" Spices from the Far East- clove and sandalwood and saffron- had drifted through the building's veins from the perfumery next door, infusing the satchel with a hint of faraway places. Open me...
The woman in the white gloves unlatched the dull silver buckle and the satchel held its breath.
Open me, open me, open me...
She pushed back its leather strap and for the first time in over a century light swept into the satchel's dark corners.
An onslaught of memories- fragmented, confused- arrived with it: a bell tinkling above the door at W. Simms & Son; the swish of a young woman's skirts; the thud of horses' hooves; the smell of fresh paint and turpentine; heat, lust, whispering. Gaslight in railway stations; a long, winding river; the wheat fragrance of summer- "

― Kate Morton , The Clockmaker's Daughter