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“Recommended?”

“I was told to come here. To speak to you.”

“By whom?”

“A gentleman I met in a coffeehouse. He seemed to know of you...”

“Well,” Dora shrugs, “my parents were very popular; their reputation surpassed many of those in the trade. But Blake’s Emporium has not sold items of historic worth for many years now, and certainly nothing of Mediterranean origin. All the pieces my parents found have gone.” Dora pinches her eyes shut, her frustration and pain new and raw once again. When she opens her eyes she sees Mr. Lawrence through a sea of black spots. “I too have craved something of worth in here. Only last night I tried to seek out some of my father’s old wares and I was sorely disappointed.”

“What did you want them for?”

Dora hesitates. “You must promise not to scorn me.”

Mr. Lawrence stands. “Miss Blake, I could not. I would not, after you’ve heard my own plight.”

Behind the counter, Hermes chirps. Dora sighs, rubs her forehead until the spots behind her eyes have vanished.

“I am a designer of jewelry. That is, I hope to be one.” She pauses to look at him, divining only an open face and earnest eyes. “These past few months I have been building a portfolio of designs in the hope of opening my own establishment one day. The goldsmith I wanted to take them has refused on the grounds that Grecian styles are now the fashion. I thought...”

“You thought you would use your parents’ pieces for inspiration.”

“Yes.” Dora spreads her hands. “But I looked. I couldn’t find anything.”

Mr. Lawrence steps forward. “So there truly is nothing? Nothing at all? I was so sure...”

“Your gentleman must have been mistaken. As I said, Mr. Lawrence, you can see what we are dealing with here, what little worth we have.” She fidgets. “You saw the manner of man my uncle is and... I have only one card left to play.”

“And that is?”

The question gives her pause. She stares at Mr. Lawrence a moment, the solemn expression on his clean-shaven face. Should she tell him? Should she say? She does not sense him to be a dishonest sort of man. No, indeed, she sees in him quite the kindred spirit, a fellow dreamer—it is why she felt moved to confess how Hezekiah had hoodwinked him—and so Dora, feeling reckless, points across to the basement.

“Through those doors is my uncle’s workshop. I do not know for sure what he keeps in it, but I have come to suspect there is more than I originally believed. There could be something down there.”

“And if there is not?”

Behind her, Hermes chitters on his perch.

“Then I must think again.”

Mr. Lawrence peers down the room. “Those doors are locked,” he says, having observed the padlock. “You have the key?”

“No. My uncle has the only one. But I have a plan.”

“Oh?”

And now, now she has revealed too much. What is she thinking, confiding in a man she has known barely an hour?

“Mr. Lawrence,” Dora says, hardening her voice to steel. “You have taken far too much of my time already. I am very busy.”

He blinks, not at the change of tone, she knows, but at her barefaced lie. She watches him look around, at the emptiness of the shop, the dust lining the shelves, and Dora blushes.

“Please, sir. It is best you leave. My uncle...”

Mr. Lawrence stares at her a moment. The disappointment she sees in his eyes makes her belly jump.

“Very well,” he says finally, “I shall do as you ask. But...” He digs into his waistcoat, brings out a small rectangular card. She looks down at it.

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