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Back on the street he pats his chest, palm pressing on the small package which sits comfortably within the inner pocket of his greatcoat, and smiling widely Hezekiah adjusts his hat, continues on.

Chapter Three

Dinner is a painful affair. Unlike the rest of the house the small dining room with its rich maroon wallpaper and merry fire is cozy and warm, and would be quite an agreeable little place to sit if she were in different company. But Dora and Hezekiah have never been much for pleasant conversation, especially in recent weeks. Christmas passed without any amusement to be taken from it for Hezekiah’s humor was dark and mutinous, which made the experience altogether rather trying. That humor continued—unprecedented, it seemed—into the new year, and Dora has been making every effort to avoid his sharp tongue, the irritation that seems to seep from him like Thames fog. Dora curls her fingers round her napkin. She would much rather pass the evening in her damp and drafty bedroom fixing the glass pebble to her necklace with only Hermes for company. Indeed, she has far more rewarding discussions with him than anyone else, and he only a bird.

Thoughtfully Dora watches her uncle. Hezekiah is distracted, more so than usual, for he is slow to eat and keeps his gaze set on the large map of the world that hangs on the wall behind her, absently stroking his scar, a fine white line that spans the length of his cheek. He coughs and fidgets, taps his wineglass with his thumb, its clink-clink-clink a wearisome noise as the evening draws on. Every now and then his other hand strokes the gleaming pocketwatch that hangs from his waistcoat, its chain glinting in the candlelight.

Dora stares at it fixedly after the sixth time he reaches for it, trying to recall if she has seen it before. Did the watch belong to her father? But no, she would remember it. A new acquisition then, Dora decides, but she holds her tongue. The last time she asked how Hezekiah could possibly afford to buy such baubles he went an alarming shade of red and scolded her so loudly that her ears rang until the following morning. When her uncle coughs again, the effort making a large globular piece of mutton wobble dangerously on his fork, Dora decides she cannot stand it any longer.

“Uncle, are you ill?”

Hezekiah jumps, looks directly at her for the first time all day. His eyes betray for a moment a nervousness she has not seen before but he shields it quickly.

“What a notion.” He pops his fork into his mouth, chews open-mouthed like a cow. Dora watches with distaste as the overcooked meat swirls about on his tongue. A speck of gravy lands on his chin. “I was pondering the future of the shop. I feel...”

Dora sits up straight in her seat. Is he finally going to discuss the running of the shop with her? For she has ideas, so many wonderful ideas! First, she would remove the dead weight and replenish with good, genuine articles sourced from her father’s old contacts. Second, make enough money to hire men to undertake digs overseas, employ artists and engravers to catalog their finds. They could be listed once more in Christie’s directory, provide a retreat for scholars and private collectors, house a small museum, a miniature library. Perhaps—for the more frivolous aspects of the business—cater to the aristocracy’s whims of themed soirées. Restore the shop to its former glory. Begin again.

“Yes?”

Hezekiah swallows his food, takes a long swig of wine.

“Now we have begun a new year, I feel it might be time to sell. I tire of trade. There is far more pleasure to be had elsewhere, after all, far better things to invest my money in.”

His voice is offhand, almost cold, and Dora stares at her uncle across the table. “You would sell Father’s shop?”

He sends her a level stare.

“It is not his shop. It passed naturally on to me when he died. Does it say Elijah on the board, or Hezekiah?”

“You can’t sell it,” she whispers. “You just can’t.”

He dismisses this with a wave of his arm, as if he were batting away a fly.

“Times change. Antiquities are no longer à la mode. The money from the sale would be sufficient to purchase a fine seat in a more reputable part of town. It would be an agreeable change for me.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “The building would fetch a good price, as would the contents, I’m sure.”

Dora feels entirely numb. Sell the shop? Her childhood home?

She takes an unsteady breath.

“For shame, Uncle, you would contemplate such a thing.”

“Come, Dora. The shop is not what it once was—”

“And whose fault is that?”

Hezekiah’s nostrils flare, but he ignores this too.

“I should think you would be glad of a change of scene, more, ah, liberating surroundings. Is that not what you wish?”

“You know what I wish.”

“Oh, yes,” he sneers. “Those little sketches of yours. You’d be much better off finding someone to buy you such pieces rather than attempting to fashion them yourself.”

Dora lowers her cutlery. “And where, Uncle, would I wear them?”

“Well now...” Hezekiah hesitates, gives a little laugh that carries on its edge something she cannot quite decipher. “Who knows where our fortunes might take us? You do not wish to stay here for ever, do you?”

She pushes her plate away, her appetite—never prodigious on Lottie’s mediocre cooking—completely lost.