Page 44

She starts with simple outlines, her pencil whispering softly over the page; an uneven arch for the mountain, gentle swirls for its winding path. She moves slowly around the pithos, ensuring each element of the scene is placed correctly, draws in ovals for the eagles, the vultures, a triangle for the rock. She returns then to her original position on the floor, adjusts her spectacles, eyes narrowing as she begins to flesh out the stick figures of Zeus and Prometheus.

“Hmm.”

Dora glances up. Mr. Lawrence has some of the Grecian earthenware set down in a semicircle at his feet, is tapping his pencil against the edge of his teeth.

“There are one or two forgeries here, but there are a number of genuine ones too.” He points at a pair of shallow vases near his right foot. “Same styling, but the one very clearly a copy. A bad one too.” He looks at Dora. “Perhaps one of your uncle’s failed attempts?”

“Perhaps.” She looks at the collection at his feet. “Some are authentic, then?”

“Yes. Quite a few, actually.”

Her stomach sinks. “And you can date them?”

“Ahh...” Mr. Lawrence squats, tapping his pencil again to his teeth. “I think so. Much easier than the pithos over there.” He holds a small bowl-shaped piece up for her to view. “The pithos is plain clay, no paintwork at all, just simple carvings. It could be a very early piece or simply unfinished. This one though is what they call ‘black-figure style.’ Very obviously, the figures are painted black. These didn’t come in until the seventh century BC. That one,” he adds, pointing to a taller piece on his left, “is described as ‘white-ground technique.’ Again, rather obvious in that the images are painted on a white background, and these weren’t produced until five hundred BC or thereabouts.” Mr. Lawrence places the bowl back on the floor. It meets the flagstone with a dull scrape. “So. I can give you a general idea, at least.”

Dora rests the sketchbook against her knees. “Then,” she says, resigned, “while my uncle peddles forgeries and tat upstairs, he keeps genuine antiquities in a basement to...”

She cannot finish the sentence. Not out loud. She lowers the pencil, puts her head in her hand.

It is entirely possible Hezekiah keeps these particular antiquities with the intention of selling them legally, at some point. But Dora knows her uncle well enough to understand that if he can pass forgeries off as genuine pieces without any qualms about the matter, then it’s likely he will have no qualms about selling true specimens through more questionable avenues if it brings him greater reward.

Dora knows what “black-market” means—she learned enough from conversations overheard between her father and his workers on the archeological sites, and warnings issued to his clients in the shop, that any wares which passed hands in such a way were stolen goods. Illegal trading. And if Hezekiah were to be caught... it is punishable in only one way.

One very final way.

“Miss Blake?”

Dora sighs, lifts her head. “Can we find out for sure where he acquired them?”

“Only if he keeps records of the fact.”

Mr. Lawrence looks over to the desk. Hermes cocks his head at him, black eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“That desk only contains the sale ledgers for the shop,” Dora says in answer to his unspoken question. “Everything above board. I have already checked.” Mr. Lawrence looks at her once more, face grim, but he says nothing and Dora sighs, glances at the pocketwatch attached by a ribbon to her belt. “You’d best carry on. We only have an hour left.”

They settle to their work. Dora forces herself to push her darkling thoughts from her mind, to continue the copy of the pithos. It is, after all, her only hope of escape now. If she cannot sell her designs, then—

Stop, she tells herself. Do not think of it.

Dora fills in the shading of Prometheus and Zeus, the details of the mountain, stratus clouds, trees of fir and pine, starlings in flight. For the briefest of moments she feels the same chill she felt when she opened the basement doors earlier. She tugs her shawl tighter around her shoulders, prods the end of her pencil to her cheek.

Concentrate.

The details of the carvings truly are astonishing. But, Dora contemplates, there are some elements of the pithos that will not translate into jewelry. She turns her attention to the meandros borders, sees now why her earlier attempts failed. The lines are thinner, the patterns more sparsely spaced. In comparison to these, her drawings look like childish scribbles. Methodically, Dora transfers the decorations onto paper.

Mr. Lawrence, too, is methodical. He examines every crate on the shelf, makes notes on each item, then carefully replaces them exactly as they were before he disturbed them. He manages to sort through four more before Dora announces the time again.

“Seven minutes to two.”

“Two hours is so very little time in which to get anything done.”

“Yes,” Dora says, closing her sketchbook. “But it is all we can allow. How much do you have left?”

Mr. Lawrence adjusts one of the crates on the shelf, then claims his scarf from the banister where he left it hanging. “Two more crates on that shelf, two more shelves above it...” He turns his head, assessing. “The shelving opposite, the crates on the floor there. And of course, whatever is hiding behind the stairs.”

They look together. Beyond the staircase, that wide expanse of black.

Mr. Lawrence hesitates. “It really is very dark.”