Page 108 of Pandora

“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.”

This is a lie, she admits to herself as she climbs up to the attic room. But she cannot think on it now. She must not. She means to collect her things, leave before Hezekiah returns. No, now is not the time to let emotion rule her.

It is in this frame of mind that Dora scoops up her dresses, petticoats, chemises. The carpet bag of her mother’s—Dora’s mouth twists when she sees the rip—is just serviceable enough for her clothes not to fall through, but she lines the bottom with one of her older dresses anyway, folds the rest inside.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she finds her spectacles—mercifully undamaged—but pauses when she sees the coin purse, the tinderbox, and her copy of the basement key. So, Dora thinks, he found it. Then she pauses, the realization bringing her up short.

He found it.

What on earth was he looking for?

“Missum?”

Dora looks up. Lottie stands at the door. Clutched in her hands is Dora’s sketchbook.

“You left this beneath the counter.” The housekeeper takes a small step into the room. “I hope you don’t mind but I looked through it. They’re...” Lottie takes a breath. “They’re very good.”

“What do you want, Lottie?” Dora says, what little patience she had quite spent. The headache that has been threatening to dig its fingernails into her skull since her walk over has finally begun its incessant burrow. “You’ve never been this nice to me. What is it? Guilt?”

“Yes.”

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