Pandora(41)

For a long moment the magpie does not respond. He cocks his head, bobs on his perch. It seems as if he will disobey but then he flies to Dora, settles down onto her shoulder, talons picking at her dress.

Very slowly, Dora opens the basement doors. A flush of cold, stagnant air.

‘Be careful,’ she murmurs as Mr Lawrence hands the sketchbook back. ‘There are eight steps. Hold tight to the banister. I’d not forgive myself if I were the cause of a broken neck. And if my uncle hears us, then we’ll be thwarted before we can even begin.’

But beside her Mr Lawrence is hesitating, staring into the dark.

‘Mr Lawrence?’ Dora prompts. ‘Would you like me to go first?’

‘I think I can manage,’ he finally says, and takes his first step down.

Yes. He is afraid of the dark.

Once he begins his descent, she pulls the doors closed behind her. Dora hears when he reaches the bottom – the scuff of heel to stone – and her hand tightens on the balustrade, the rough wood splintering her palm.

‘To your right there is a tinderbox. Atop a crate. Do you—’

‘I have it.’

There is a scrape, a spark, and Dora sees the ember-glow between Mr Lawrence’s fingers. He lights the first candle just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Dora peers into his face, and in the lowlight she fancies he looks very pale.

‘Here.’ She lets him light the second and takes the first candle from him. ‘I’ll light the rest.’

Dora busies herself with the sconces, gently deposits Hermes on the back of the chair. The bird ruffles his feathers, patters up and down the wood as if it were a tightrope. When she turns she finds Mr Lawrence bent – hands on knees – studying the vase. He looks up as she approaches and her heart begins to thud dangerously in the cavern of her chest.

‘Well?’

Mr Lawrence straightens. ‘Well.’ He unwinds the scarf from his neck and turns the wool in his hands, again and again, in nervousness or excitement Dora cannot tell. ‘It certainly looks genuine. I’ll probably need an analysis of the material to be sure. I can’t accurately age it otherwise, and I’ll have to look underneath.’

‘Why?’ Dora asks.

Mr Lawrence smiles a little. The colour has returned to his cheeks.

‘Forgers often mark the bottom of pottery. Your Oriental wares,’ he says with a nod to the floor above, ‘all have signature stamps on them that are invariably incorrect, but forgers insist on doing it because they believe it dupes buyers into thinking the item is the genuine article. Grecian pottery however is rarely marked. A relatively small number of Athenian vases bear the signature of the artist or the potter. The thing is, potter and painter were not always one and the same, but they could be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only that some potters painted their products, and others sent them elsewhere to be painted. But forgers don’t take that into account. They often mark the bottoms with a signature that doesn’t make logical sense in terms of location, style and historic timing. And this,’ Mr Lawrence adds, gesturing to the vase, ‘is a pithos, not a standard vase. They are much, much harder to replicate due to their sheer size. Forgers seldom have the patience.’

Dora frowns, the word ghostly, familiar. ‘A pithos?’

Seconds before, Mr Lawrence had appeared quite animated and he stops now, as if caught off guard. ‘A pithos,’ he says patiently, ‘is a very large earthenware jar which the ancient Greeks used for holding and storing large quantities of food such as grain, or liquids like wine and oil. You don’t know?’

Dora sighs, crosses the room to replace the candle she has been holding back into the candelabrum.

‘As I told you, Mr Lawrence, I’m no expert. What little knowledge I have comes from childhood memory. I am surrounded by forgeries that I only know are such because I’ve been witness to the way my uncle manages the shop. I wouldn’t know what differentiates a vase and a pithos any more than I would a …’ Dora trails off, partly because she cannot think of an example and partly because Mr Lawrence is watching her with a faintly bemused expression. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,’ she finishes, defensive.

But he is shaking his head. ‘I am not disappointed,’ he says quietly. ‘I confess, I only know all this because I have read extensively. I suppose,’ he adds with a wry grimace, ‘you and I are both amateurs.’

‘You already know far more than I can hope to.’

A pause.

‘Does that sadden you?’

The question surprises her, not least because she has not thought herself to be so transparent. Dora slowly approaches the vase – the pithos – and rests a hand on its lid.

‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘If my parents had lived they would have taught me. My uncle, who knows the trade, chose to keep me from that knowledge. It was not necessary for me to know it, he said.’ Dora feels an angry heat in her throat, presses her hand against the clay. ‘I could have done so much with this place if given the chance.’

He stands very close. The scarf in his hands now hangs limp from them. She dares look at him. In the golden glow of candlelight she sees the fine shadow-hair on his angular chin.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Mr Lawrence quietly, and Dora is just thinking how kind his eyes are when her hand becomes, suddenly, very hot. With a gasp she snatches it away, and Hermes lets out a sharp squawk.