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“As I told you, my uncle possesses the only key for the basement. I had a copy made and used it last night.”

Mr. Lawrence sits forward, face brightening. “And?”

“I found crate upon crate of Grecian pottery. I also found a Greek vase. I suspect they’re all genuine. But,” Dora adds, looking at him now, “I cannot know for sure.”

Mr. Lawrence’s eyebrows rise. “You can’t?”

“Do not sound so surprised, Mr. Lawrence. I know what is a fake in the shop because I know the sort of places my uncle gets the wares from. Often they are of his own creation. But I was only a child when my parents died. I am no antiquarian; I cannot be certain the vase is genuine. You, however...”

Mr. Lawrence’s expression twists, the excitement in his face now quite gone. “Miss Blake, I cannot be considered anything but a bookbinder for now.”

“I don’t believe that,” she counters. “You understand the field, certainly better than I. You recognized instantly that the contents of my uncle’s shop were not genuine.” Dora takes another breath. “Mr. Lawrence, there are things in that basement I suspect are worth something and if they are, I do not understand why my uncle keeps them hidden. There’s no logical reason for it. But you can tell me for sure if what he keeps is authentic or mere tradesmen’s tat.”

Mr. Lawrence is looking out across the square, his expression pensive. “Yes,” he sighs, “perhaps. But, I must confess... Miss Blake, I have been a student of antiquities—in a manner of speaking—all my life. You are right, I can recognize a forgery, but my pure knowledge of some things is not all I wish it to be. I cannot guarantee the authenticity of a piece. I fear I may disappoint you.”

Hesitant, Dora places her gloved hand on his arm. He flinches, looks down at it as if it were something unnatural. Just as he seems about to soften Dora replaces her hand in her lap.

“You must understand,” she says gently, so he might not suspect how much she is relying on his assent. “I need to finish my copy of the vase. It’s the inspiration for my new designs. Sir, may I speak plainly?”

Mr. Lawrence looks at her. His lip twitches. “Aren’t you already?”

His tone has a hint of the playful and Dora stares at him. Mr. Lawrence clears his throat as if he believes her patience to be waning, but in reality she is wondering at what a changeable creature he is; reserved and nervous one moment, teasing and excitable the next.

“Of course,” he is saying, voice serious now. “Please, continue.”

Dora splays her hands flat across the sketchbook. “Mr. Lawrence, my prime objective is to sketch the vase in full detail so I can replicate the designs into jewelry. I do not know how long I shall have access to it—as we speak, my uncle is doing heaven knows what with the thing. For all I know he could have got rid of it already. What I need to do is spend each night—after he and our housekeeper have gone to bed—sketching it. I don’t have time to look through the crates too. So, here is what I propose.”

Mr. Lawrence has half-turned on the bench. His expression is pensive, but his attention is rapt and Dora knows she has him.

“While I sketch, you are to look through everything my uncle has stored in the basement, tell me if what he hides is something genuine. And of course you may use anything you find down there—including the vase—for your own research.” Dora touches the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I do understand that nothing might come of it for you if the items are worthless, but you asked me for your help. This is all I can offer.”

Mr. Lawrence worries his inner cheek.

“If I discover the pieces are fakes, what do you intend to do with the knowledge?”

Dora sighs. A dog barks at a squirrel across the other side of the field, pulling at its owner’s leash, and she watches the smaller creature’s scampered escape up a tree before answering.

“If the items are forgeries, then that will be that. I will do nothing.”

A pause. “Forgive me, Miss Blake, but why?”

Dora tries to choke down a bitter laugh. She does not quite succeed, and her companion looks at her in surprise.

“Because, Mr. Lawrence, I can do nothing. I rely entirely on my uncle’s generosity. If I were to report him I risk my own livelihood as well as his, and until I have the means to be free of him then I must keep my silence. Perhaps,” she continues, “my uncle merely keeps them down there because he is not yet ready to bring them onto the shop floor. At least if you can confirm them to be forgeries I shall know, for my own peace of mind. But...” Dora pauses, rubs the bridge of her nose. “I cannot help thinking there is something more to it than that. He has been acting so strange of late.”

Beside her Mr. Lawrence takes a measured breath. “And what if they are genuine?”

“I...”

Dora presses her fingers against the sketchbook. For as long as the shop has been under his jurisdiction, Hezekiah has not sold one legitimate article beyond what was already there when it passed on to him. Certainly, if he has, she has never been aware of the fact. If the vase is genuine, why does he have it?

Maybe there is an innocent explanation. Indeed, he may intend to restore the shop, just as she has always hoped. But no... did he not intimate he might sell? Dora is so busy troubling over the matter that when Mr. Lawrence speaks again she must ask him to repeat himself.

“What if he is already selling them?”

Dora frowns. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Lawrence shifts, adjusts the scarf he wears. “If they are genuine,” he says carefully, as if afraid of saying the words, “then based on his current behavior, it is possible that he might be peddling on the black-market.”