Pandora(94)

Desolate, she listens to the birdsong. Hermes. For so long he was her only friend. And Hezekiah has taken him from her. But why? She does not understand. Why harm him, if not for spite? He always disliked him, always mocked her love of him, her dearest dear heart. With a sob Dora buries her face into the pillow. Soft, plush, clean. Nothing like the ones from home.

Home.

Another blow. The realisation that Blake’s Emporium – the place she has always known to be her one true constant – is no longer her home and never will be again, makes her ribcage hurt.

Of her parents, she will not think.

She lies, staring at the ceiling, for over an hour. It is only when, somewhere in the house, she hears a clock chime half past one that she begins to stir.

Dora pushes away the covers, is gratified to see she still wears her dress. No one attempted to disrobe her, then. That is something. But it is as she is pulling on her slippers over her still-stockinged feet that she realises she must go back. The dress she wears … Dora looks down at it. Creased. Dirt on its hem. The sleeve is ripped. It will not do indefinitely.

She goes to the dressing table by the window, looks at herself in its oval mirror. Her olive skin is pale, dark circles cup her eyes like smudged half-moons. Dora attempts to tuck an errant curl back into the green ribbon still pinned in her hair but it is no use. Without a brush to run through it, it will remain untamed. No, she must go back. And the sooner the better. But she will not risk setting eyes on Hezekiah, if she can help it.

In, out, be done.

Mr Ashmole must have heard her descent, as halfway down the stairs he steps into the hall to greet her. He has been waiting for me, Dora thinks, and when he greets her at the bottom tread she does not know what to say. He too, it seems, is as tongue-tied as she.

‘How did you sleep?’ he asks eventually.

‘I slept,’ she says. ‘That is something in itself, I suppose.’

Despite it all, Dora cannot keep the dislike from her voice, the remembrance of the part he played in Edward’s duplicity, and Mr Ashmole has the good grace to flush. He looks away, looks instead at the carriage clock. It now says nearly two.

‘You slept deeply.’

It is a redundant thing to say. Mr Ashmole seems to know it as well, for he shifts awkwardly on the soles of his feet. The sight irritates her.

‘What have you done with Hermes?’

Her tone is over-sharp, accusatory. Mr Ashmole raises his hands, palms facing her, fingers spread wide in defence.

‘Mrs Howe has him in the cold store. He is …’ Mr Ashmole appears to test the suitability of the next word, ‘preserved, until you decide what you want to do with him. I can have him stuffed, if you like?’

There is a hint of the sardonic tone Dora is used to, but his attempt at humour falls flat and Dora simply stares at him.

‘I wish to bury him.’

Mr Ashmole catches his ill-received quip on a short nod. ‘I have a garden.’

The carriage clock ticks loudly in its casement, the turn of the cogs matching perfectly the pulse of blood in her head.

‘I need to go back to the shop,’ Dora says. ‘To fetch my things.’

He nods again, gestures behind her. ‘Your cape and gloves …’

She turns to find them draped over the newel cap. She reaches for them.

Mr Ashmole watches Dora pull on the gloves, tie the cape around her neck. He seems to struggle with something – she can see from the corner of her eye how he fidgets, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it once more.

‘Would you like me to come with you?’ he says at last, and she does not miss a beat.

‘No.’ Her voice comes out sharp again. This time she does not mean it to. ‘No,’ Dora says again, more softly, and ignoring his attempt at gallantry she moves past him, opens the heavy door herself, steps down into the cold street.



How long she stands in front of the shop she does not know. It seems to Dora that one moment she is outside Clevendale and the next she is standing in front of Blake’s Emporium’s peeling facade without any memory of how she got there or how long the journey took. It is as if she is in a daze; as if her brain has registered what has happened, what her night at Sir William’s revealed, but her heart is completely incapable of accepting it. She comprehends but does not feel, sees but remains blind to implication, and on understanding that Dora does not know how to act in the face of it.

Still. She cannot stay out here all day.

In, out. Be done.

Shaking herself, Dora pushes on the door. The bell jangles. She is almost relieved to find only Lottie standing in the middle of the room, a broom in her hand. They stare at each other for a long moment. Dora closes the door.

‘Where is he?’ she asks, and Dora sees the tremor of the housekeeper’s chin which she fails to hide.

‘Out, again,’ Lottie says. Quiet. Hesitant. ‘I’m not sure where.’

But really Dora is past caring where her uncle has disappeared off to.

‘You’ve cleaned.’

The shelf is upright again, the broken crockery gone. The dust, too. Lottie flushes awkward pink.

‘You was always at me to do it, weren’t you?’

Dora stares. Lottie stares back. When Dora keeps silent the housekeeper bites her lip.

‘I’m so sorry about your bir—’

‘No,’ Dora cuts in. ‘We shall not speak of it. I don’t want to hear.’