“Here it is,” said Catherine. She looked over at Owen. “Would you like to go in?”

He nodded, distracted as he glanced around. The lane was empty of people aside from them. Rainwater collected on the shop steps, dimpled in the middle from age and wear. They came to the door, and Owen reached out to set his hand on the knob. He peered up at the painted lettering before releasing a defeated little sigh. “Nothing,” he said. “I can’t remember any of this.”

“Don’t lose heart, Mr. Smith. Give it time—it may all come rushing back.”

Owen’s past might be found beneath this roof, his memories. And with it, the possibility of finding the timepiece. When they stepped inside, the place was mercifully warm and dry. Gas lamps were lit along the walls, hissing softly, illuminating the dark wood floor, the details of the flocked wallpaper. No one stood at the shop counter, and Catherine turned back to find Owen still at the front of the room. Two velvet sofas were by the entrance, a watercolor landscape of Invercarn hanging above them. It was a lovely painting of dark-brown buildings, the slate-gray sky, morning-blue shadows.

“Say now, what are you doing in here?”

Catherine grimaced at that tone of voice. Looking over, she saw a man in his early thirties in the back-room doorway. He eyed them warily, his mouth pressed thin.

Even if they weren’t wet from the rain—making it obvious they hadn’t stepped light from a carriage—neither Catherine nor Owen were dressed especially fine. No matter what Catherine had said about fashionableness, the clothes Owen wore were still noticeably secondhand, fraying at the cuffs. Catherine wasn’t much better off, in her old coat and bonnet, with only a few petticoats to give shape to the skirt of her dress. Clearly they were not here with money to spend on an ornate coffin.

“Good day, sir,” Catherine said cheerfully. “We’re looking for someone who might’ve worked in this establishment some years back. May we ask you a few questions?”

“No, no, no. You’re not here to buy nothing—be off with you.” The man came around the counter to stand before them, arms crossed. He was clean-shaven and his ginger hair was brushed back, his work apron marked with oil and wood stain.

Owen stepped forward. “How long have you worked in this shop, sir?”

“Since I was a boy,” said the coffin maker, gesturing to the door. “If you’re looking for someone, you’d have better luck going to the police, eh?”

“During your apprenticeship, did a boy with my likeness work here?”

“How am I to know? Plenty have worked here over the years. Some stay on; some go elsewhere—I’ve not got a record.”

“Sir, please.” Owen’s voice cracked. Catherine could only imagine how much he must want this—to be remembered, to know he once existed in the world. “If you could just think on it.”

The man walked over. “You do have a familiar look about you.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this a relative of yours?”