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“Why yes, yes, he is,” the old woman says. One of the laurel leaves quivers on its gold wire. “He did not wish to come, I understand—his spirits are quite disturbed lately,” she adds, in a tone turned conspirator, “but Emma wanted to and he is not a man to disappoint a woman such as her!” She laughs. “You wish to be introduced?”

“I do, ma’am.” A blush rises on Edward’s cheeks. “I am an antiquity man myself.”

“Well, then, he will be thankful for the distraction. Come, I shall acquaint you.”

Lady Latimer takes off down the hall, leaving Dora and Edward to follow behind. She is light on her feet for such an elderly woman and they must struggle to keep up.

“Edward?” Dora asks, a thought turning in her head.

“Yes?”

“This man, Hamilton...”

“Forgive me.” Edward glances at her apologetically. “I did not mean to commandeer the evening with talk of work, but—”

“Do you mean Lord Hamilton? Sir William Hamilton?”

“Yes,” he says briskly, “the very same.”

Dora stops so suddenly Edward is forced to stop too, and he looks at her with concern.

“What is the matter?”

Dora’s heart has begun to hammer in her chest. “He is your expert? The man you wrote to?”

Ahead, Lady Latimer has reached the ballroom. She turns, beckons them with a flick of her fingers. Reluctant, Dora starts up again. Edward follows.

“I had not imagined,” Dora says as they enter the ballroom, “that you meant Sir William.”

“Do you mean to say you know him?”

Dora lets the question hang a moment. “He saved my life.”

“He...” Edward stops again. Gapes. “He what?”

“Emma, my darling!”

Lady Latimer’s voice cuts across them. With difficulty Dora turns her attention back to their host.

What are the odds?

“My dear Lady Latimer.”

A tall, extremely beautiful woman dressed as a phoenix is greeting the old woman with a deep and perfectly executed curtsey.

“How splendid you look!” Lady Latimer is saying as Dora and Edward join them.

Emma Hamilton tilts her dark bejeweled head in demur.

“And where is your illustrious husband?”

“Admiring your centerpiece,” Lady Hamilton replies with a smile. “See, madam, how he cannot detach himself from it!”

Dora turns to look, letting out the long breath she had not been aware she was holding.

The pithos—she had almost forgotten its presence here—is decked beautifully with a garland of ivy to which are attached apples and pears and oranges, all intertwined with gold braiding. It stands, imposing, raised up on the large circular plinth, but now it is all cordoned off by a rope of blue and gold. At the base of the plinth are two steps... and on those steps a man, leaning on a cane.

He is older—much older than she remembers him—but Dora recalls all too well the aristocratic face, that inquisitive tilt of the chin, the kind eyes presently fixed on the third scene of the pithos, that of Hephaestus’ transformation of clay into the first woman: Pandora.