Catherine straightened, held up her hands, even as her heart pounded in her chest.
“My name is Catherine Daly,” she said. “May I ask yours?”
The boy stared at her, wild-eyed. He was breathing in gasps, air sawing in and out of his lungs.
Catherine glanced back at Guy. The two of them looked a nightmarish pair in the darkness of the cemetery, sweaty and filthy as they were. She imagined they weren’t a sight that would ease anyone’s mind upon waking from the grave. Guy’s expression almost mirrored the boy’s, both of them looking dazed and vaguely ill.
Catherine turned back around as the boy let out a nervous laugh. “I’m dreaming, surely,” he said. “This is just… I don’t—”
“You’re not dreaming,” Guy told him. His voice came out surprisingly steady despite his countenance. “You were dead.”
The boy snapped, “If I were dead, I think I’d know it.”
“It’s fair to say you didn’t,” Guy replied.
Hesitantly, Catherine said, “Can you tell us your name?”
The boy frowned, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t… I can’t recall.” He went still, his eyes widening. “I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?”
“That’s all right,” Catherine told him. “It might take a while to come back.”
She hadn’t the faintest if this was true or not, but she was willing to say whatever was necessary to keep him from panicking any further.
“What can you remember?” Guy asked.
Regarding him, the boy said, “Am I still in Invercarn?”
“Yes,” replied Catherine. “We’re in Invercarn.”
The boy swallowed hard. He studiously avoided looking at the empty coffin as he pressed one hand to the dirt wall nearest him. His cravat hung crooked, his hair fell into his eyes, but there was no indication he’d slip from life anytime soon.
In a quiet, uneven voice, he said, “I’d like to get out of here now.”
CHAPTER SIX
CATHERINE SCRAMBLED out of the grave with her lantern in hand. Guy came up after her, and together they helped the nameless boy onto the grass. He stood on the threshold of the pit, looking down. He seemed very much a part of the graveyard, in his dusty, worn-out suit, his features obscured in the dark.
Shaking his head, he murmured, “This can’t be real.” Yet the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Catherine knew it must be a difficult thing to come to terms with. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, unsure of how to proceed. All magic centered on the basis of give-and-take. It was the reason why her life was shortened to give even a semblance of life to another.
And that raised a question begging to be answered.
Just what had been given to grant this boy new life?
When a gust of wind swept past, the boy shuddered in his thin suit. Guy held out his coat, but the boy stared as though Guy were offering him a used handkerchief. Suspicion glittered in his dark eyes as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Who are you, then?” he demanded. “What do you want from me?”
At this, Catherine noticed Guy trying to catch her eye. She ignored him. “We were looking for something,” she said. “It was meant to be buried with you.”
His brow furrowed. He contemplated the gravesite once more and drew his lower lip between his teeth. “If I died…,” he began. “If I was… buried here… where is my headstone?”
Catherine swallowed. Quietly, she said, “Your grave was unmarked.”
“Why would I…?” The boy’s chest heaved as he gaped at her. “That can’t be right. None of this is right.”
“I’m sure things will make more sense once your memories return.”
Her words only seemed to agitate him. “How so?” he asked. “What do you expect me to remember?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing terribly grim,” Guy noted. He pulled on his coat, fetching up his hat from the grave’s edge. “You built coffins, I’m told. An apprentice, perhaps, at your age. If you had no family, you simply might not have been able to afford proper burial.”
The boy’s breath caught. He said, “Family.”
Catherine heard the hope in those few syllables. She had to tamp it down before it solidified into something that could be crushed. “You’ve been in the ground a long time,” she said. “If you did have a family, they may not—that is, they may no longer be living.”
Fear dawned on his face, plain even in the low light. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “How long a time?” he asked.
“It’s hard to say exactly, but by the state we found you in…” Catherine paused. “I’d wager twenty years or so.”
The boy took a step back, tripped, and sat down rather abruptly. He was shaking, his face white as paper. Guy crouched beside him. “You’ll need a name,” he said gently. “Until you recall your own.” And when the boy said nothing in return, Guy added, “I’m partial to Owen. How about that?”
The boy hunched his shoulders, looking elsewhere. “It’s a fine name, I suppose.”
“It’s settled, then.” Guy held out his hand. “Guy Nolan is mine.”
The boy—Owen—hesitated a brief moment, before clasping Guy’s hand in his. As Guy helped him to his feet, Catherine said, “If you’ll excuse us, Owen. Mr. Nolan and I need a moment alone.”
Guy caught her gaze and nodded. “Of course, Miss Daly.”
Catherine put down her lantern, not wanting to leave the boy in the pitch dark.
She and Guy set off into the night, picking their way around exposed tree roots and flat stone markers. They came to a stop far enough away to be out of earshot but close enough to keep an eye on the boy standing inside the glow of Catherine’s light.
Tipping her chin up, she studied Guy’s face. He placed his hat back on his head, shadowing his eyes. “My father won’t notice if I bring him back to the shop,” he said. “He’ll be safe there.”
“That’s gracious of you, Mr. Nolan, but it still doesn’t solve the matter at hand.”
“You mean the timepiece.”
“I do mean the timepiece.”
She could think of no other reason why this coffin maker was alive once more. If the device was not buried with him, it must be somewhere in this cemetery for it to have worked its magic as it did. Even after hearing the rumors, she hadn’t put much thought into its existence, its capabilities. Such a thing would be prized beyond measure; it was little wonder why Ainsworth wanted it.
“I don’t see how we’ll find it in the dark, Miss Daly.”
Catherine nodded. Yet her heart knocked against her ribs at the notion of returning to the print shop empty-handed.
Guy put his hands in his coat pockets, lowering his voice as he continued. “Perhaps, given time, he might remember something of it. I know someone with connections at the university. They may have information there about this timepiece.”
“Who? A student?”
“Ah, no, not a student.” Guy cast his eyes down. “He—he digs up bodies for the medical department.”