She put her shoulders back, lifted her chin. Father appeared carrying her trunk, and she walked alongside him to knock on the door.

Two years had passed since then.

On the third floor of the print shop, Catherine sat at her desk in the room she shared with Bridget. Early-morning light shone over papers and inkpots through the leaded rectangles dividing the window glass. There wasn’t time to go to bed after returning from the cemetery, and the piece of type she’d used to wake Mary Watt was still tucked in her coat. It was one of several Mr. Ainsworth had purchased from Stewart and Sons type foundry. A space, blank of any letter, crafted finely and made to be susceptible to magic.

She took up the letter she’d written to her family the night before and sealed it in an envelope, intent on bringing it to the post office later.

There were things she hadn’t realized back when she’d started working here. The Invercarn Chronicle printed all sorts—local news and events, shipping news, a wide range of advertisements—but Catherine was often tasked with printing the obituaries. And for the first year, she hadn’t worked any graveyard shifts. Since the recent establishment of the newspaper across town—the Journal—Mr. Ainsworth had introduced the farewell service as another means of profit. It wasn’t something put into the advertisements, but word of mouth brought clients to the door.

Catherine stood up and attempted once more to scrub the grave dirt from her nails. Along with the desk and the washstand, there were two wrought-iron beds on either side of the room, two chests of drawers, two bedside tables spotted with dried candle wax. The wallpaper was peeling in parts where it met the ceiling, but altogether it was clean and dry, with a view of the street below. She pinned up her hair and smoothed her hands over her dress before making her way down to the print floor.

Light came in through the front windows, illuminating tall sheaves of paper and type cabinets, tins of ink and composing sticks. It lent a gilded quality to the room, as lovely as gold leaf, and gleamed across the iron hand presses. Printed sheets were hung to dry on racks along the ceiling. Work desks were piled with tidy stacks of paper, information to be typeset and printed. A few employees were already behind them, composing sticks in hand or scratching down notes with their dip pens.

Catherine took an ink-stained apron off a peg and slipped it on. She pulled free a type case from one of the cabinets, carrying it over to her desk. With the first of several death notices before her, she began composing type, adding letter after letter to the composing stick she held.

She said, “Good morning, Spencer,” as her foreman walked by her desk.

He stopped. “Morning, Catherine. Last night went well, I take it?”

She nodded, holding back a yawn. Her shifts at the cemetery were infrequent enough she didn’t much mind the sleeplessness that came part and parcel with the extra pay. Spencer folded his arms, his head tilted to the side. With his brown hair slicked back and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, he looked neat and managerial despite his youth. He was twenty-two now, once a compositor himself, before Ainsworth promoted him. It was Spencer Carlyle who had answered the door when she had first arrived. She could still recall that younger version of him: the bright snap of ambition in his eyes.