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“It is best I concentrate, if you please,” she says, pencil poised on a fresh page, and Edward reluctantly closes his mouth again.

Dora will speak when she is ready. Attempting to force her will not work, and with regret Edward watches her sketch, knows exactly what her concentration costs her. He understands all too well the need to bury pain with work.

Keep busy, it does not hurt. Keep busy—it leaves no time to think.

Cornelius has begun taking a slow turn around the pithos, and he releases a long whistle.

“It really is quite magnificent, isn’t it? I didn’t look at it properly before, at Latimer’s.” Then he hesitates, catches sight of Dora’s sketchbook. He leans over her shoulder, rests his hands on his knees. “Edward was right,” he murmurs. “Your drawings are quite spectacular. You are an extraordinary artist, Miss Blake.”

Dora’s pencil hovers over the page. She looks up at him, blushes.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashmole.”

Edward stares, notes Dora’s pinked cheeks, Cornelius’ admiration that shows so clearly on his handsome face.

It has not escaped Edward’s notice that Cornelius’ attitude toward Dora has changed. He knows there was no choice in letting Dora stay with him, that to stay with Edward would have broached the bounds of propriety altogether. Certainly, after their disagreement, such a thing would have been untenable, but since Dora has been staying with him Cornelius has been less vitriolic toward her, more—if not kind, then—accommodating, and Edward feels a flicker of jealousy.

Has something happened between them? The thought makes him breathless.

“What does this scene represent?” Cornelius asks Dora now, gesturing at the section of pithos she sketches, and Edward’s stomach begins to churn.

Dora shifts her position on the floor.

“It is a depiction of Athena blessing Pandora with all the gifts Zeus felt it necessary for her to have. There are different versions of the myth—some say the gifts were given not by one goddess but many. Given by gods, too.” Dora shifts again then huffs in frustration. She moves to lie on her side to take a closer look at some of the detailing at the base. “Apollo taught her to sing and play the lyre, Athena taught her to spin, Demeter to tend a garden. Aphrodite, apparently, taught her how to dance without moving her legs.”

“An impressive feat, I dare say.”

“Hardly possible for anyone, I would have thou—” Dora breaks off.

Cornelius frowns. “What is it?”

“My God,” Dora whispers. “Look at this.”

“What?” Edward asks.

“Come and see.”

Edward gets down on the cold floor next to her, must lie flat on his chest to see what she is pointing at.

A series of words, in Greek:

εδ? βρ?σκεται η τ?χη των κ?σμων

Cornelius squats down beside them. “What does it say?”

Dora licks her lips. “Edó vrísketai i týchi ton kósmon.”

“I’m sorry?”

Another beat.

“Herein lies the fate of worlds.”

There is a palpable pulse in the air.

“Dora,” Edward breathes, his jealousy forgotten.

Cornelius looks at Edward. “Greek pottery never has writing on it. Does it?”