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Dora could cry. Oh, Edward...

“He doesn’t speak of it. It’s been some years now and still he rarely mentions it. I tried to get him to, once, but he walked out on me and we didn’t speak again for a week. I’ve never brought it up since.” Finally Mr. Ashmole looks at her. “I know Edward will never return my feelings. He will never love me as I do him. But I suppose I always hoped that maybe, one day... And then you came along.”

He stares at her for what feels like an endless moment, one that spins out on itself, and all his jealousy and disappointment is encapsulated into that one single look. Then he turns his face, becomes lost once more in the flames.

“Do not punish Edward for his ambition, Miss Blake.” His voice is a low murmur, a silken thread. “He meant no harm by writing what he did. All he has ever wanted was to rise above what once was. I should not have made things awkward between you. I know what you mean to him. He’s as like to cause you hurt as I would him.”

The fire cracks. Dora’s stomach flips. Mr. Ashmole drains his glass.

She waits to see if he will speak again. When he does not Dora rises, places her still full glass of rum down on the small table beside the chair.

“I think I shall sleep now.”

At first he does not respond, but at the door he whispers her name, so softly she is not sure at first if she imagined it, and then he says, “He doesn’t know. I don’t think it’s even occurred to him. He hasn’t experienced enough of life to...” Mr. Ashmole sucks in his breath. “You won’t tell?”

Dora shakes her head. “Of course not.”

He nods.

A beat.

Dora turns to leave. Turns back again.

“I never thanked you. For taking me in. I thank you now.”

“Well.” He turns his face to look at her. “I hardly had a choice, did I?”

Sardonic again. She thinks she likes it.

“Goodnight, Cornelius Ashmole.”

A ghost of a smile.

“Goodnight, Pandora Blake.”

Chapter Forty-One

Hezekiah stares at the key to the Bramah safe in his hand, the smooth black revolving disk at its head. He looks back at the wall, the wall that for years has been just a wall to him and nothing more.

He thought at first they must have meant a different one, and so he moved everything into the center of the floor, ran his hand along each blank wall in turn. But there were no keyholes and besides, it made sense for it to be this one. All that missing room... it never occurred to him that there should have been more floor space than this, and yet it is obvious now that he thinks about it. Hezekiah curses himself he did not think about it before.

Use the gold-and-black key, the note said.

The Bramah key, obviously. So why is it he cannot find a bloody lock?

He presses his hand against the wall, groans deep into his chins. His leg is agony. The pain is unbearable, the smell equally so, but he will not give in to it now. He will find a way in first, secure his fortune and then, only then, will he relinquish himself to the hands of a doctor.

Hezekiah groans again. Sweat drips like a river down his back.

He must be missing something, Hezekiah thinks. In desperation he runs his hand along the uneven wall, palms scraping against the roughness. Again and again and again he does this until, panting, he changes tack. He limps to the far left side—leaning on the wall for support—and starts a slow run of it from top to bottom. He moves as slowly as he can take, bites back his anger, his frustration, his impatience, his pain until then, then!

Hezekiah stops, runs his hand over the spot once more. He feels for a fleeting second nothing, or rather, the absence of something. He bends to squint.

There. A small oval indent, the exact size of the disk on the Bramah key.

Hezekiah’s heart soars.

He has done it! He has found it! By God, he knew he would win in the end!