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Mrs. Howe curtseys. The door is closed. Silence engulfs the room.

Dora allows it to stretch for only a moment before saying, “Again, Mr. Ashmole, please do forgive my intrusion—”

“It is no intrusion,” Edward cuts in.

Mr. Ashmole looks at him blankly. Then he turns to her and says, “Why are you here, Miss Blake?”

Edward’s friend is not what she expected. Dora imagined an elderly benefactor, someone with dove-gray hair, a mustache, perhaps, someone with a cane and kindly smile. This tall, austere man with raven-black hair seems altogether too young to own a bindery, too young to have this much money. And he seems altogether too unpleasant to be friends with Edward. He is, Dora senses, the complete opposite of Edward Lawrence in every way.

“I...”

Mrs. Howe returns, a circular silver tray in her hands on which stands a beautifully cut crystal glass. Dora takes it, thanks the woman who nods once and retreats fast from the room as if she cannot abide being in their presence.

“Please,” Edward says, sitting forward in his seat, his face kind. “Do continue.”

Dora takes a breath. She begins to speak, addressing Edward and not Mr. Ashmole, for his piercing stare unnerves her to the point of distraction.

“I have come to tell you that the lady who purchased my necklace has managed to convince my uncle to loan her the pithos.”

Edward sits back in his chair, leather creaking. “I see.”

“I confronted him, as you said I should. And... Oh, it is clear my uncle has been trading illicitly, just as I thought.” Dora pauses. “You know, then, what this means. You cannot possibly write your paper now, and I will not be able to finish my sketch of the pithos.”

She thinks of it then, her unfinished progress with its copy—only one scene left!—and is thankful, at least, that she managed to produce the drawings she has. But Edward has not replied. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the stripes of the tiger lying between them.

Is he angry with her? Dora tries to stem her concern, for she has enjoyed her nights with him, has become—without realizing it—quite dependent on his company, and for him to be angry with her would upset her deeply.

“I am so sorry.”

Finally, movement. A look passes between Mr. Ashmole and Edward which seems filled with some deeper meaning, something to which she is not privy, but before she can question it Edward leans forward in his seat, smiles, and Dora thinks it forced, awkward.

“There is no need to be sorry,” he assures. “At the very least you have given me the opportunity to examine a genuine collection of Greek antiquity. I’m most grateful. I can write a paper on something else.” He pauses. “Your drawings. You still have them?”

“I do.”

Edward appears relieved, and Dora looks between him and Mr. Ashmole. Something is amiss, she can sense it, but she has something to ask Edward, something she needs him to agree to and so, on that score, she holds her tongue.

“I’m afraid,” Dora says now, “telling you this was not my only purpose for wishing to see you. I have a favor to ask.”

“Another?”

Mr. Ashmole, this. Dora feels his hostility—it comes off him like kettle-steam—and it confuses her.

Edward clears his throat. She is not sure if it is with annoyance or unease.

“Please, Dora, do not mind him. Anything you wish to say to me can be heard by Cornelius.”

She does mind. But that, she decides, is a discussion for another time.

“The woman, Lady Latimer, wants the pithos for a soirée she is holding on Saturday night. Themed. Exotic, she says, which is why she feels the pithos is the perfect centerpiece. She is to pay a great deal of money for it.”

“How much?” Mr. Ashmole asks.

Dora hesitates, dislikes his presumption at asking such a thing, but she answers all the same.

“Three hundred pounds.”

Edward whistles. He retrieves a glass from the table beside him, takes a long sip. The liquid is dark brown, a hint of red in it. Brandy, perhaps?