Guy’s mouth curved in a half smile. “They aren’t doing so well, are they? Too gloomy and cold this time of year, I’m afraid.” He knelt before it. “I was thinking of getting some window boxes for the flat, but then, you wouldn’t really be able to see them from the street.” He shook his head and straightened up. “Miss Daly, how do you expect me to help you?”
“Have you heard of a timepiece that can bring back the dead?”
Scratching an eyebrow, Guy said, “That’s an old tale.”
Catherine grinned. “Yes, well, my employer thinks not, and I understand you’re skilled in enchanting timepieces here. Could you determine what sort of magic it holds?”
His eyes flitted over her face. She wondered if he was thinking of the silver she’d placed on the counter or the reputed magic of this timepiece. In the distance, the city clock tower chimed the hour. A softer echo of it sounded from the closed door behind them, the Nolans’ clocks striking in harmony. Guy looked down, twisting the fabric of his apron between his hands. “Perhaps I can.” He glanced back up and swallowed. “You wish me to meet you tonight?”
She nodded quickly. “Midnight,” she told him. “Do you know the willow tree on the grounds? The plot is near there.”
Guy cut his gaze away from her, studying the brick wall of the lot.
“Mr. Nolan?”
“Very well.” He spoke in a quiet, hesitant tone, as though fearful of being overheard. “If such a thing exists, I’d like to see it.”
At his words, Catherine felt no small measure of relief. She’d never wandered the city’s graveyards alone in the dark—lately, the watchmen had taken to patrolling the public cemetery almost as frequently as they did the private one—and it was a comfort knowing she’d have Guy Nolan’s company tonight.
When they went back into the shop, Catherine took a last glance at the clocks along the wall. She wondered if some magic lay between the dial and gears, if an hour or so of time was conserved inside like the magic she placed within pieces of type. At the door, she said, “I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Nolan.”
He nodded back at her. “Good day, Miss Daly.”
She walked out into the chilly November afternoon. A few stray leaves swept past on a gust of wind, the wheels of a carriage squeaking along over the cobbles. She slipped a hand into the pocket that held her mother’s letter, reassuring herself it was there, before heading back in the direction of the print shop.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT THE CHRONICLE, there was always type to be cleaned and sorted. Catherine sat at a table on the print floor, a type case in front of her, its wooden compartments lit by the steady light of her lamp. It was quite late; she was alone downstairs, but she could make out the muffled footfalls and voices of others in the upper rooms.
This was the hour of day she liked best. When everything was calm and still, when she could let her mind wander, to think over things at her leisure and without interruption. Sometimes, oftentimes, she thought of home. Sometimes the ache of missing it was sharp enough to steal her breath.
She took a moment to admire the result of her handiwork—the type clean and squared away—before returning the case to its cabinet. Taking up the lamp, she headed for the stairs to her room. Bridget was there, seated on a chair in the corner, darning a hole in her stocking.
Catherine set the lamp down on her bedside table. In the window glass, she glimpsed her reflection as she pulled the curtain closed. “I’m running an errand for Mr. Ainsworth tonight,” she said.
Bridget looked up. “Can’t it hold until morning?”
Catherine shook her head. Kneeling at the side of her bed, she pulled out the box she kept beneath it. Its contents were reminders of home, letters she’d received over her time here. The most recent one from her mother was already tucked inside. She’d opened it as soon as she’d returned to the shop that afternoon. It read:
Dear Catherine,
I hope this letter finds you well. John has left for the mines again since last you wrote, and as of late, we’ve had only gray skies and rain. Is it so in the city? How are you getting on at the shop? Your father and Anne went into town yesterday and everyone there asked after you.
Catherine usually found herself considering the letters during the night—as though to ensure they hadn’t vanished during the daylight hours, to make certain she still remembered the life she’d had outside the brick and mortar of Invercarn. She lifted another envelope from the box. Opening the worn flap, she regarded her brother’s handwriting. Now they were both working in the dark: he in the coal mines, and she, here in the city, unearthing coffins and waking the dearly departed.
She remembered the quiet morning when John left.
She’d sat across from him at the kitchen table, attempting to eat breakfast despite the lump in her throat. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she offered to help him load the cart he’d be taking to the mines.
“Don’t fret, Catherine,” he’d said. “I’ll be home in the winter months.”
But it wasn’t the thought of his absence that troubled her so. It was where he was going. She’d heard tales of the mines in town—how dark and damp they were, how dangerous. Quietly, she said, “You don’t have to go.”
“It’s a fair wage,” John replied, as if this decided things. Her brother was ever and always practical. It was one of the many traits they shared, and it was her practicality that stopped her arguing. She didn’t want her goodbye to be a discouraging one.
Putting her arms around him, she said, “Take care, John.”
In the print shop, Bridget leaned forward in her chair. “Be careful, won’t you, Catherine?”
“Of course,” she said. And with a sigh, she set down her brother’s letter and pushed the box back under her bed.
* * *
It was just past the eleventh hour when Catherine reached the cemetery gates. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the marble mausoleums and slanted grave markers, rooted trees and familiar pathways. She fetched the spade she’d tucked away behind the fence, swung it up onto her shoulder, and headed down one of the winding dirt trails.
In many ways, the city’s cemeteries were as much a home to her as her room at the print shop. Invercarn Public Cemetery had existed long before Rose Hill, its age reflected in its surroundings. Here were the oldest headstones: crosses interlaced with knot work; stone angels, their arms outstretched, carved faces upturned in perpetual grief. Ivy grew through the cracks, twining around the monuments, masking their crumbled foundations. The walls of a dilapidated church loomed in the distance, its stones stained by damp and blanketed with moss.
The coffin maker’s plot was unmarked, but Ainsworth had noted it near the old willow tree on his map. Gripping her lantern, Catherine placed her spade outward from the trunk, using its length to measure out the distance to the grave. Reaching the point written in Ainsworth’s directions, she tapped her spade twice against the earth. Guy Nolan had yet to arrive, and with a sinking sensation, she realized that without him, digging up and reburying the coffin would take twice as long. Her eyes itched with tiredness; she looked up into the night, exhaling a clouded breath.