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For a dreadful moment the words pool between them, and Dora’s stomach clenches at the possibility. This, this, did not occur to her, and she feels now desperately foolish for her naivety. Forgeries are one thing. Illegal still, yes, though harmless to those who have no inclination to care. But if Hezekiah has been trading in contraband all this time, and from within the shop no less... That changes things.

For him.

For her.

Dora’s hand goes to her throat. She can almost feel the rope tightening around her neck. She turns to look at Mr. Lawrence; he watches her, face pitying.

“Miss Blake. Are you all right?”

She has not the words. She wants to cry out, to tell Mr. Lawrence that her uncle would never dare stoop to such a thing—why would he risk so much?—but now that the thought has been placed in her mind Dora finds the notion impossible to deny.

“There may be nothing to worry about,” Mr. Lawrence says in a rush. “I am probably mistaken. But I must see them for myself first to be sure.”

“Then you will come?”

Dora cannot keep the fear from her voice. She came to him with hope, thought only of her jewelry designs, her means to escape. And now... now, it seems, her very life may depend on what Mr. Lawrence might impart. If Hezekiah is trading in stolen goods and he is caught, then Dora will face the noose with him, for who would ever believe she was not aware of such dealings when she herself has knowingly been selling forgeries on the shop floor for years?

“Yes,” he says gently. “I will come.”

“You will come tonight?”

“I shall.”

“Thank you.”

He smiles at her. His eyes, Dora notes, are gray.

“May... may I see your sketches, Miss Blake?”

“Of course.”

It is a distraction, at least. With shaking fingers Dora opens the sketchbook, turns to her preliminary drawings of the vase.

“Here,” she says, trying for stoicism. “It is a scenic representation of the Pandora myth. This—” she trails her finger across her sketch of Zeus and Prometheus—“depicts how man was given the gift of fire.” She points to another sketch a little further down the page. “And here is a quick outline of the vase itself. It stands to just below my shoulders. Could you date it, do you think?”

Their heads are bent over the sketchbook. Dora can hear his steady breath, smells the rich scent of leather on his clothes.

“Your drawings... They are extraordinary.” He raises his head. Their faces are so close now their noses almost touch. “You have a gift. If you were to see mine...” Mr. Lawrence’s lip twists slightly. “Well, mine are nothing at all in comparison.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Blake.”

They say nothing for a moment, only look at each other until Mr. Lawrence seems to catch himself and, blushing, Dora looks away. As one they sit back on the bench. The cold air that comes between them is like new breath.

“What of Hermes?” he asks suddenly, and the change in tide makes her blink.

“What of him?”

“You said he had been panicked.”

She hesitates. “It was extremely peculiar, completely out of character for him. As soon as I put the key in the lock he seemed restless, agitated. And when I began to examine the vase he just...” Thinking on it now Dora still cannot fathom the change in the bird. She shakes her head. “Well, he flew out of the basement as if a cat were after him. But when I returned to my room there he was, sound asleep.”

“How strange.”

“It was, rather.”

“And where is the key now?”