“No,” said Guy. “I’ll do it. I’ve already quite made up my mind.”

She looked back around. He set down the poker, walking over to place his hands on the table. His eyes were dark and bright, his face flushed after being near the heat of the flames. “This is what I’m trying to tell you, Miss Daly. Honestly, I have little choice in the matter. I can suspend time for Sydney and he’ll give me a cut of his pay, or I can do as my father did and start selling time to people. We’re—we’re going to lose the shop otherwise. Perhaps not next week or next month, but if things keep on the way they have—” He stopped, stepped back. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Catherine stared at him. She felt a rush of sympathy so fierce it hurt her heart. She rose from her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “You ought to get some rest, Mr. Nolan.”

“What about you?” He studied her face. “The timepiece—”

“I need to speak with my foreman. Mr. Ainsworth may have given me more time to search.” She hoped for that, at least. Perhaps Spencer had managed to convince him of the fact she had no knowledge of the timepiece’s whereabouts.

Guy accompanied her down to the shop. Gazing out the front window, he said, “Thank you again, Miss Daly. For earlier.”

She finished tying her bonnet and looked up at his face. “You’re welcome.”

“Tomorrow—let me know what the word is, either way. I’ll help however I can.”

She nodded. “Good night, Mr. Nolan.”

“Good night.”

She made her way through the dimly lit streets back to the Chronicle. Inside, she breathed in the smell of metal and ink, surveying the empty floor. It felt like an age since she’d last been here.

Up on the third floor, she went to Spencer’s room and tapped her knuckles lightly against the door. There was a part of her that didn’t want him to answer, to have this night go on, and in the morning, everything to be as it was.

Spencer opened the door. He was in his nightclothes, but something about his face, the sharpness of his gaze, told her he hadn’t been asleep. “Catherine.” His voice was half a whisper. “Where have you been?”

Rather than answer, she asked, “Did you speak with him?”

“Yes.” He paused. In that silence, Catherine knew she wouldn’t like whatever he said next, but she willed her expression to keep from showing it. “Catherine, you should pack up. You oughtn’t be here when he comes in tomorrow.”

She fixed her eyes on the hall wallpaper. “What—what did he say?”

“Just what you already told me. He didn’t take kindly to me arguing the point, but here’s some luck for you—he’s having a meeting with Mr. Boyd tomorrow. I imagine he’ll be too distracted to think on much else.”