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Hezekiah rounds on him. “Have a care,” he warns. “I’ll not have such talk here.”

The man glowers, but Hezekiah is already turning away, limping past Dora into the street. Frowning, she looks up at the large man. His lip twists.

“Best keep out the way, miss, until it’s loaded.”

They stare at each other a moment. Then Dora nods, follows her uncle outside.

She decides to stand on the far side of the wagon, watches with interest the pithos’ labored journey onto the back. When it has been loaded and covered with a sheet, Mr. Tibb and the two lads join it, and the larger man returns to where Hezekiah waits at the shop door. Dora folds her arms as her uncle takes from his waistcoat three paper bills, which the man swipes with his fist, shoving them unceremoniously into his pocket. The payment Lady Latimer laid out was delivered by a footman this morning—a different but equally pretty man this time—but it interests Dora to see so much of it going to Hezekiah’s lackey. What are they about?

“Dora!”

She turns to see Edward rushing toward her from the direction of the Strand. He comes to a stop, out of breath.

“I’m sorry for my tardiness. I had a commission to finish. Got here as quickly as I could.” He takes a gulp of air. His cheeks are red. Edward looks at the set-up dubiously, at the sheet and web of ropes keeping the pithos in place, then shoots Dora a concerned look. “Will it be safe?”

“Safe is not a word I would use,” the large man says as he pushes roughly past them. Dora turns to him in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you’re asking if it’s secure,” he responds shortly, tightening the ropes with a tug, “then yes, it is that. It won’t be falling off, of that you can be certain. But as for its safety...”

“Coombe,” Hezekiah says from the shop doorway. “Enough.”

His voice is a low warning. Across the horse’s back the two stare at each other before the man named Coombe gives the buckle one last pull. He says nothing, instead heaves himself up onto the seat, seizing the reins. It is then that Hezekiah notices Edward.

“Mr.... Lawrence, was it?” he says, his words freighted equally with surprise and suspicion. “Pray, sir, what do you do here?”

Hezekiah addresses Edward but he is looking at Dora, and she knows it is she who must answer.

“He is here at my request, Uncle. Mr. Lawrence, it transpires, is quite the expert in Greek antiquities.”

Dora feels no shame, no qualm in telling him this. Since they came to blows the other evening Dora has felt empowered, rebellious. But beside her Edward takes a hesitant step back. Hezekiah’s sharp gaze shifts between them.

“It appears you have been keeping much from me, Pandora.”

“A family trait, it seems.”

Hezekiah blinks at her answer, in surprise or defiance, she is not sure. But then Mr. Coombe coughs.

“We’d best be on our way, miss. You may both ride up here with me.”

Hezekiah sneers, turns away. Edward offers his hand, guides her up. As Mr. Coombe reaches down to assist her, Dora cannot help but notice a putrid-yellow stain on his cuff.

***

The wagon trundles away from Ludgate Street toward the more affluent environs of the city, and Dora finds herself leaning against Edward, pressing her weight into his shoulder. He does not seem to mind, but makes no move to draw her closer.

She cannot help it. It is not because she craves Edward’s touch. No, indeed—the smell from Mr. Coombe’s wrist is almost overpowering; even with the wind at its zenith the rancid stench finds a way to itch her nostrils. She tries not to stare at it but her attention is drawn again and again to the stained bandages, the bruised skin of his hand. They ride in silence to begin with, but Mr. Coombe happens to catch her looking when directing the horse down onto High Holborn and he grimaces.

“I’m sorry, miss. I bind it every few hours, but the wound still weeps.”

Dora blushes, ashamed. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

The wagon bounces. Edward glances at Mr. Coombe, seems to notice the wrist for the first time.

“How did it happen, sir? If I do not presume too much.”

The man snorts, flicks the reigns. The wagon takes a slow turn.