)

‘That’s if I decide to do anything about it. I haven’t even spoken to her yet.’

‘But you do intend to?’

‘I feel that now the idea has been put into my head I can’t not.’

For perhaps the hundredth time today Edward thinks of his meeting with the old man, how fortuitous it was that he should have happened upon him in the manner he did. How it was he knew Edward’s name …

Cornelius sighs loudly, swings his legs back round and places them squarely either side of the tiger’s head.

‘I think it’s a mistake,’ he warns. ‘Your logic is based entirely on a chance encounter. Focus on something else, something concrete, for God’s sake.’

Edward places his glass down on the table with a pronounced clunk. ‘I refuse to believe this was a chance encounter.’

He hears the determined lilt to his voice and for a moment Edward feels guilty, as if he has spoken out of turn – but Cornelius’ expression has softened now and he is shaking his head not with frustration but resignation.

‘You’ve always been a dreamer. Heaven forbid I try to stop you.’ He takes a long swig of brandy and his Adam’s apple bobs sharply against his throat. The look he gives Edward is affectionate, but it is laced with something else Edward cannot place. ‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed. Not again.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Edward returns mildly, and for one blinding moment he believes it, feels unaccountably sure of himself. But Cornelius cradles the glass in his lap, wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

‘Sometimes, Edward, I’m really not sure you do.’





CHAPTER NINE





It has begun to snow. Across the rooftops London’s skyline is peppered white and the gulls cry their grievance to the clouds. In her attic room Dora is in bed, has cocooned herself within her blankets, knees tucked beneath her. She stretches her fingers against the cold, adjusts the grip on her pencil. As she sketches, Hermes potters up and down the headboard, claws scuttle-tapping the wood. The candle flame bows into the light breeze that wends itself from the window frame that is in dire need of repair, sending shadows dancing over the ceiling. Discarded across the floorboards are the remnants of Dora’s previous attempts, paper scrunched into compact balls that fit perfectly the cushion of her fist.

She cannot concentrate.

Her current effort is a series of scribbles set about the page as if they have been drawn by a child. A meandros border, its angular lines cutting through the paper where she has pressed too hard with the pencil. Dainty flabella, their leaves shaped into feathers. Repeating waves. Twisted snakes. Floral mandalas. All echo the Grecian form but none of her drawings quite capture the images in her imagination. Each sketch holds within it her frustration, half-formed memories she should not have forgotten.

Dora sighs. Designing something like this should have come easily, should have been second nature, but she simply cannot apply herself tonight. Her mind keeps wandering down to the bowels of the basement where Hezekiah’s mysterious shipment sits.

The house creaks on its joists with a sigh.

Her uncle was not at dinner. Lottie brought Dora a tureen of watery soup and slipped from the room having not uttered a single word, and Dora has seen neither hide nor hair of either of them all evening.

Why should Lottie of all people be privy to Hezekiah’s plans but his own niece be excluded? What is in that crate? Why did Hezekiah look so panicked when Dora questioned him? And who were those men that brought it?

Perhaps she could pick the lock to the basement …

Oh, but what use is there in speculating? What good does it do her? Stop it, Dora thinks, you will only drive yourself mad.

She tries to conjure up memories of a dig site in Delos. Dora had been very young then – no more than five, she is sure – but she remembers one particular afternoon when her father spent hours uncovering a mosaic. Dora sat with him as he brushed away the dust, fascinated by the shapes revealed beneath: intricate foliage, curling waves, stepped triangles. She remembers how he showed her – his voice rich and warm in her ear – rosette motifs, swirling palmettes. Was there not a bull’s head, surrounded by foliage?

It is no good. Dora rips the sheet away with a groan. All she has managed to conjure in the last five minutes is a rambling grapevine in the corner of the page, and she screws the paper up into a ball, throws it down to join the others littering the floor. Not one of her scribblings lends itself to a necklace, a pair of earrings, or anything a member of high society would wear.

‘Oh, Hermes,’ she sighs. The magpie chirrups, flutters down onto her lap. She reaches out, strokes his head with the backs of her fingers. He nips at them gently. ‘Perhaps I’m a fool. What am I to do?’

Though Dora knows it is impossible for him to understand her, Hermes’ head has tilted and his black eyes watch her so intently she is sure he does. But then the magpie stretches his wings, begins to ferret his beak between his feathers, and Dora falls back against the pillows. She taps her pencil to her lips. It is obvious she will get no inspiration trapped up here in her room. Dora tries to remember if there is anything in the shop that might inspire her. Was there not a cabinet tucked far back that held fragments of those old mosaics?

Two birds …

‘Hermes, come,’ she says, decided, excavating her legs from the twist of blankets, dislodging the bird from her lap. ‘Let us go exploring.’