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“Why am I not surprised?” Lady Latimer exclaims, and she takes Dora’s arm. “Come, my dear, let me show you your vase, the crowning glory of tonight’s celebrations!”

Dora’s heart pounds. She wishes to run, she is not ready for this, but there is nothing she can do; Lady Latimer has hold of her and the feeling of inevitability crushes over her like a wave.

“Lord Hamilton! I have a gentleman here who wishes to make your acquaintance. Mr. Lawrence, if you please.”

Sir William looks up; his face is creased in a deep frown but it clears on their approach. He steps down from the plinth, holds out his hand for Edward to shake.

“Mr. Lawrence, how do you do.”

“Sir,” Edward is saying, almost breathless. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” The diplomat’s eyebrows meet briefly in the middle.

“I have heard much of you. I am a scholar of antiquities, you see.”

“Are you, indeed! What is your speciality?”

Edward stands up taller. “I don’t have one, as such, sir, but I had hoped—”

Lady Latimer impatiently waves her hand. “Oh, that’s quite enough of that. You men can discuss old bones and broken crockery to your hearts’ content once I’m out of earshot.” She brings Dora forward on her arm. “Sir William, let me introduce you to my guest of honor, Miss Dora Blake, the procurer of my masterpiece which I see you admiring. Isn’t it a wonder?”

The instant the old woman speaks Dora’s name, Sir William’s attention snaps from Edward to her. For a long painful moment he stares. Then, very gently, he takes her hand in both of his.

“Dora.” He kisses her hand, lingers over it. “You are the very picture of your mother.”

“Sir William,” she says. Her mouth feels dry. “I had not thought to see you again.”

“No, indeed. It has been... some years.”

“What is this?” Lady Latimer looks between them, enthralled. “You mean to say you know each other?”

Sir William clears his throat. “Miss Blake is the daughter of Elijah and Helen Blake, your ladyship. The Blakes were esteemed colleagues of mine, many years ago. Fellow antiquarians,” he explains at Lady Latimer’s wide-eyed surprise.

The old woman claps her hands on a laugh. “What a happy coincidence! There, my dear,” she says, patting Dora’s arm. “You will be entertained after all. I had worried you would be struck down with boredom. Now if you will forgive me, I ought to mingle.”

In a swirl of lavender scent Lady Latimer disappears into the crowd, and the three—Sir William, Edward and Dora—look at each other, the air between them heavy. Beside them the pithos seems to glow eerily in the golden light of the ballroom. It is Sir William who breaks the silence.

“Lady Latimer said it was you, Dora, who procured this,” he says, gesturing to the pithos. “May I ask how?”

Dora hesitates. She and Edward share a look. There is something in Sir William’s tone, a quiet sort of guardedness that puts Dora on guard herself.

“I confess that—”

“Please, sir,” Edward cuts in, sending Dora an apologetic glance. “It is fortuitous that you are here this evening. I had sent a note to your lodgings in the hope of speaking to you about this very thing.”

Sir William is looking at Edward now with interest.

“I’m afraid I have received many notes since my return to town. With so many business matters to hand I’ve barely made a dent in them.”

“I understand. But...”

Dora watches them. In one moment she has been confronted with her past in the most unexpected way, wishes both to retreat from it and face it in equal measure and the next... Again, she cannot shake the feeling that there is something Edward is not telling her. The way he was so keen to speak immediately of the pithos. Not even pleasantries first...

She glances at it now, adorned in all its austere glory. It appears exactly as she pictured it would—a lavishly decorated ornament fit for a gathering such as this—but why is it, Dora thinks, that the pithos looks so out of place? It seemed so much more suited, somehow, to the dark of the shop’s basement. Unexpectedly her fingertips begin to tingle. Dora frowns, is reminded of that first night, how she imagined that low hum in the basement, that pulse of expectation.

“Miss Blake, is it?” a voice cuts in, and Dora turns gratefully to find a young woman—this one dressed, she thinks, based on the floral garland crowning her long flowing hair, as Ophelia—at her elbow.

“Yes?”