Page 20 of Pandora

There is the tinkle of a bell and a door set behind the counter swings where Pandora—no, Dora, Mr. Blake called her—has disappeared through it.

Mr. Blake grimaces slightly as he sinks down into the cushion of the chair. “Only a scratch,” he says, gesturing to his thigh. “It will heal soon enough. But it aches, you see.”

“Of course.”

The large man stares at him. Edward stares back. A thin scar runs down one cheek, livid white against the rouge of the man’s flesh.

“Well, then, Mr....?”

“Lawrence.”

“Lawrence. What is it I can find for you?” At Edward’s hesitation Mr. Blake spreads his arm, gestures at the shop floor. “As you can see we have many treasures here. Perhaps you wish to browse?”

Edward, who cannot quite bring himself to be rude, finds himself agreeing.

“Excellent, excellent. But you will wait for my niece to return before you do? Yes, yes, sit there. No need to exert yourself.”

There is a pause. Somewhere, clocks tick out of sequence. Edward forces a smile.

“Have you been in business long?”

“Oh,” Mr. Blake says, as if this is nothing, straightening his cuff, “many years.” He repeats it. “A family establishment, you see. Do you know the trade?”

Edward wonders for the briefest moment whether to be honest, but something about this man makes him feel that safety lies in deception and so he says, “No, sir, not at all.”

“Ah!” The older man smiles, leans conspiratorially in. Edward catches the faint waft of coffee on the stale edge of his breath. “My dear departed brother left the shop to me. I have made it my life’s work to keep its eminent reputation as high as it was in his day.”

Pompous. A touch of conceit.

“Indeed,” Edward says awkwardly. The pair fall back into silence. The clocks whirr in their casings and Mr. Blake watches him intently, like a fox gauging for weakness in its prey. When Miss Blake returns Edward is near turning tail to flee.

Miss Blake hands him a small cup. She glances at him, then away, as if guilty. Edward takes the cup with both hands. It warms his fingers immediately, the blood tingling pleasantly down his veins.

“Thank you.”

Miss Blake nods. The magpie on her shoulder squawks.

“Dora...” Mr. Blake’s voice takes on a tired inflection and he sends Edward a diffident look. “Must you insist on bringing that filthy bird into the shop? You know I dislike you doing so.”

Edward sees a tic in Miss Blake’s jaw and suspects she knows full well. He blows steam from the broth.

“He does no harm, Uncle. But,” she says, as Mr. Blake makes to object, “I shall relegate him to a perch out of harm’s way, if you prefer.”

“Well...” He seems to force a smile, and she sets the bird on a high bookcase behind the counter where immediately the magpie commences to grooming. Mr. Blake eyes the bird with distaste. “I suppose up there I might be able to pass him off as a stuffed commodity. Perhaps I could sell him! Mr. Lawrence, might I persuade you?” and Mr. Blake laughs heartily at his misdirected humor, a loud and obtrusive laugh that has Edward shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Miss Blake’s eyes narrow. Edward takes a sip of broth.

It is rich. Too much salt.

When his mirth has dissipated the older man turns his attention back to Edward, watches him lick the grease from his lips. “Is that better?”

“Much, sir,” he lies.

“Well, Mr. Lawrence, I shall leave you to your broth and browsing.” He presses a finger to his nose, his bloodshot eyes creasing as he smiles in what Mr. Blake must consider to be a jovial way, but to Edward appears almost predatory. “I shall be watching you keenly, sir, ready to offer my assistance.”

And up he gets, off to the counter he goes, favoring his uninjured leg. As Edward diligently finishes his small cup of broth—it has already started to congeal at the bottom—he tries not to watch the way Miss Blake hunches intently over a piece of paper which she marks with a pencil, the way she seems to lean away from her uncle who hovers far too close at her shoulder. Edward turns his attention instead to the cabinets that tower all the way up to a ceiling patched with damp. He puts the cup on the dusty floor and stands up.

From what the white-haired gentleman told him Edward had not expected to find anything of worth here. Still, this does not prepare him for what he sees. Edward is no green man; his childhood at Sandbourne—despite his lack of formal education—gave him knowledge enough to understand at a very early age what was a genuine antique and what was not. His self-taught education at the generosity of the Ashmoles gave him the discerning eye of a collector and he can say, without a shadow of doubt, that there is not one item in Hezekiah Blake’s Emporium for Exotic Antiquities that can reliably be passed off as authentic.

The first shelving cabinet is filled with Oriental pieces. Edward looks at a plate, notes the mix of Japanese cherry blossom and Chinese dragons that would not be paired together were it legitimate. A small ceramic bowl. He picks it up, turns it over. It pretends to be Ming dynasty, but the reign marks have clearly been made by someone with little or no knowledge of that country’s calligraphy. The “Da” symbol, for instance. It portrays a man standing upright with arms and legs, but the leg should not start above the arm as it does here. Cornelius—whose speciality is in Oriental art—would pale with disgust. From the corner of his eye Edward sees Mr. Blake make to move toward him and so quickly he replaces the bowl on the shelf.

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