“Yes, Mr. Nolan?”

“Nothing.” Then, in an entirely different tone, he said, “Have you supposed this timepiece may not be a pocket watch? It’s not definite, is it? Perhaps it’s a great long-case clock hidden in that old church.”

“I’ve no idea how I’d carry that back to Mr. Ainsworth.”

Guy smiled. “That would be quite the challenge.”

The grounds of the public cemetery stretched out before them. Tall columns supported the stone arch above the front gates, the wrought-iron fence edging the sidewalk. Stone walls ran along the sides of the yard, the graves dark and damp from the afternoon’s rain. Buildings lined the street bordering the back of the grounds. They were pressed close, old sandstone and white windows, smoke rising from their chimney tops.

They passed through the open gates and headed down a pathway marked with puddles turned to mud. Catherine already despaired the state of her skirts, her boots spattered with mire.

Guy made a sound of dismay as he stepped out of a puddle. “And these are my good trousers.” He looked ahead of them. “Where do you want to start?”

There were rows upon rows of gravestones, the winding dirt trails between them, the old mausoleums, the ruins of the church. Catherine hadn’t any directions now, and finding the timepiece somewhere in such an expanse seemed at once an impossible task.

“I suppose,” she said, “we can start at Mr. Smith’s grave.”

They found the plot with little trouble. Catherine surveyed the freshly turned earth, the loose clumps of grass, wondering how many others had been buried without markers to indicate their place.

“The timepiece ought to be around here, oughtn’t it?” She turned to Guy. “Its magic worked on Mr. Smith. It should be close.”

Guy studied the ground. Crouching down, he pressed one hand to the dirt. “It may not be in a grave, but it could be buried all the same. If it was left here years ago, it could be under soil and tree roots by now.” He stood up and glanced toward the nearby willow tree. “Or perhaps in a hollow, if the piece is small enough.”

They found no hollow in the willow, but there was one at the base of an oak tree some paces away. They sat down before it, staring into the dark space.

Guy lit his lantern, the flare of brightness illuminating the cracks in the bark, the dried and curling leaves about the trunk. The light reflected in Guy’s eyes as he set down the lantern, peering into the hollow. Catherine reached a hand inside, but all she felt were cobwebs, undergrowth, and more dead leaves.

With a sigh, she removed her hand, wiping it on the grass. “If it’s in a hollow, it’s not this one.”

They moved on, inspecting other trees, walking around the tall mausoleums with their padlocked bronze doors. The light faded as they continued along the cemetery paths, the air turning brittle and biting. It was well into evening, and unease tightened Catherine’s chest, her heart thudding as she took note of the darkening sky. There seemed to be no one about the cemetery apart from them, its emptiness made glaring by the lengthening shadows, gusts of wind scraping the branches above their heads.