“Of course.” Catherine directed him to the front steps of a bank. She sat beside him and rested a hand against the stone step. “It’s perfectly understandable if you’re feeling overwhelmed. You’ve been out of the ground for very little time. Indeed, not even a full day.”

“It’s not that,” he said thickly. “Well, not just that. It’s—” He ducked his head, his grip tight on Guy’s old hat. “You both have lives and friends and things to do and I know I’m a bother. I don’t mean to be, but I am, and I’m sorry.” Tears slid down his cheeks, and he pushed them aside impatiently. “I don’t even have my own clothes to wear.”

Softly, Catherine asked, “Where are the ones you were buried in?”

“Still in Mr. Nolan’s flat.” He let out a laugh. “They were quite dirty, and he said I looked like an old codger in them besides, so he gave me some of his.”

“Now, isn’t that a kindness?” Catherine did her best to sound lighthearted. “He cares enough not to let you go out dressed unfashionably.”

Owen laughed again, but his eyes were still full of tears. Catherine placed a hand over his. “You’re not a bother, Mr. Smith. Your bones would still be lying in your coffin if Mr. Nolan and I hadn’t come along last night. It’d be cruel of us not to look out for you.”

Owen gazed back at her. Hesitantly, he asked, “What was it you were looking for? When you dug me up?”

“A timepiece.” Catherine let out a breath. “It was believed to be buried with you. My employer tasked me with fetching it.”

He tipped his head to the side. “Was it mine?”

“I don’t know.”

Looking away, he scrubbed the remaining tears from his eyes. “If it was not your magic that brought me back, it was someone else’s doing. Perhaps if we find this timepiece, we’ll find them, too.” Rain began to fall, speckling the stone steps, and he tilted his face up to meet it, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.

Catherine sat with him a moment longer. The timepiece’s whereabouts could very well be one of his lost memories. Rain dampened their clothes, but neither of them remarked on it, nor moved to get up. People hurried along on the street, umbrellas unfurling.

Keeping his eyes closed, Owen asked, “Miss Daly, how many coffin makers are there in this city?”

“I’m not sure.” She watched as a carriage passed them, its wheels turning up rainwater. “But I know of one.”

“I’d like to go there. If you’ll show me the way.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE COFFIN SHOP SAT on a corner lot on a small lane near the factory district. It was next door to a cabinetmaker’s, the sandstone buildings blackened with coal soot. Their respective trades were painted in faded capital letters above the doors. The rain had ceased, though it was still overcast, and everything was made damp and dark and slick.