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Edward’s cravat has started to stick at his throat. Quite unable to contain his despair he looks to Cornelius for help, but his friend is not looking at him, is staring so hard at the floor that the floorboards would set fire if the prospect were at all possible.

“Please, sir. Mr. Gough.” Edward takes a deep breath. “If illegal trade has indeed been carried out—and I’m still not wholly convinced it has been—then I can state without any doubt in my mind that one of the party is an innocent. I must ensure this person’s safety. I need to know how the trade operates, to see—”

“Of course you need to know how it operates. You cannot write a paper on the subject without such knowledge.”

“But—”

“What do you say, Mr. Lawrence?”

“You don’t understand,” Edward begins weakly. “You see—”

“It is either this, or we cannot encourage you further. You have already submitted three papers to us. I seriously doubt you could find as your subject something more significant in antiquarian history than this pithos. If it’s been purchased legally then there is no issue. If it hasn’t... Well. Whether your acquaintance is innocent or not, I find it decidedly unlikely you will be given another chance at the ballot after this. You either write the paper or you don’t. The choice is yours.”

Edward swallows.

There is no choice. There is no choice at all.

“Very well, sir.”

“Very good,” Gough says with triumph. He opens a desk drawer, retrieves an elegant calling card from its depths. “In answer to your question of how the trade operates I suggest you seek out William Hamilton. He is the authority on Grecian pottery and has some knowledge, I understand, of these more delicate matters. Tell him I have sent you, and he will have no objection to speaking with you. Indeed, any opportunity to talk about Greek artefacts is greeted with unmitigated enthusiasm.”

Gough holds out the card. It takes a moment for Edward to propel himself from the seat to take it. The card has a quality finish, is rimmed with a gold embossed border. A Piccadilly address. Carefully Edward tucks it into the inner pocket of his coat.

“Remember that I will not stand for any sentimentalism as with your last paper. Cold hard fact—it is the only thing that holds any recognition here. And tread very carefully, Mr. Lawrence,” Gough adds, his tone measured and low. “Not only have you discovered something of monumental significance to the antiquity trade, but you are also swimming in dangerous waters if the pithos does turn out to have been sourced illegally. Very dangerous waters, you understand?”

It seems, then, the meeting is at its end. Edward rises from his chair.

“I understand.”

“Good. I expect regular reports from you. Mr. Ashmole,” Gough finishes, opening another drawer and removing a sheet of paper. “If you would see Mr. Lawrence out.”

Cornelius finally meets Edward’s gaze across the desk. “Yes, sir,” he says tightly.

Dazed, Edward dips forward in a short bow. “Thank you, Mr. Gough, for seeing me.”

But the director is no longer paying him any mind. The last Edward sees of the older man is him dipping his quill into an inkwell with decided care.

***

They are barely two steps from Gough’s door when Cornelius takes a firm hold of his arm. Edward can sense his friend’s annoyance in the pressure of his fingertips, simmering beneath the surface like steam.

“What were you thinking?” he hisses in Edward’s ear as Cornelius walks him back through to the staircase. “The risk you just took! You know that even whispering the words ‘black-market’ is tantamount to treason in these circles.” Cornelius grips his arm harder. “I told you I would speak to Gough myself, planned to bring it up in casual conversation in a way he wouldn’t suspect was connected with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward says miserably as they emerge through the arch and come to a stop at the top of the stairs. “I meant only to ask for his guidance. I never meant for this!”

Cornelius spits an expletive, releases Edward’s arm.

“Do you realize the danger you’ve put yourself in? This is what I wanted to avoid. Contraband trading, it’s a deadly game. And you’ve gone and put yourself directly in harm’s way! If you consort with criminals you may well be implicated yourself.”

“I—”

“I’ll tell him you can’t do it,” Cornelius cuts in, staunch now. “I’ll appeal to his sense of decency. I’m appalled he suggested such a thing at all.”

“No, Cornelius, please.” Edward looks up at him, notes the look of pained chagrin on his friend’s face. “Consider.”

“Consider what?”

Edward feels ashamed of himself, knows he should not be thinking such selfish thoughts when he knows too what it all might cost Miss Blake, but...