Sydney replied, “The pleasure is mine, Miss Daly,” before his attention shifted to the remaining member of their company.

Owen looked on with his hat in his hands, so near the sidewalk’s edge he was at risk of being struck by a passing carriage. Guy introduced him, telling Sydney, “Mr. Smith is from the country and recently orphaned. He’s looking for work.”

Sydney put a hand to his heart. “I’m an orphan and I get by all right. You must come to call sometime—the lodging house on Navy Street.”

“Oh.” Owen’s gaze darted to Guy and Catherine and back to Sydney. “Thank you, Mr. Mallory. That’s very gracious.”

Guy took his shop key from his pocket. He moved to open the door, and Sydney said, “Shall I come around another time? I don’t wish to intrude if you have company.”

At that, Guy glanced back. His eyes shifted from Sydney to Catherine. It was clear to her Sydney had some matter to discuss, and if Guy were to make inquiries about the timepiece, perhaps Owen ought not to be present.

She said, “Mr. Smith and I were just on our way.” She looked over at Owen with a smile. “Walk with me, won’t you? You still haven’t seen much of the city.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Guy jumped in. “There’s naught for you to do in the shop anyway, Mr. Smith.”

“All right.” Biting his lip, Owen replaced his hat. “That is, if you’re certain.”

“Quite.” Guy pushed open the door. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Sydney bade them farewell, and Catherine ushered Owen along, guiding him down an alley to emerge on a main road. The sky had clouded over, the leaden color promising rain. Catherine didn’t suppose Owen would be keen on accompanying her to the cemetery. As they passed a grocer’s, then a haberdasher’s, he cast a curious look into the shop windows. He said, “Mr. Mallory is a friend of Mr. Nolan’s, I take it?”

Catherine paused beside him, smoothing a gloved hand over her coat. She thought Guy likely had many friends. He seemed a good sort of friend to have—so earnest and reliable, so set in his place in the world.

She replied, “A friend, yes.”

“Hmm. He seems a fine gent.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Owen turned to her. “Do you think I could make hats?”

Her brow furrowed at the change of subject. “Pardon?”

He inclined his head toward the haberdasher’s shop. “I need to find work, some sort of apprenticeship. You said I was once a coffin maker, but—that seems rather morbid, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I print obituaries.”

He swallowed hard. Continuing down the street, he said, “I think I could be a good baker, if I applied myself. Or perhaps I could learn to drive a coach.”

“I suppose… Mr. Smith, are you all right?”

Owen had turned colorless, his breaths uneven. Patches of red bloomed along his cheekbones. He nodded, took off his hat, and said, “Yes, I—I think I just need to sit.”