Owen looked between the two of them. “Miss Daly,” he said, “Mr. Nolan told me what happened last night. Frightful business. Are you quite certain you want to go back?”

It was a matter of need rather than want, Catherine thought. She hadn’t a chance of getting her job back without the timepiece in hand, and what evidence she had of its whereabouts traced back to the cemetery grounds.

“I’ll be just fine,” she told Owen.

“I’ve a stop to make at the lodging house first,” Guy said. “If you want to walk with us a little ways.”

Catherine knew the lodging house on Navy Street. It was adjacent to the river, near the docks, the proximity made noticeable by the heavy smell of silt, the creak and clank of ships at port, and dock workers calling out to one another. The house was almost as large as the print shop, four stories tall, the bricks water-stained and soot-marked.

Guy took an envelope from his coat and knocked on the door; Catherine and Owen looked on as an elderly woman answered. Guy doffed his hat. The two exchanged a few words, and Guy handed her the message he’d written for Sydney Mallory.

Once she closed the door, Guy headed back over to them. They had almost reached the corner when Owen glanced back at the lodging house. “What does Mr. Mallory do?” he inquired.

Guy grimaced. There was a pause in which Catherine thought he wouldn’t answer, but the moment passed and he replied, “Unpleasant work.”

“I daresay my work at that coffin shop was unpleasant.” But Owen said it pleasantly. His expression changed, however, turned solemn, and he fell silent as they walked on.

At the next street, they parted ways, Catherine starting off in the direction of the cemetery. She hesitated at the front gates, looking over the graves still shrouded in morning fog. The sounds of the city quieted, grew distant, as she headed inside. She became more aware of her own footfalls, her breath misting in front of her. She walked down a trail they had taken yesterday, pausing when her eyes caught on a familiar name within a row of tombstones. It was the grave marker Guy had stopped at the night before. Now she realized why.

The name NOLAN was carved across the top, and below it, three names. The years of birth were different, but they had all died the same year—more than a decade ago.

Catherine tore her gaze away and continued along the path. Guy hadn’t mentioned having family buried here, and looking upon the grave felt like prying into his past.

She headed to the back of the cemetery, to the watch house. It was unmanned at this early hour, and she peered in through a window, considering the bare room. There was nothing to see but dirt tracked across the floor.

Instead, she turned her attention to the church. In the watery daylight, it appeared no less imposing, the empty bell tower rising up out of the fog. The stonework was dark and damp-stained like many of the graves, eroded by weather and time. When she came to the entrance, she noticed two women in mourning dress walking between the rows of graves.