Ainsworth slipped off his coat, placed it over the chair back, and took a seat behind his lacquered desk. He lived in that moneyed district across the river, and he’d likely one day have a fine monument built for himself in Rose Hill Cemetery. Only during working hours did he venture here, to the soot-black buildings and uneven cobbles of Old Town.
“Mr. Watt was pleased with your work last night,” Ainsworth told her.
Catherine inclined her head. “I’m glad to hear it.”
There were about a dozen employees at the print shop who could work the magic Ainsworth required for the farewell service. Without them, he wouldn’t have business in the cemetery at all—unless, of course, he could manage the same sort of enchantment himself. Catherine had never asked him.
He ran a finger along the edge of his desk. It was covered with organized stacks of paper, journals, a bookkeeping ledger. He said, “I’ve another job for you, if you’re interested in taking it.”
Catherine raised her eyebrows. “What is it, sir?”
The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked steadily in the pause. Ainsworth opened his desk drawer, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Mr. Watt paid off his balance, but it wasn’t coin he owed. He had information I’ve been after for quite some while.” As Catherine watched, Ainsworth took up his pen and began to write. “There’s an unmarked plot in the public cemetery—the grave of a coffin maker. A timepiece was buried with him. I’d like you to collect it.”
Catherine swallowed. She knew what timepiece he was referring to. Most at the shop believed Ainsworth had been looking for it since starting up the farewell service. The device was rumored to bring the dead to life—not as ghostly likenesses of themselves, as her magic brought about, but truly living.
“You’ll be paid for the retrieval, of course. And I want it done tonight.” Setting his pen aside, he looked up.
Catherine already knew her answer.
“Certainly, sir,” she said. “I’ll see to it.”
When he offered her the paper, she saw he’d written directions marking the grave’s location. She folded it and tucked it into her apron pocket. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, Miss Daly, thank you.”
She went back downstairs to resume her work, but at midday, she returned to her room on the third floor. She put Ainsworth’s instructions away in her coat, located her bonnet and gloves, and fetched the letter she needed to post. The sky was clear blue beyond the window, like it was in her memories when she thought of her family home. It lightened her heart as she left the room and headed outside.
CHAPTER THREE
INSIDE THE POST OFFICE, Catherine waited in line with her letter clutched between her hands. When she got to the counter, she recognized the boy behind it. Smiling, she said, “Hello, Mr. Douglas. How are you this afternoon?”
“Very well, Miss Daly.” He smiled back, taking her letter. “And yourself?”
“I’m well. Have you anything for me today?”
“Indeed, I do. It came in with yesterday’s post.”
As he disappeared into the back room, Catherine put her hands against the counter. She was here once or twice a week; she knew just about every crack and corner of the place. The front counter was worn at its edge like her desk at the print shop, the glass pigeonhole boxes along the wall numbered in gold paint.
Douglas came back to the counter with her post. Her name was penned across it in her mother’s tidy handwriting. Catherine smiled at the sight, pocketed it in her coat, and passed on the money to have her own letter sent off.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, she started for the corner. There was another stop she wished to make before heading back to the Chronicle. She came upon it a couple of blocks later, in the midst of a row of adjoining buildings. Shop windows advertised the merchandise to be found inside, names and trades painted crisply above doorways. NOLAN’S WATCH & CLOCK REPAIR was a little green-fronted building with a brick flat above it, the curtains pulled across the white windows.
The bell atop the door announced her arrival.
She’d been here before on errands for Ainsworth. Like the print shop, Nolan’s offered more than the name implied. It was whispered that Henry Nolan, alongside watchmaking and repairing, was a horologist who sold segments of literal time. And Catherine could think of no better place to go to find out if this buried timepiece was indeed enchanted. Despite herself, she was curious. It wasn’t the sort of magic anyone at the print shop could accomplish. There were some who thought the device’s capabilities were nothing more than rumor.
The watchmaker’s shop appeared empty, and she was met only by an assortment of clocks on the wall behind the counter, all polished to a shine. Pendulums hung from several, while others were spring-driven, with brass inlay, decorative flourishes, gold edging.
The back-room door hung partially ajar. Through it, Catherine saw not Henry, but his son. He sat behind a worktable, hunched over what she assumed was a disassembled watch. With the slow, deliberate carefulness of someone used to handling delicate things, Guy Nolan set down his tweezers and removed the magnifying loupe he wore. He took off his wire-rimmed spectacles too, rubbing a hand over his eyes before getting up.
He didn’t notice her until he came around the table to meet her at the door. He was tall and leanly built, wearing an apron over his clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His brown hair was tidy, and he had a pleasant face—a certain clarity to his dark eyes, his expression attentive and curious as he regarded her. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
Catherine hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin. “I’ve something particular to ask.” She clasped her hands together, biting her lip. “Mr. Ainsworth has tasked me with obtaining a timepiece. And I’d like to know if the rumors about it are true.”
“How do you mean?” A small crease appeared between Guy’s brows. Then he brightened. “What sort of timepiece? We’ve several fine new pocket watches.”
“No. That is, the timepiece he wants isn’t here.” Catherine felt around in her coat pocket for the silver coin Watt had given her, drawing it out and setting it on the counter. “It’s buried in a plot in the public cemetery. I’m to dig it up tonight, and I’ll pay you to study the piece.”
Now Guy looked thoroughly confused. He rocked back slightly as if pushed. “You… You wish me to help you dig up a grave?”
Before she could answer, footsteps sounded from above. Guy’s eyes darted up to the ceiling. Wiping his hands on his apron, he said, “This way, please, Miss Daly.”
She thought at first he intended to lead her upstairs. Instead, they passed the back staircase and went out the door that brought them into the lot backing onto the building the next street over. It was little more than a bit of pavement, weeds growing heartily through the cracks. A washing line was strung up; Catherine very much doubted Guy wished her to see the nightclothes and drawers hanging there, so she cast about until her gaze landed on a flowerpot.
“Those are lovely,” she said, just to be kind. Most of the flowers inside were brown and wilted, their stems drooped over the edge of the pot.