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Dora almost asks him why he fears it so, but something in his face stops her. Instead she says, “Perhaps it is not as deep as it seems.”

“Perhaps. But the shop floor does stretch that way.”

“We can take the candles over, have a look...”

“Another night.”

The words come sharp, too sharp, and Dora stares at him, but Mr. Lawrence has already turned away, is winding the scarf around his neck. On the last loop he gestures to the Bramah safe near the desk.

“Do you have the key to that?”

Dora shakes her head. “My uncle only wears the one key around his neck, and it doesn’t fit that lock.”

“If he has any paperwork at all,” Mr. Lawrence says, “it will be in there. He must keep the key somewhere.”

“Yes, he must. But you have no idea what it took for me to get the key to the basement.”

Dora manages to suppress a shudder at the memory, but Mr. Lawrence gives her a quizzical look all the same.

“Another night,” she says, and his mouth twitches at his own words thrown back at him.

“Touché, Miss Blake.”

“Touché, indeed.”

Chapter Nineteen

Today the smell of burnt leather makes Edward’s nose itch, the candles sting his eyes, and his feet shuffle restlessly beneath the table. He tries to concentrate on the filigree lining of the finish, the narrow strip of fine ivy tendrils and swirls. He sucks in his breath, clenches his jaw, but when he feels his hand begin to shake he admits defeat and places the pallet tool aside, settling into the hard-backed chair with a groan.

This, Edward thinks, is why Cornelius allows him time away when he begins a paper for the Society. Edward is not—nor ever has been—one for juggling several tasks together. A single venture at a time, that is his rule, especially since his work here at the bindery offers him little pleasure. How can he be expected to excel at a thing if he cannot be completely focused on it?

For the past five nights Edward has sifted through crate upon crate of Grecian pottery in the shop’s basement. The Blake collection is beautifully preserved, their caliber of the kind only to be seen in the British Museum. Edward is thankful for the opportunity to handle genuine articles (and at least three quarters of the collection appear to be such), to create a comprehensive list of their markings, their age. The fact that they might be stolen goods... This, unfortunately, makes producing a study of them untenable. Edward shakes his head to free the thought. At the present moment he does not wish to think on such matters. While his instincts tell him otherwise, he still holds out hope that the collection has been acquired legally.

He taps the tabletop with the tip of his index finger, thinks now of the pithos. It truly is an exceptional-looking piece of antiquity. The carvings in particular are exquisite. He has never seen anything like it, not even in his research books. Where, Edward wonders, did it come from?

Cornelius has taken the terracotta sample to the Society for analysis, and until he receives word, Edward will find it damnably hard to date. Even a guess will not do. As the pithos is unpainted it could come from any period within the Grecian timeline. The only point he can remember from his readings is that scenes which depict myth—as the pithos does—were typically produced within the Archaic and Classical periods, but Edward knows his knowledge is only rudimentary at best.

When he told Miss Blake he has read widely, he spoke the truth. What he has not told her is that his knowledge was acquired only in recent years, during the long painful weeks he stayed with Cornelius’ father. How he had poured himself into antiquarian history! How he used that knowledge to help stamp out the memory of what had come before! Unbidden, the darkness of the Blake basement pops into his mind’s eye, and on its tail—

Edward grips the chair arm, closes his eyes against the memory. For a long moment he sits there, head against the back, breathes deeply as he was instructed to do when it all threatened to become a little too much. But then there is a knock on the door, and Edward’s stomach drops.

“Mr. Lawrence?”

Edward looks dully at Fingle’s warped shape through the glass paneling. He sighs heavily, sits straighter in his seat.

“Come in.”

There is a pause, a fumble at the handle, and then the overseer is in, the door shut behind him, and he is peering at Edward across the candlelight.

“I wondered how you’d got on with the Helmsley order.”

“Yes.” Edward points to a stack of books on the small cabinet near the door. “Finished yesterday.”

“Wonderful,” Fingle says, picking them up one by one, turning them over in his hands as he does. “These are beautiful.” He hesitates. “Your skill has improved considerably over the years.”

“Well. I didn’t have a choice, did I?”

Fingle meets Edward’s hard gaze and immediately looks away again. He clears his throat, rubs his thumb against the bridge of his nose.