There was a set of stairs near the entrance—the newel post faded and scuffed, the steps dipped in the middle—and Guy stopped at the foot of it, calling up, “Hello? Mr. Everley?”

Above them, the floorboards creaked under footsteps. And someone replied, “Guy?” A man descended the stairs, neatly dressed in a white shirt and black silk waistcoat, a frock coat and gray trousers. He looked about the same age as Henry Nolan, his black hair threaded with silver. He smiled. “It’s good to see you. What brings you here?”

Guy smiled back. “Good afternoon, sir.”

The man glanced from Guy to Catherine and Owen. His brow creased. “Is your father not with you?” he asked.

“He’s back at the shop. These are my friends Miss Daly and Mr. Smith,” Guy added, gesturing to them. “Miss Daly, Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Everley.”

Catherine said politely, “How do you do, sir?”

“We’re needing information about a particular timepiece,” Guy told him.

“Well, come upstairs. I’ll build up a fire.”

In the kitchen, Everley swept the fireplace clean and put coal into the grate. Catherine sat beside Owen at the table, while Guy remained standing near the hearth. Books crowded the mantelpiece, a shelf clock placed in the center. A mirror hung on the wall above, and Catherine saw Guy’s reflection in the glass. He’d removed his overcoat, hat, and gloves, and his hair was a little disheveled, his cheeks still pink from the chill outside.

“Is Mrs. Everley not in?” he asked.

“No. She’s out of town at the moment, visiting her sister.” Everley returned his poker to the rack of other fireplace tools, moving toward the kitchen counter. “And how is your father? Is he well?”

“Very well,” Guy said with alacrity. He took a seat at the table across from Catherine, and the worries he’d expressed to her last night felt like well-buried secrets now.

Everley set out a plate of biscuits and poured tea for each of them. He sat down at the table, and when Guy turned the conversation to the timepiece, Everley replied, “You don’t want any business with that. I’d leave it for those at the university to find, if they haven’t already.”

“It’s my employer who wants it—at the Chronicle,” Catherine told him. She swallowed, meeting his gaze. “He tasked me with finding it. Doing so is the only chance I have of keeping my job.”

Everley let out a sigh, closing his eyes briefly. “No one ought to have it, to be using magic of that sort—”

“Have you heard tell of who might’ve made it?” asked Guy.

Everley paused. “No,” he said. “But I don’t suppose it’s very old. I’ve only heard rumors of it in the past decade.”

The device was thought to be buried in Owen’s grave; it could’ve been crafted around the time of his death. Catherine glanced his way, but he kept his eyes trained on his teacup.

On their way out, Everley stopped Guy in the hall. Catherine hesitated around the corner at the top of the stairs, listening.