Page 52 of Pandora

“Forgive me, I fear of alarming you. There has been a development.”

There is something in his manner—why is it he looks so uneasy?—and Dora watches him struggle to form the words on his tongue.

“It is the clay sample,” he says finally. “I received the results today.”

She links her fingers to still them. “Is it a forgery, after all?”

Mr. Lawrence hesitates. “It appears that it is quite the opposite. Miss Blake, it...” He stops, tries again, gently. “This pithos. They can’t date it. Gough’s scientists claim that it predates history entirely.”

There is a beat of silence. A low crackle—as if the air has shifted and split—makes both Dora and Mr. Lawrence jump. Movement catches Dora’s eye; one of the candles is flickering in its sconce. Nothing more, then, than a draft of air.

She takes a breath, looks to him once more.

“Come now, Mr. Lawrence,” she says, “I sense a tendency for teasing in you, but this does seem a little extreme, don’t you think?” And now Dora begins to anger. “Especially considering my predicament. This is a jest in poor taste, I dare say,” she finishes and immediately he is raising his hands, palms forward, as if fending off a tiger ready to pounce.

“Please, Miss Blake, I understand your disbelief. I did not believe it myself at first. But the Society can be trusted. I assure you, I am not in jest. I almost wish I were.”

For a long moment Dora stares at him, then stares up at the pithos. From his perch on the back of the desk chair, Hermes emits a low chitter.

Can it really be true? Dora reaches out a finger, traces the patterning of the bottom meandros border, the elegant feathers, their staring peacock eyes, with a kind of fearful rapture.

“But,” she whispers, “how can this be?”

Mr. Lawrence shakes his head. “I do not know.”

Her astonishment at such a discovery is twofold. Alone, its very age is most shocking. But... Dora is struck with a deep-seated nausea, as if someone has shaken her so hard her stomach has detached itself. This is not what she had vainly hoped it to be, a simple case of underhand trading, of incompetent salesmanship. It is clear, now, that there is something more sinister at play. Where on earth would her uncle have found an artefact this old? How does he even have the means to secure such a thing—such an obscure, expensive thing—as this? There is only one explanation, and Dora closes her eyes, thinks of her father, her mother, how they would never have allowed it. The Blake name, turned as black and noxious as gutter water.

When Dora finally shifts her attention back to Mr. Lawrence she sees in his face an expression she cannot read. “What is it?” she asks.

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does his tone is careful, considered.

“You said yourself you do not wish to confront your uncle?”

“I can’t.”

The words catch in her throat, and it takes all of Dora’s effort not to cry.

“But you will still permit me to make a study of it?”

“I...”

He draws out a breath. “Miss Blake, this must surely be one of the only pieces of pottery in the world so old and yet so completely intact. It would be a shame not to catalog it. The clay sample was aged, but there are other tests that can be done. If you’ll permit, we’d need to ascertain where the clay came from, consider what sort of people might have created it. You have no notion, none at all, where your uncle acquired it?”

His words are not registering; she is too overwhelmed, too overcome by the thought of Hezekiah’s deceit, the historic importance of the pithos before her. But then she realizes that Mr. Lawrence waits for her answer and in confusion she shakes her head.

“None whatsoever.” Then, “No, wait. Three men—brothers, I believe, they brought it. I happened upon them when it arrived.”

“Their names?”

She tries to recall if Hezekiah spoke them but her memory is blank, a bank of fog as thick as the one outside. “I don’t remember.”

“Then we must discover them,” says Mr. Lawrence. “But in the meantime I can only stress the importance of finishing your sketches.”

She feels ragged, her head pounds. “Why?”

Mr. Lawrence sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “I understand why you wish to sketch the pithos. But... Miss Blake, I have had a notion.” Dora waits. Mr. Lawrence takes a breath. “You offered me the chance to use the pithos and whatever I found down here in my studies. Now, my written works, in the manner of their literacy—forgive my arrogance—have never been of issue, though the subject matter has never found much favor.” He cuts off, a hint of bitterness. “My drawings, on the other hand. Well, I’m afraid my artistic skills leave much to be desired.” When Dora does not respond, Mr. Lawrence continues in a rush. “Your skill is most accomplished and far surpasses anything I could produce myself. I thought that we might be able to help each other.”

“How?”

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