Catherine’s heart ached. She reached out, her hand poised just over his shoulder. She wanted to comfort him somehow but knew not what comfort she could offer. In the end she pulled back, took up the teapot, and poured tea into their cups. She slid the saucer to him across the scrubbed table.

Downstairs, clocks chimed the hour. The sound was muffled, ringing up through the floorboards. Guy sniffed and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Thank you,” he said again, taking hold of his teacup.

Catherine drank her tea. “Do you know what he meant?” she asked. “The watchman? He—he said your father did him a good turn.”

Guy hunched his shoulders. Curling his hands around his cup, he said, “I suppose my father sold him some hours. It’s what people are always thanking him for.”

“Why did he stop?”

Guy looked to the fireplace, and Catherine followed his gaze. The wood in the grate crackled, turning to ash. The clock on the mantelpiece, as well as the darkness beyond the window glass, told her of the late hour.

Guy said, “I asked him to.” He placed his cup neatly in its saucer. “The magic you use for the farewell service—it takes something from you, does it not?”

She shifted in her chair. “Time,” she answered. “Time off my life.”

His eyes widened a little. “Truly?”

“Yes. But the people we bring back don’t return as Mr. Smith did. They’re still dead.” She ran a finger over the rim of her empty teacup. “They’re—they’re like ghosts, Mr. Nolan.”

He leaned forward, holding her gaze. His eyes shone to a dark polish. “Our magic takes memories. My father would put pieces of time in a watch—an hour, more than an hour—and an equal amount of time would be forgotten from his past.” He set his jaw. “The magic was eating away at him—I could see it. And he has dreadful nightmares sometimes.”

A log tumbled in the hearth, but neither of them moved to fetch the poker.

“Other watchmakers in the city aren’t keen on doing such business,” Guy went on. “My father made quite a tidy profit. Once he stopped, well… a lot of clients didn’t come back after that.” He twisted his hands atop the table. “He doesn’t wish me to use magic, and I agree, but now…”

Standing up, he headed over to the fireplace. He took the poker and tended to the fire, the flames flickering and curling about the wood. “Sydney Mallory doesn’t do things for nothing,” he told her. “If he’s going to ask around about the timepiece, he wants a favor in return.”

Catherine asked, “What sort of favor?” But she could already guess.

“He wants me to still time for him during resurrections—to avoid the watchmen.” Guy turned to face her. “I’ve never done it before, Miss Daly. Magic.” He held the poker limply at his side; for a moment, he looked dreamlike, fey, a knight with a fallen sword.

Catherine looked away. Closing her eyes, she listened to the tick of the mantel clock, the crackling of the fire. “I understand,” she said. “It’s all right. If you don’t want to—I understand.”