Pandora(49)

‘Please, Miss Blake, I understand your disbelief. I did not believe it myself at first. But the Society can be trusted. I assure you, I am not in jest. I almost wish I were.’

For a long moment Dora stares at him, then stares up at the pithos. From his perch on the back of the desk chair, Hermes emits a low chitter.

Can it really be true? Dora reaches out a finger, traces the patterning of the bottom meandros border, the elegant feathers, their staring peacock eyes, with a kind of fearful rapture.

‘But,’ she whispers, ‘how can this be?’

Mr Lawrence shakes his head. ‘I do not know.’

Her astonishment at such a discovery is twofold. Alone, its very age is most shocking. But … Dora is struck with a deep-seated nausea, as if someone has shaken her so hard her stomach has detached itself. This is not what she had vainly hoped it to be, a simple case of underhand trading, of incompetent salesmanship. It is clear, now, that there is something more sinister at play. Where on earth would her uncle have found an artefact this old? How does he even have the means to secure such a thing – such an obscure, expensive thing – as this? There is only one explanation, and Dora closes her eyes, thinks of her father, her mother, how they would never have allowed it. The Blake name, turned as black and noxious as gutter water.

When Dora finally shifts her attention back to Mr Lawrence she sees in his face an expression she cannot read. ‘What is it?’ she asks.

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does his tone is careful, considered.

‘You said yourself you do not wish to confront your uncle?’

‘I can’t.’

The words catch in her throat, and it takes all of Dora’s effort not to cry.

‘But you will still permit me to make a study of it?’

‘I …’

He draws out a breath. ‘Miss Blake, this must surely be one of the only pieces of pottery in the world so old and yet so completely intact. It would be a shame not to catalogue it. The clay sample was aged, but there are other tests that can be done. If you’ll permit, we’d need to ascertain where the clay came from, consider what sort of people might have created it. You have no notion, none at all, where your uncle acquired it?’

His words are not registering; she is too overwhelmed, too overcome by the thought of Hezekiah’s deceit, the historic importance of the pithos before her. But then she realises that Mr Lawrence waits for her answer and in confusion she shakes her head.

‘None whatsoever.’ Then, ‘No, wait. Three men – brothers, I believe, they brought it. I happened upon them when it arrived.’

‘Their names?’

She tries to recall if Hezekiah spoke them but her memory is blank, a bank of fog as thick as the one outside. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Then we must discover them,’ says Mr Lawrence. ‘But in the meantime I can only stress the importance of finishing your sketches.’

She feels ragged, her head pounds. ‘Why?’

Mr Lawrence sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees. ‘I understand why you wish to sketch the pithos. But … Miss Blake, I have had a notion.’ Dora waits. Mr Lawrence takes a breath. ‘You offered me the chance to use the pithos and whatever I found down here in my studies. Now, my written works, in the manner of their literacy – forgive my arrogance – have never been of issue, though the subject matter has never found much favour.’ He cuts off, a hint of bitterness. ‘My drawings, on the other hand. Well, I’m afraid my artistic skills leave much to be desired.’ When Dora does not respond, Mr Lawrence continues in a rush. ‘Your skill is most accomplished and far surpasses anything I could produce myself. I thought that we might be able to help each other.’

‘How?’

He hesitates. Very slowly, he reaches out to take her hand. Dora lets him.

‘Miss Blake. Dora,’ he tries, and when she does not object to it – in fact, she finds the sound of her name on his tongue comforting – he carries on, though there is a hesitance now to the tone of his voice. ‘There is still a chance your uncle obtained these items legally, that a credible paper can be written. And until we find otherwise, well, if you were to provide the sketches to accompany a report of the pithos, it would make all the difference. I could use the other items in the crates, too. Certainly, they would add value to the report. And –’ Mr Lawrence draws out a tentative smile – ‘if the study were successful, I would ask you to work as my assistant on all future projects for the Society. My paid assistant. You would—’

‘Be independent. Free,’ Dora finishes.

‘Yes.’

‘And my jewellery? If I were to find success with that?’

A pause. ‘Why could you not do both?’

In the silence that follows, Dora lets herself think on it. It sounds like a dream, as delicate a thing as spun glass.

Independent.

Free.

Safe.

And yet. What likelihood is there of such success? What if both her jewellery ambition and Mr Lawrence’s aspirations of academia were to tumble, like a cliff-face into the sea? She pictures herself thrashing in the icy current, gasping for air, drowning in her own folly, her own misguided make-believe.

‘Please, Mr Lawrence,’ Dora whispers, ‘you must understand. This shop is all I have ever known. It belonged to my parents. I had hoped, one day, it would be mine. But then my uncle ruined its fortunes, its credibility. And now I find …’ She shakes her head, bites her lip so hard she fears it might bleed. ‘Do you know the penalty for black-market trading?’ Dora does not need to say it; the answer is writ clearly on his face. ‘The likelihood of my uncle owning these objects legally is very slim. So my livelihood – in all ways – relies on my success. If we fail in both our causes what will become of me? What then? You have the bindery. You may earn your living, and honourably. But if Hezekiah is found out I will be condemned as his accomplice. They’ll hang me.’