Discover Pandora by Susan Stokes-Chapman

Susan Stokes-Chapman’s debut novel Pandora is a thrilling, atmospheric mystery set in Georgian London. Read on for an exclusive extract.

Aspiring jewellery artist Dora Blake lives with her nefarious uncle Hezekiah in what used to be her parents’ famed shop of antiquities. When a mysterious Greek vase is delivered, Dora is intrigued by her uncle’s suspicious behaviour and is determined to discover what he is plotting.

But as she uncovers the truth she starts to realise that some mysteries are buried, and some doors locked, for a reason.

Dora sits fully clothed on the bed. Hermes is perched on the windowsill. The light from the moon casts a silhouette of him on the floorboards, and if it were not for the small breeze coming from the rotten frames that ruffle his silken feathers, Dora could almost believe the bird to be a shadow portrait set behind a screen.

She is not sure how long she has waited for Hezekiah and Lottie to retreat to their beds. At dinner she pled a headache and retired to her room, marooned herself on the bed so that the floorboards would not groan beneath her from endless pacing. At her side the sketch- book lies flat and blank, her pencil resting on its sheets. Between her fingers Dora twists the new key over and over – ring to tooth, ring to tooth – a methodical spin of brass that hits her knuckles with dull and painless knocks.

Outside it has started to rain, needle-points at the glass. The sound is a comfort and Dora’s impatience – sharp as salt – is dulled somewhat by the patter. Still, she cannot stop thinking about what might be waiting beneath the shop, what her new key might unlock. Items of Grecian origin, she hopes, to inspire her designs. But to know what is inside the crate, what else her uncle might be hiding…  It is this that haunts her now.

Finally there is the creak of stair, the giggled laughter of Lottie, the low murmur of Hezekiah in the stairwell, the thud of door into casement. Dora half-lifts herself onto her elbows and feels the jitter of excitement in her chest, but when the bedsprings begin their abominable squeak she groans, presses the key hard into her palm. A squeal, a moan, a grunt. In vain she tries to shut her ears to the sounds and closing her eyes Dora turns onto her side, tucks her knees up to her chest, waiting for it to stop.

It goes on longer than she expects it to. There is a pause in their coupling – one of them either begged to rest or perhaps they merely started again – but when they finally cease their fleshy intimacies Dora feels exhausted, nauseous, as if someone has hollowed out her stomach and filled it with reeling worms.

She counts down one minute. Then another, another. After Dora has counted down ten she slips from the bed, pads on tiptoe to the door. On the cramped landing she listens, ears straining in the dark to the floor below. And then she hears it: Lottie’s unmistakable snore coming from Hezekiah’s bedchamber. When her uncle follows suit not a moment later Dora retreats quickly to her bed, takes up the sketchbook, the stub candle in its chamberstick. Hermes flees from his perch at the window and settles on Dora’s shoulder, nips lightly at her ear. His feathers are cold against her cheek.

Dora wastes no time. Careful though she is, her impatience has tipped itself over and it is not in her now to be slow. Down the narrow stairwell she goes, stealing over the weak treads. At the bottom she eases the door open as she did before, props it open this time with a grotesque iron fish Hezekiah picked up from a vendor on the Strand, and it is only when she is standing in front of the double doors of the basement that Dora realises she is shivering. She places her sketch- book and candle on the floor.

‘Well, then,’ Dora murmurs to Hermes. ‘Shall we see if this works?’ Very carefully she reaches for the padlock, cradles it in her hand.

It is cool to the touch, and with her bottom lip pressed between her teeth she slips the key into the lock. Please, she thinks, please let it fit, and she almost cries when the key turns easily without a sound.

The padlock gives with a low click, the chain chk-chking through the handles as it begins to fall loose. Dora wraps her hand around it, guides its fall quietly to the floor, puts the padlock down beside it. Hermes tugs at a strand of her hair.

For a long moment Dora stands immobile. Now that it has come to it, now that nothing bars her way, she feels unaccountably frightened at what she might find. And yet… The urge to fling open the basement doors is as instinctive as breathing. Very carefully, she pulls them open.

They do not creak; Dora releases the breath she has been holding in a long quiet spell. Retrieving the candle and sketchbook from the floor, she crosses onto the top stair.

She cannot see a thing. It is as if before her there is a vat of ink, fathomless, darker than dark. Instantly the hairs on the back of her neck rise up; she feels a whisper of cold air at her cheek like a sigh. On her shoulder Hermes’ talons press sharply through her dress into her skin. Dora winces at the pinch.

‘Hermes, stop,’ she whispers, and to her surprise the bird hisses in response. ‘Hermes, what—’

Suddenly the bird launches himself into the basement, and the sound of his wings makes Dora jump. Instinctively she cups the candle, shields the flame from his beating feathers.

‘Hermes,’ she calls, quiet, a hiss of her own. ‘Where are you?’

But there is no caw in answer, no chirrup. There is instead an odd, low hum.

Dora hovers at the top of the stairs, blinking blindly into the dark. ‘Hermes!’

Still, there is nothing. Nothing bird-like in any case, and with a sigh Dora holds the chamberstick out in front of her, very slowly lowers her foot onto the stair below. It creaks beneath her toes. As she descends her eyes begin to adjust, and she sees with relief the bony fingers of a candelabrum sitting atop a small crate at the bottom of the steps.

Dora rests her sketchbook on the crate, lights the tall pillar candles from the stub of her own. The room brightens a moment, the light flickering in on itself before settling into mellow ochre. As her eyes accustom, Dora stares, open-mouthed.

The basement is larger than she expected it to be. Deep bookcases line one wall, filled with item after item that in the murk she cannot make out. More crates are stacked against the back wall, spilling straw. Behind her, beyond the wooden staircase, the basement goes further back, and Dora wonders what the darkness of it hides. In the corner stands Bramah’s safe, its gold-and-black lock glinting in the lowlight. On the other wall hang some more shelves, each containing a large collection of tightly packed scrolls. A desk sits beneath, four large crate sides propped next to it. She squints, notes the verdigris, the molluscs clinging to the mottled wood. On the chair that sits tucked beneath the desk perches Hermes, restless, his eyes beads of jet. And there, there in the middle of the room is a vase, the likes of which she has never seen.

The vase is tall and wide, extremely large, would reach her chest if she stood next to it. It is fluted in shape, a small base that expands in the middle, dipping once more at the neck. It has a domed lid, with two handles fashioned into snakes. In the golden glow of the candles the colour is earthen. And on the sides… Even from a distance Dora can see a network of images carved into it. Entranced, she takes a step forward, and the candle flames dip.

Pandora.

It is a whisper, a keening sigh. Hermes croaks, flaps his wings. Dora gasps, spinning round, afraid her uncle or Lottie might be standing at the top of the stairs, afraid she has been caught.

But there is nothing. There is no one. The candles brighten.

Very slowly Dora turns back round, her gaze settling unnervingly on the vase. The air seems to crackle, a high thrum of energy that warms her ears, tickling her collarbone.

Surely not, she thinks. She is tired, that is all.

Hermes heard it too.

Dora swallows. It cannot be. Shaking herself, she crosses the basement floor.

She stares down at the vase. Her grip on the candelabrum tightens – but beneath her unease she feels excitement, because carved into the lid are a set of distinctive Grecian figures; almighty Zeus, the traitor Prometheus, crippled Hephaestus, beautiful Athena, and Dora smiles.

She has found her inspiration. Dora reaches out her free hand.

There is a sudden sigh, a hum, a fluttering. It comes not from behind but in front of her, from within the vase, and Dora hears all at once its siren call, its darkling plea. It is the hush of wind, the whisper of waves, the music of grief, and she cannot help it, she cannot resist.

Dora lifts the lid.