“For your troubles,” he said. “Thank you.”

Catherine cleared her throat. “Mr. Ainsworth will pay you a call tomorrow morning,” she told him, “in regard to outstanding payment.”

“Of course.”

Watt lifted his hat to them, then left the cemetery without a backward glance.

When they were alone, they secured Mary’s casket and took to heaping the dirt back in. Catherine touched the coin in her pocket. After this, they’d walk out of Rose Hill Cemetery, head over the bridge, and return to their room at the print shop. Gripping her spade, she sank the blade into the earth. She thought of Mary’s pale eyes, her raspy voice. She thought of Geoffrey Watt clasping her hand, accentuating his thanks with silver. Soon he would blur alongside all the other clients in her mind.

Just another night’s work.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN CATHERINE HAD FIRST LOOKED upon the print shop, it was from her seat on her family’s old cart. Her father sat beside her, holding on to the reins, his expression grim as he pulled the horses to a stop. It was early spring and late in the evening, cold enough to make Catherine’s nose run. She wiped at it hastily with her sleeve. She didn’t want Father to think she was crying. If she cried, he’d turn the cart straight around and head for home.

She would not cry.

“Well,” said Father, sounding both entirely too lighthearted and quite near tears himself. “It seems a fine place.”

“Yes.” Catherine fought back the lump in her throat. “Very fine.”

Indeed, it was. Four stories of neat, dark brick, lined with sash windows. There was a polished front door with a heavy bronze knocker—like something out of a story.

A fortnight ago, Father had written ahead and secured her a job here. Now, in the dim, watery streetlight, he told her, “You don’t have to go.”

She curled her hands together in her lap. Those were the words she’d said to her older brother the previous year, when he’d left to go work in the mines.

They’d had another year of poor harvest, and just two months back, a storm left their roof badly damaged.

Working at the city’s newspaper, Catherine could make good money. Her family knew that as well as she did.

“I’ll manage.” Her voice came out high, trembling, and that wouldn’t do. She said again, “I’ll manage,” and this time she spoke clear so as to make it true.

Father got down off the cart to tie up the horses. Catherine followed and reached up to stroke their necks.

“You must write,” said Father. “And if you… if you wish to come home, for whatever reason, for any reason, Catherine—”

“I know.” She suspected she wouldn’t be seeing home again for some time. “I’ll write.”

He went around to retrieve her trunk from the back of the cart, and Catherine looked about the cobblestone street. Everything was rain-dark and slick; the smell of the river hung heavy in the air. It was so far from the green fields she knew, the clean, wet earth and the open sky. But it was home to her now.