“Only an hour?” he asked. It was a tone of voice Catherine had heard before. In it was a plea for more, but magic could offer only so much.

Watt was here to say farewell.

“Yes,” said Catherine in answer. “Your sister cannot remain long in such a state of being. She has no place here, not anymore.”

Watt inclined his head in a nod. He held his hat in his hands now, and his fair hair matched his wan complexion. Bridget loosened the last nail and moved aside the casket’s lid. The girl inside was as fair as Watt, wearing a fine evening dress, surrounded by the pale lining of the casket. Catherine knelt at the foot of it, clutching her solitary piece of metal type.

It was a type piece that held an hour of her life. If she brought it to the lantern, she knew she’d find the stain across it. She’d pricked her palm earlier, marking the metal with blood. Now she set it on the casket’s edge. Placing her hand atop it, she whispered, “Mary Watt.”

Beyond the walls of dirt, the stars shone bright and dizzying. Catherine stood up, and the girl’s eyes blinked open. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Mary was pale as a ghost, and much like one, she was still dead. An hour of Catherine’s own ticking clock could give her only a semblance of life. It was quite clear—from her glazed eyes to her ashen cheeks—that she no longer belonged among the living. And when she spoke, her voice was thin and distant.

She asked, “Who are you?”

Catherine swallowed. Climbing out of the pit, she turned to Watt. “You have the hour, sir.”

Watt made his way over to the grave where his sister lay. He was trembling. Once he was inside, the girl said, “Geoffrey.”

Catherine met Bridget’s gaze, and together they headed to the nearby cemetery wall, where they waited under the branches of an oak tree.

Catherine pulled on her coat and looked out at the city. By the time Watt had his hour and they filled in the grave, it would be near dawn. For now, shadows darkened the cobblestones, obscuring the places between the gas lamps and rolling carriages.

Bridget leaned against the stone ledge, arms crossed. In a quiet voice, she said, “Mr. Watt didn’t need to hear you speak of his sister so unkindly.”

Catherine gave her an assessing look. “I don’t think telling him the truth is an unkindness. Mr. Ainsworth should be informing clients of such things.”

“Perhaps,” said Bridget, a touch uneasy. She didn’t like speaking out against their employer, no matter how far they were from earshot. Her blond hair was coming loose from its pins, ruffled by the breeze. She had fair wrists, slender hands calloused from working jobs like this one, dirt under her fingernails. Catherine was equally pale-skinned and angular, her dark hair done up in a chignon.

Once Watt’s hour came to an end, the two returned to the gravesite. Watt was embracing his sister, the girl limp in his arms. Catherine looked elsewhere as he lowered Mary back into the casket. When he climbed out of the grave, he clasped their hands in turn, seemingly unaware of the dirt staining his trouser knees. He pressed a silver coin into Catherine’s palm, smiling despite the tears in his eyes. They were the same shade of blue as his sister’s.