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“What do you mean?”

“Only that some potters painted their products, and others sent them elsewhere to be painted. But forgers don’t take that into account. They often mark the bottoms with a signature that doesn’t make logical sense in terms of location, style and historic timing. And this,” Mr. Lawrence adds, gesturing to the vase, “is a pithos, not a standard vase. They are much, much harder to replicate due to their sheer size. Forgers seldom have the patience.”

Dora frowns, the word ghostly, familiar. “A pithos?”

Seconds before, Mr. Lawrence had appeared quite animated and he stops now, as if caught off guard. “A pithos,” he says patiently, “is a very large earthenware jar which the ancient Greeks used for holding and storing large quantities of food such as grain, or liquids like wine and oil. You don’t know?”

Dora sighs, crosses the room to replace the candle she has been holding back into the candelabrum.

“As I told you, Mr. Lawrence, I’m no expert. What little knowledge I have comes from childhood memory. I am surrounded by forgeries that I only know are such because I’ve been witness to the way my uncle manages the shop. I wouldn’t know what differentiates a vase and a pithos any more than I would a...” Dora trails off, partly because she cannot think of an example and partly because Mr. Lawrence is watching her with a faintly bemused expression. “I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,” she finishes, defensive.

But he is shaking his head. “I am not disappointed,” he says quietly. “I confess, I only know all this because I have read extensively. I suppose,” he adds with a wry grimace, “you and I are both amateurs.”

“You already know far more than I can hope to.”

A pause.

“Does that sadden you?”

The question surprises her, not least because she has not thought herself to be so transparent. Dora slowly approaches the vase—the pithos—and rests a hand on its lid.

“Yes,” she admits. “If my parents had lived they would have taught me. My uncle, who knows the trade, chose to keep me from that knowledge. It was not necessary for me to know it, he said.” Dora feels an angry heat in her throat, presses her hand against the clay. “I could have done so much with this place if given the chance.”

He stands very close. The scarf in his hands now hangs limp from them. She dares look at him. In the golden glow of candlelight she sees the fine shadow-hair on his angular chin.

“I’m sorry,” says Mr. Lawrence quietly, and Dora is just thinking how kind his eyes are when her hand becomes, suddenly, very hot. With a gasp she snatches it away, and Hermes lets out a sharp squawk.

“What is it?”

“My hand! It...”

But as quickly as the heat came it has gone. Dora stares first at her hand, then at the pithos.

“The lid. It was as though it were burning.”

Eyebrows knitting, Mr. Lawrence taps his fingers on it a couple of times as if to test, but then he shrugs, looks up. “It feels cool.”

Hesitant, Dora touches it herself. He is quite right. It is cool, no heat there at all. But she was so sure...

She shakes herself, rubs her fingers wearily across her eyelids. “I must be imagining things. Tiredness, I expect.”

“Then we should get on,” Mr. Lawrence says. “We have a lot to do.”

***

He begins with the pithos.

A rudimentary examination, for after all—as Mr. Lawrence said—Dora is drawing the thing, and all he needs do is establish evidence. He produces a small glass vial from his waistcoat pocket and a scalpel, and very carefully scrapes some grains of clay from under the rim of the lid. Next he attempts to look underneath the pithos itself, but even with Dora supporting one side, it is impossible.

“Too heavy,” he grunts with disappointment. “And I daren’t try force my hand in case it topples. But perhaps the clay sample will be all that’s needed.”

After that he takes notes within a small black book he extracts from his other pocket. Measurements, unique markings, a description of the scenes as Dora explains them to him. Then Mr. Lawrence leaves her to sketch while he makes a start on the shelving. She notes how he hesitates a moment before leaving the candelabrum with her, taking a candle instead from one of the sconces near the desk. He moves slowly, for Hermes stares at him with a discerning eye.

“He is deciding whether to trust you,” she says, when Mr. Lawrence backs away from the bird with unmitigated wariness. “Perhaps, after a few more visits, Hermes may let you pet him.”

“I think,” Mr. Lawrence says as he moves back to the safety of the shelves, “I would rather keep him at arm’s length if it’s all the same to you.”

Dora shakes her head and smiles, resumes her copy of the second scene.