Page 107 of Pandora

But Edward is nodding, stepping down from the stool. He holds out his hand for Tibb to shake. Hesitant, the man takes it in his own.

“You have been a great help. Thank you, Mr. Tibb. You’ve told me all I need to know.”

As he turns to leave, Edward pauses, his conscience pulling him back.

“They’re still there. The Coombe brothers. I...”

Tibb notes the look on Edward’s face, gives a grim nod.

“I’ll see to them.”

Mute, he chucks his chin in thanks. And as Edward makes his escape, the image of Matthew Coombe’s blood-soaked body follows him all the way up from Puddle Dock Hill like a plague.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

She does not know where she is at first. The room is silent, dappled dark by curtains that do not quite block out the daylight. Dora shifts under the covers, her body sinking into the unfamiliar bed. She spreads her hands out on the coverlet. Velvet. Periwinkle blue. She looks about her, at the framed pictures on the walls: all Oriental, all scenic, a collection of mountains, forests, lakes, pretty floral scenes. She stares for a long moment at one depicting three white butterflies, little black dots on their wings, fluttering over tufts of ornamental grass. Then a bird trills its midday song and she remembers it all.

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 realization 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 realizes 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 defense.

“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 humor 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.

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