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The box is filled with wax—a wax mold, he sees on a squint—and nestled within that, a small metal key.

Hezekiah reaches for the chain around his neck, pulls it up through his shirt, looks at both keys side by side.

Identical. Hers is newer, the brass not yet marked with age. But the teeth...

He remembers the night of the gin.

So. That’s how.

He drops the chain. The key bounces lightly against the cushion of his chest.

He discards the box, the duplicate key landing on the floor with a dull chink. Hezekiah spins on his good leg, looks manically about the room.

Where is it, then? Where is it?

Is he wrong? But he cannot be! Perhaps she has the note with her, perhaps she is showing it to Hamilton this very moment, perhaps—

The magpie—having been silenced by Hezekiah’s screaming—lets out one long, drawn-out cry, and Hezekiah jumps. It watches him from its cage, its small black eyes judgmental, accusatory. It cocks its head. Hezekiah sets his teeth.

“Well, then.”

And as Hezekiah approaches, the bird begins to hiss.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Oh, my dear!”

Lady Hamilton puts an arm around her shoulders but Dora barely registers the kindness.

How can this be? How did her uncle acquire it, how could he have known?

A glass of water is placed in Dora’s hand and she is forced to drink.

“Forgive me,” Dora whispers when she has emptied the glass. She looks across at Sir William, at Edward, both watching her with concern. “Please continue. I must hear it. I need to hear the rest.”

“Dora,” says Sir William, looking deeply troubled. “There is a serious matter at hand here. I would have protected you from it if I could.”

“Tell me.” She knows her tone is hard, unforgiving. But Dora will not let this lie, not now she is on the cusp of the truth. “Please.”

Lady Hamilton sinks back into the seat beside her. Sir William clears his throat.

“After your parents died, I monitored the dig site for years. I bought the land, you see, put overseers in place, to notify me if there was any change.”

“What do you mean, change?” Mr. Ashmole interjects.

A pause.

“I cannot tell the rest without you understanding the history of Helen and Elijah Blake. Dora, if you would?”

She hesitates. Edward leans forward in his seat.

“If you do not feel able...”

He looks at her with such concerned affection that Dora must do her best not to cry.

“No. I shall explain, as best I can. I was only a child, you understand. My memory of it is hazy at best.”

She takes a breath.