Page 32 of Pandora

Mr. Fingle asks again, “May I help you?”

Dora takes a breath, summons some authority into her voice.

“I am here to see Mr. Edward Lawrence.” She fetches the trade card from her reticule once more and holds it out. “A matter of business.” Mr. Fingle glances at the card but does not take it from her. Cannot, Dora realizes, looking at the books in his arms. Her hand falters. “Is he here?”

“He’s here, miss.” The man pauses, sends her a confused but kindly sort of smile. “If you head through to the very back—the door with the glass panes—you will find him there.”

“Oh, yes, very well. Thank you.”

Mr. Fingle nods, once. She does not sense disapproval. No, he appears altogether far too surprised which in itself is surprising. Perhaps Mr. Lawrence does not receive visitors? Dora dips her knee needlessly in a nervous bob, disappears through the arched doorway he indicated with a shunt of his chin.

She finds herself in a narrow corridor. Here is decidedly less sumptuous but it is still warm and clean. On either side are two open doors, and as she goes down the corridor Dora looks through each.

Workshops, both, with long tables set in the middle, but the rooms appear to have a different purpose. One holds sheets of paper (some spread on the tables, others hanging from the ceiling), spools of linen, lots of pots and brushes, hammers and metal tools. At the far end are three large wooden contraptions Dora cannot fathom the purpose of. The other room is filled with rolls of leather, more metal tools, and what Dora thinks is a guillotine. And in both rooms are boys and young men in aprons, all of whom have stopped and are looking at her with an almost comical mixture of shock and curiosity. Feeling herself redden she continues on to the end of the corridor, but there is a shuffling commotion behind her and she knows they have come to the threshold to stare.

Just before she reaches the glass-paneled door, Dora pauses. Off to her left the corridor veers sharply. Blackness, no windows, no candle sconce anywhere near. For a brief spell she wonders at this dark space but then catches herself and softly she raps on the door with her knuckle.

There is no answer. Behind the glass, a bright golden glow. She thinks she sees Mr. Lawrence sitting at his desk, but he has not moved. She knocks a little louder but, once again, there is no answer.

Dora frowns. “Mr. Lawrence? It’s Dora Blake.”

She hears muttering behind her, furtive giggles. She ignores them for behind the glass there is movement now, a rushing to the door. It is flung open and Mr. Lawrence stares at her, almost breathless. His cravat is partially undone, his golden hair has fallen over his forehead. A smudge of brownish-red glistens on his cheek.

“Miss Blake!”

He appears, for one brief moment, joyful. But then he notices the audience behind her. Dora looks over her shoulder. Mr. Fingle now stands in front of them, as curious as the rest.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Lawrence,” Dora whispers, apologetic, “I have caused a commotion.”

Mr. Lawrence scowls. It does not suit him.

“Please,” he says, taking her elbow gently. “Do come in.”

He shuts the door behind them and Dora blinks into bright light; the room is completely filled with candles. Mr. Lawrence scoots past her, begins to tidy his desk in a rush.

“I was not expecting you. I mean,” he adds, flustered, rubbing at the mark on his cheek, “I hoped I might see you again but had not thought it would be so soon.”

“Nor I,” says Dora. Then, “Oh, please, do not tidy on my account.”

Mr. Lawrence pauses, two small oddly shaped tools in his hands. She takes that moment to survey the room, but her eyes struggle to adjust to the light.

“So many candles...”

“Yes.”

He seems to disappear into himself then, and instinctively Dora regrets her words. She smiles to distract him.

“I wanted to show you my sketchbook. I went down to the basement, you see.”

“You found something?”

Mr. Lawrence’s voice and expression are hopeful.

“I might have. But I need your help.”

She hears a scuffling noise behind her, accompanied by muffled murmuring. Dora turns her attention to the door, to the distorted shadows behind the panes, the laugh-whisper of voices.

Mr. Lawrence clears his throat.

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