She said, “Mr. Nolan,” and looked around to find he’d paused in front of a tombstone. His expression was solemn as he regarded it, his lantern held loosely at his side. When she said his name again, he glanced up, meeting her gaze.

“We’d best have a look in the church,” she told him.

He nodded. Together, they started for the stone heap. In another corner of the cemetery, there lay the small windowed structure of the new watch house, a lookout post where people could watch over the dead, guarding them against resurrection men. As they neared it, Guy stopped, raising his lantern. He said, “There’s someone over there.”

Catherine spotted the figure: a man with a lantern of his own, coming around the side of the watch house. She swallowed. “Put out your light,” she murmured.

Guy hurried to do so, speaking low and fast as the flame went out. “Should we not be here? It’s quite late, isn’t it?”

Few people wandered the city’s cemeteries in the dark. Those who did were usually watchmen or grave robbers, and Catherine did not think this man was the latter. Before she could answer Guy, the stranger looked their way. He lifted his light, calling out, “Hello! Who’s there?”

Catherine stood frozen for only a moment longer. Catching hold of Guy’s sleeve, she said, “Mr. Nolan, run.”

They ran, stumbling, slipping on the wet ground. The entrance was too far; Catherine darted onto the grass, her fear razor-sharp and clawing at the back of her throat. “Here,” she gasped. “This way.” She passed a tall cross marker and ducked beneath a low wall facing one of the older tombs. Guy came around after her, crouching down. They sat with their backs against the cool and grimy stone, catching their breaths.

Guy whispered, “I thought the watchmen only patrolled the private cemetery.”

“More regularly, perhaps, but I’ve seen them make rounds here before.” She looked over at him. He had his knees to his chest, his arms around them, his eyes shut tightly.

“Last spring,” he said in a hushed tone. “Last spring, Miss Daly, they imprisoned three grave robbers.” He swallowed, turning to meet her gaze. “They were flogged, and Sydney told me one of them died some days later from—from the wounds.”

“We haven’t robbed any graves,” Catherine whispered back.

“We’ve taken poor Mr. Smith from his resting place,” said Guy. He shuddered and reached over his shoulder, touching his back as if he were already imagining the lashing.

Catherine tried to quiet her breathing, tried to listen for the sound of footsteps past the roaring of blood in her ears. A flicker of light touched the tombstone, the words engraved there illuminated in the glow. She looked up, wide-eyed. The watchman set his lantern on the wall and took Guy roughly by the collar.

“You think you can hide from me, boy? I saw you run off.” He yanked him to his feet and shoved an old pistol under his chin. “What are you doing here at this hour?”