“Yes. I asked him if he’d study the timepiece. I wanted… I wanted to know if the rumors about its magic were true.” Her gaze went to Owen, her insides twisting. She’d learned all too well of the timepiece’s enchantment, the rumors proven real.

Spencer let out a sigh. “I’ll talk to him, Catherine.”

“Thank you.”

He left, closing the door, and she started back across the room. Dust particles drifted in the air, caught in the lamplight, the spread of papers on the table marked with hard creases, ripped at the edges, pages worn so thin in parts they were made translucent. She took a seat beside Owen, and Guy looked up, questioning.

“That was Spencer Carlyle,” she told him. “He’s the foreman.”

“Ah.”

She reached for another paper, flipping to the obituaries. They passed some while in silence, before Guy asked, “Mr. Smith, how old do you suppose you are?”

Owen rubbed the back of his neck. In a tentative, hopeful tone, he said, “Eighteen?”

Catherine smiled down at her paper. She was seventeen, and he didn’t look any older than she was.

Guy didn’t mock his answer, but replied in all seriousness, “I just turned eighteen myself. I think you’re perhaps a little younger. Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Perhaps,” said Owen quietly.

Catherine said, “Strictly speaking, Mr. Smith, you’re older than either of us.”

Guy nodded. “You’ve a point there, Miss Daly.” He looked down at the newspaper before him, tapping his fingers idly against the page. “There was a boy of fifteen years apprenticed to a wheelwright. He died after a short but severe illness—it says naught else.”

“They’re all rather short, aren’t they?” Owen replied. “It’s difficult to know for certain with only a line or two.” Lowering his gaze, he smoothed over the creases in the paper. “It would be a fine thing, I think, if someone who knew me wrote something kind after my passing.”

Catherine carefully folded the newspaper she held. They could spend the rest of the day here and find nothing. Owen was right: The death notices were often short, with too little information to substantiate the murder of a coffin maker. She was still no closer to discovering the timepiece—and her time was winding down.

“Perhaps we ought to depart,” she said.

Owen gathered together some of the papers. As he headed for the cabinets, Catherine made to follow, but stilled when Guy murmured, “A word, please, Miss Daly.”

She looked back at him. “What is it?”

His brown eyes were the color of dark tea behind his spectacles. His hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it aside, his mouth a thin line of concern. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “This morning—and just now—” He leaned toward her, his voice dipping low. “Is something the matter?”

She cast her eyes down, studying the grain of the table, the knots in the wood. “Mr. Ainsworth thinks I’ve taken the timepiece.”

“What?”

“And he’ll turn me out if I don’t return with it by tonight. Mr. Carlyle said he’d try to reason with him, but…” She trailed off, running her fingertips along the table’s edge.