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The knowledge surprises. “Oh.” In the entrance hall, Mr. Coombe, Mr. Tibb and their companions are guiding the pithos across the floor. “How so?”

Edward shifts on the satin. “I was the son of old Mr. Ashmole’s groom. Mr. Ashmole was often away and so Cornelius used to invite me into the house. I would spend many a happy hour there. Nights too, sometimes.” He trails off, takes a small breath. Dora watches the play of emotion pattern his face, like sunshine through a lattice. “As you have already observed, Cornelius and I are very close. He is like a brother to me. But I always felt so... mediocre, compared to him.” Edward frowns again. “It isn’t that I resented his good fortune—he has always been very generous—but I often felt like a child playing make-believe. I wasn’t comfortable in such affluent surroundings. An outsider. I never felt truly my own man, if that makes any sense. Does it?”

“I think so,” Dora says. Edward has turned to look at her. His gray eyes are shadowed, as if the weight of his memories has dampened them. “I understand what it is to feel trapped by circumstance, certainly.”

“Yes.”

“Lemonade!”

Horatio has returned with two glasses on the silver tray. “Sicilian lemons.” And then he is gone again, his ornate pumps click-clacking on the tiles.

Dora raises the glass to her lips, takes a sip. She grimaces—so sharp!—but it is cool and refreshing, and she is thankful for the treat. It reminds her of blue skies, summer heat, and for one painful moment the image of her mother appears in her mind’s eye. A tent. Raised voices. A memory she cannot quite grasp...

“Careful!”

Dora looks up to see that the pithos is upon them now, Mr. Coombe and his men grunting under its weight. Free of its protective sheet she glimpses the pithos’ carvings through the bonds, frustrated again that she has not completed the final scene. Then the pithos passes them; Dora watches its procession into the ballroom, the shuffle and squeak of boots on polished wood. To distract herself she addresses Edward once again.

“Why did you leave?”

He blinks up from his glass. “Sorry?”

“Why did you leave?” she asks again.

“Staffordshire?”

“Yes. Why did you come to London?”

Edward sucks in his breath. He is quiet for a full minute, and Dora regrets her forwardness.

“Edward, I’m sorry, I did not—”

“No, it’s fine.” He grips his glass tighter. “My mother died giving birth to me. When my father died the summer I turned twelve, it was decided that instead of being kept on at Sandbourne as a groom I be sent to London to learn a trade, one that would give me a better life. The bindery. Old Mr. Ashmole paid for everything. A gift, he said, in honor of my father’s good service.”

“And how did you like learning the trade?”

The question is innocent enough but Dora knows the moment the words leave her mouth she has asked the wrong thing—Edward has paled, the glass wobbles in his hand, the lemonade threatening to spill. Then he shakes himself, turns to her and asks, “What does the letter say?”

“The letter...”

She looks down at it clasped in her free hand. She had forgotten all about it.

A small square note, elegantly sealed by a deep, rich-red disk. Dora places her glass at her feet, snaps the wax.

Miss Blake,

I cannot express to you my pleasure at having found the perfect piece of jewelry to complete my costume for tomorrow’s festivities. I extend my deepest thanks to you by enclosing two tickets to my soirée, for yourself and a guest. I do not approve of your uncle, therefore it behoves me to request that you do not choose him as your companion!

You will have determined by now, my dear, that I am not a woman to be disappointed. I expect your presence. To assure myself of it I suggest you use this experience as an opportunity to satisfy yourself, and Mr. Blake, as to the safety of my purchase throughout the evening.

Yours respectfully,

Lady Isabelle Latimer

“Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

Wordlessly Dora hands Edward the letter, just as Mr. Coombe and his men quit the ballroom, ropes and pulleys in their arms. Dora looks beyond them into the room. The pithos stands—tall, regal—perfectly situated in the middle of the plinth. Dora feels a shiver run down her spine. How desolate it looks out in the open...