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.