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“And when will her ladyship—” Hezekiah says this with a sneer—“be returning my vase?”

Dora sniffs. “It is due this afternoon. I doubt anyone will be awake at this hour. You know what time these things run on ’til.”

“But I don’t, do I?” he snaps. He is at the counter now, a beefy hand gripping the edge. “I was not invited!”

He slaps his other hand down onto the counter and Dora sighs, looks up at him finally. His eyes are bloodshot. A network of tiny veins pattern his nose like red thread. The gin has hit him hard.

“You would not be three hundred pounds richer if it were not for me. Uncle.” Dora adds the last word to annoy him, though he needs no incitement. Hezekiah’s nostrils flair. “An agreeable development, considering you already have a buyer lined up to take it off your hands?” Dora watches his face close up and she knows, then, he has lied about this, too. “Isn’t that what you told Lady Latimer? You should be thanking me.”

For years Dora has trodden carefully around Hezekiah; it is not that she feared him, but from the moment he took her into his care he did not treat her as a niece, showed no grief for his brother’s death, and as soon as she came of an age to be useful he utilized her. That was simply the way of things; Dora grew to accept that overnight her life had changed from one of affection and warmth to isolation and coldness, and she learned to have as little to do with her uncle as possible. But since the arrival of the pithos... It is as if she has woken from a stupor, as if until now there has been a veil that has shielded her from feeling more than she should. It is as if she can, finally, see. Never has she missed her parents more than she misses them now.

Across the counter Hezekiah is glowering at her. His scar shines livid white on the red plane of his face. Dora can tell from the way his fingers shake that he itches to press them into the soft hollow of her neck. The thought almost pleases her.

The shop bell jangles on its coil, the moment between them broken. Dora looks up to see a tall woman enter the shop. Her pinstripe-patterned dress hints at money, her over-large bonnet at vanity. Hezekiah recognizes this and approaches her with his usual salesman’s preen.

“How may I help you, miss?”

“I am looking for—”

“Ah, let me guess!” Hezekiah holds up a finger, waggles it, his attempt at tradesman’s flirtation. “A piece of Renaissance furniture? Or perhaps a Rococo chair for...” But he trails off as the woman wrinkles her nose—she must smell him, Dora thinks—and tosses her head.

“No.” Her tone is conceit personified. “I have no interest in anything like that. I am here to see Miss Blake.”

Hezekiah draws up short. “Miss Blake,” he echoes.

“Yes, indeed, I—Oh, there you are!” The woman brightens as she spies Dora behind the counter. She sweeps past Hezekiah; he looks after her in dismay. “You did say to come to this address, did you not?”

“Miss,” Hezekiah tries, simpering. “My niece knows precious little of antiquities. You would do best to speak with me.”

“Antiquities? Good heaven, I have no use for those. I am here to discuss a jewelry commission. That is still possible, isn’t it, Miss Blake?”

Dora releases the breath she has been holding.

Someone has come! They said they would but she had not been sure, did not dare to hope. Dora takes up her sketchbook, slips from behind the counter.

“Yes, of course, Miss... Ponsenby, isn’t it? Do come in and take a seat.”

“Wonderful!” The lady sweeps past Hezekiah again, ensconces herself in the green velvet armchair.

“Jewelry?”

Hezekiah almost spits the word, and as Dora goes to join her client (the word thrills her), she notes with satisfaction that his face is now puce.

“Yes, Uncle,” Dora replies, seating herself very deliberately in the chair opposite. “Lady Latimer was very kind last night. I had such a lot of interest in my designs.”

It is unlike Dora to be spiteful but she simply cannot help herself. It serves him right, she thinks, for underestimating her.

“Did you,” Hezekiah says, tone cold.

It is not a question. His eyes are narrowed. His jaw tics.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Ponsenby enthuses, looking up haughtily at Hezekiah. “Miss Blake produced such a beautiful piece for Lady Latimer—she was positively raving about it! I have no doubt I will not be the only one of Lady Latimer’s guests to visit Miss Blake today.”

There is a moment of silence. Hezekiah clenches his fists. Then he is striding—as best he can with his injured leg—toward the door. He flings it open, sending the bell rattling loudly on its spring. It slams shut behind him and the bell swings and swings in a tinny dance. Hermes—woken by the noise—ruffles his feathers in protest. It is not until silence descends once more that Miss Ponsenby speaks.

“What a disagreeable man,” she says, then, catching herself, she reaches out to touch Dora’s arm. “But he is your uncle! Forgive me, I—”

“There is nothing to forgive, Miss Ponsenby. You are quite right in your assessment.” Dora opens the sketchbook to a blank page, poises her pencil. “Now, then,” she smiles. “What was it you were looking for?”