She met his gaze. “What did you write to Mr. Mallory?”

Guy looked back at her. He held his hat at his side, and his brow creased with concern. “You didn’t find it in the cemetery, then?”

“Not as of yet.”

“Ah, well.” He replaced his hat, offering her his arm as they started down the pavement. “I agreed to the arrangement. I told him to meet us at the shop if anything turns up.”

“And this friend of your father’s—do you really suppose he’ll know something of the timepiece?”

“I’m not certain what Mr. Everley knows, but there’s no harm in asking, is there?”

His optimism did little to cheer her. She was still lost in memories, the past shadowing her thoughts. It’d been her decision to come here after her brother left home. A purely sensible choice—before she’d learned to set type and organize sorts, before she’d become familiar with the creaks and groans of the building settling at night and the way sunlight patterned the wallpaper of her room in the mornings.

Everything she relied upon in life was slipping between her fingers, falling away, too quickly for her to grasp.

“Miss Daly?” said Guy.

Just ahead, the wooden sign above the cordwainer’s door swayed in the wind. Owen Smith stood with his back to the shop, his hands in his coat pockets. He looked out at the passing carriages with a downheartedness that Catherine herself felt all too keenly.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” she murmured, “if I don’t find it.”

Guy gave her a reassuring smile. “We may yet uncover something,” he said. “By tonight, we could have our answers.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MR. EVERLEY’S SHOP lay in another part of Old Town, so it was rather a long walk there. Catherine’s teeth chattered, her toes numbing in her boots. They headed down a narrow street, where a mossy stone wall edged one side of the pavement. The buildings were built of the same gray stone, the shopfronts along the way painted an assortment of colors. It wasn’t an area of the city Catherine was well acquainted with, and it was a good deal quieter, away from the river, from the market stalls.

A fierce gust of wind nearly carried off Guy’s hat. He caught hold of it and said, “Oh dear.”

“We’re not lost, are we?” asked Owen.

“Not lost,” Guy said firmly. “But perhaps we should’ve taken an omnibus. I haven’t visited in some time—I forgot just how far it is.”

Catherine said, “How well do you know him? Mr. Everley?”

“I’ve known him almost my whole life. He and my father have been friends since I was a child.”

They came upon the shop a little while later. Above the door, in white paint, it read EVERLEY—HOROLOGIST. There were clocks on display in the front window, golden and gleaming, in engraved dark wood cases. Inside, the place was arranged in a similar fashion to the Nolans’ shop. The countertop was just as clean and polished, the wallpaper a shade darker, but clocks still took up much of it. Catherine rubbed her gloved hands together, grateful to be out of the wind. She wondered if Everley had the same magic as the Nolans, if he too once sold hours to people.