CATHERINE SORTED THROUGH the type case in front of her, picking out another letter to place in the line forming on her composing stick. Her hands barely shook as she did so—a minor feat. Any moment, Jonathan Ainsworth would stride into the shop and find her lacking what he’d sent her to collect. The thought of it was like a fist around her heart, squeezing tighter with every beat.
She fixed her eyes on the type in her composing stick. Her thumb held the line in place, the nicks in the metal facing up. The written obituary informed her that the woman—Elizabeth Cleary, aged twenty-six years—was taken by consumption in the late-night hours. Catherine transferred the type from her composing stick to the chase. There was so much death in this city, printed in every paper. Lives snuffed out like candles, bodies put in the ground, to remain there so long as no robbers came to dig them back up—or, conversely, no magic restored them to life.
The public cemetery was now short of another corpse.
At the soft chime of the bell above of the shop door, Catherine stiffened. Ainsworth was early this morning—she ought to have anticipated that. She set down her composing stick, stomach churning.
His brow creased as she met his gaze. He said, “My office, please, Miss Daly,” and Catherine did her best to clamp down on her nerves as she followed him up the stairs.
She walked into the office behind him, closed the door, and watched as he settled into his chair. He looked at her, and she decided to have out with it. “The timepiece wasn’t there, sir,” she said. “I dug up the grave, but there was no timepiece to be had. The coffin was empty.”
Ainsworth’s silver-gray eyes narrowed. He leaned back, considering her. “I thought my instructions were quite clear.”
“Mr. Ainsworth, I had no trouble locating the coffin. It was simply—”
“Empty? What of the body?”
Catherine bit her lip. In her mind’s eye, she saw Owen—how he’d stood in the cemetery, staring down at his grave, the fear etched across his countenance.
“There was no body, sir. As I said, there was naught to be found.” And when he made no reply, she continued. “Perhaps the information you received—”
“Miss Daly,” he cut in. “You would do well to give me the timepiece. If not, you may look for other employment.”
It took a moment for the words to register. Catherine couldn’t quite believe them. She stepped forward, knotting her hands together. “Sir, I don’t have it. I did just as you asked, but… truly, I don’t know where it might be.”
Ainsworth was no longer looking at her. Raising a hand in dismissal, he said, “You have until day’s end to turn it in. Otherwise…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Catherine could fill in the gaps.
She’d be out of a situation, out on the streets.
Though if Ainsworth really thought she had the timepiece, he might very well have her arrested. All it would take was a message to the police, and with his word against hers, Catherine hadn’t a prayer.
“Sir,” she said, and paused to rally herself. “Mr. Ainsworth, have I not done right by you these past two years? Send me elsewhere to search for this timepiece, but I cannot give you what I do not have.”
His expression changed only slightly, only for a moment. He met her gaze, and Catherine saw Ainsworth as she knew him to be. Decisive, unyielding, hard of heart in an instant, like a cold snap blowing in.
“Be on your way, Miss Daly.”
His tone was resolute, impervious to arguments. Catherine’s pulse pounded in her ears, so that all other sound seemed washed away, replaced by the frantic beating. Throat dry, she nodded and retreated from the office.
In her room, she put on her coat, bonnet, and gloves, her movements numb, mechanical as the presses downstairs. She stared out the window—the glass fogged, early-morning condensation above the sill—to the blur of carriages and people below, passing by the Chronicle with nary a care of what went on behind its doors.
She stepped into the hall, headed down the stairs, straight across the print floor and out onto the sidewalk. She continued in a daze, tripping once, twice, on the cobblestones. The brisk morning air stung her eyes to tears; she wiped at them just as briskly as she came to the street on which the watchmaker’s shop was located. The CLOSED sign was still upon the door, but Catherine knocked, hoping someone would hear and answer.
And someone did.
“Good morning, Mr. Nolan.”
Guy did not look as though he’d gotten much rest in her absence. He was tidily dressed in a collared shirt and dark trousers, his waistcoat complemented by a golden watch chain, but his face was pallid, his eyes bleary with sleeplessness. “Miss Daly,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming to call so early.”
She stepped over the threshold, lowering her voice to a whisper. “How is he?”
“Better now than he was during the night.” Guy regarded her steadily. “He cried himself to sleep.”
When Catherine said nothing to that, he turned away, leading her up the back staircase. The way was dark, close, the steps creaking beneath them. It reminded her of the print shop, and the thought was enough to knot her insides. She had until day’s end to find the timepiece, but how was she to uncover it without an inkling of its whereabouts?
The stairs brought them into a narrow hall decked in flocked wallpaper. Catherine followed Guy through an open door into a kitchen. It was quite a large room, with a table and six chairs, a fireplace, shelves of crockery above the counter. Brass pots and pans were lined on hooks on the wall, and there was a kettle of water coming to a boil on the stove. The window was cracked open, the yellowed edge of the lace curtains fluttering over the sill. Despite the well-worn state of the furnishings, everything appeared orderly, scrubbed spotless, cared for in the manner Catherine cared for her own precious few belongings.
Owen sat at the table, but he stood politely when they entered the room. On the table before him was a rack of toast, blackened at the edges, the faint smell of burning hanging in the air. The morning’s newspaper and Guy’s spectacles lay in the space opposite, and in the light of day, surrounded by such ordinary things, Owen himself appeared less ethereal than he had the night before. Casting his eyes down, he said quietly, “Good morning, Miss Daly.”
“Morning.” She moved forward to take a seat. “How are you?”
Sitting back down, he said, “Well, thank you,” though he bore the same marks of sleeplessness Guy did. He looked to be wearing some of Guy’s clothes as well, slightly too loose on his more slender frame. His hair was brushed neatly, his eyes not as dark as they seemed to her in the night, but a muddy hazel color. “I must apologize for my behavior last night. I am grateful to you, and to Mr. Nolan, for taking me in so charitably. But I don’t wish to impose myself on your goodwill. I will find work and a place of lodging and shan’t disturb you any further.”
She and Guy ought to be the ones apologizing. Owen would undoubtedly still be in the ground if it weren’t for them. Now here he was, without his memories, trying to make the best of things. Catherine admired it, but that didn’t stop selfishness from holding sway over her thoughts.
This boy was her only lead in discovering the timepiece and securing her job.