Page 13 of Pandora

Hezekiah bristles. “You think my word not enough? Have I ever let you down?”

“No,” Matthew concedes, taking the reins of the horse. “But you’ve never had nothing the likes of this before.”

Chapter Seven

Again, she must bide her time. For a little while longer she must suffer under Hezekiah’s roof. But Dora is a stubborn creature, and her imagination is already at work.

So, then. Her offerings are not in vogue. No matter, Dora thinks, as she passes the path leading up to St. Paul’s. In a few years they will be again, and she will ensure her pieces are in commission by the time they are. Still, she is no fool. Dora knows the goldsmith means only to delay her. She knows he will likely dismiss her again. But what better person than she to design such jewelry? Her mother was Greek. Dora spent her childhood immersed in Grecian dig sites. It is in her blood.

Agáli-agáli gínetai i agourída méli.

“Slowly, slowly, the sour grape becomes honey,” she mutters under her breath.

It takes time to grow bigger or better.

Every morning after breakfast and before her parents went to dig, Dora was taught her Greek letters, her proverbs, the ancient stories of her mother’s homeland. Be patient, the proverb meant. But has she not been patient long enough?

When Dora emerges back onto the stir of Ludgate Street, she crosses to the far right where the pavement is at its widest to avoid the tracks of oncoming carriages, the push-pull of London’s suffocating crowds. A frost the night before has deposited thin sheets of black ice on the roads; walking here requires a certain tactility, a skill in placing a foot just so, bending the body to weave between the press of others, and a slippery walkway makes it a treacherous exercise. She is halfway between a stationer’s and tailor’s when behind her St. Paul’s strikes its bells eleven and ahead of her there is the most almighty crash. A horse’s scream pierces the air.

Dora manages to push her way through the building crowd, intending to keep her head down, for accidents like this happen often and most are horrific things—not worth the nightmares you get from looking—but then she hears the unmistakable shriek of Lottie Norris. Dora’s head snaps up in time to see the housekeeper rushing from the shop in a flurry of skirts. Dora picks up her own and risks a run.

In front of the shop a cart has upended. The horse, though on its side, appears unharmed. Underneath its flank, though... Hezekiah’s leg is trapped and he is making a great show of howling his distress. Standing near him in an ungainly semicircle are three men Dora does not recognize. One of them is wringing a threadbare cap in his hands.

“You see!” he is crying, “You see? It sends things mad!”

Dora stares at them. Large, muscular men, each sharing the same copper hair, the same pale, red-veined eyes and all sickly, she thinks, assessing their gray faces. As she draws closer she smells on them the briny stench of the sea.

“The damn beast slipped on the ice, nothing more!” Hezekiah is now near spitting. “It has ruined my prize. Shoot it, someone! The infernal creature will pay for this, mark my words.”

“Now, now,” croons Lottie by his side, her hand clenched in his. “Perhaps there’s no harm done...”

“Of course there is,” Hezekiah snaps, trying in vain to extricate his leg from beneath the horse. “How can there not be? Matthew, tell me how it fares.”

Dora’s curiosity piqued, she joins the largest of the men at the back of the wagon. A wheel spins on its axel, the cart itself is in splinters, but its cargo... On the cobbles, encased in thick rope, is an extremely large wooden crate. The wood is warped at the corners, its boards patched verdigris. Molluscs stick firmly to its sides. A crude sideways cross has been painted on one of the panels. Slowly, the man circles the crate. At one corner, Dora sees, a section of wood has fallen away leaving a dark jagged gap and the man steps forward, presses his face up close to it. There is a pause, the impatient chatter of onlookers.

“Well?” Hezekiah leans his substantial weight on his elbows. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he groans. “It is smashed, completely ruined. That infernal horse!” He aims a fist for the mare but it shies away from him with a whicker.

In his anger Hezekiah has missed the look that the three men—brothers, Dora decides—shared between them. She, however, has not. That look was not one of shock, of bemusement. No, it was one of resignation, as if they have expected this, as if they have known all along...

The one called Matthew clears his throat. “Intact, sir. I am sure.”

Hezekiah gives a shout of laughter and cups a hand to Lottie’s face, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. “Luck is with me, after all! Now, someone get me free of this animal.”

There is a great effort, a pull, a heave. Hezekiah stands and, wincing, plucks a rusty nail from his thigh. The tip of it glistens red.

“Look at this!” he cries, flinging the nail onto the street where it lands with a tinny ping. He leans on Lottie for support and she bends under his weight, though she does not look to mind.

An old man with long white hair steps from the crowd, offers Hezekiah his arm. “Come, sir, let me assist you inside. You can walk, I trust?”

“Aye, though it’s a wonder! Did you see? My leg could have been broken.”

“Indeed it could have been,” the gentleman murmurs. “But as you say, luck appears to be with you. It is only a small wound. Shall we?”

Hezekiah takes the proffered arm, and with the old man on one side, Lottie on the other, he limps into the shop. At the threshold he turns his head to address the three red-headed men:

“Bring it to the basement. I’ll have Lottie unlock the door.”

From beneath his shirt Hezekiah pulls free a chain from which dangles a small metal key, and now Dora can hold her tongue no longer.

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