Owen scrubbed at his red-rimmed eyes with his coat sleeve.

Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, Guy said, “My father is waiting for me, so I need to head back, but wait for me at the corner and I’ll let you in.” He looked around, meeting Catherine’s gaze. “And you, Miss Daly.”

He left the bridge, starting down the path, as the clock tower tolled the hour. Catherine watched him until he was a dark figure in the distance, just another gentleman passing through the park. She turned back to Owen.

“Mr. Mallory knows about your situation,” she told him. “And about the timepiece. He thought you might consider visiting the university.”

Owen folded his arms atop the parapet, peering over the bridge into the water. “What for?” His voice shook. “So they may cut me open and study my insides?”

“Mr. Smith,” Catherine chided. “You’re not a cadaver. Mr. Nolan and I won’t let you come to harm.”

He turned to her. There was still something raw about his countenance, but he smiled a tiny, hesitant smile, and it brightened his whole face. “I’ll go,” he said. “If you and Mr. Nolan come along, I’ll go.”

“Very well, then.” And Catherine smiled back at him.

It was fully dark by the time Guy led them inside the shop and put the CLOSED sign on the door. A couple of lamps were still lit along the wall, burning low in their brackets. Light reflected over the clock dials, the pendulums and weights, the polished cases. Guy took Catherine’s coat and bonnet, hanging them up.

She studied his face in the dim. “Your father…?”

“He’s already asleep. He won’t wake.” He ran a hand through his hair and added, “He takes medicine to help with his nightmares. He’ll sleep until morning.”

Catherine couldn’t help but glance up. She waited for some creak to alert her to the fact that Henry Nolan was indeed awake, but no footsteps sounded on the floorboards. There was only the low, occasional groan of the building settling, the temperature falling with the evening. She shivered.

“You may sleep on the sofa down here, Miss Daly,” Guy continued. “I hope that’s agreeable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nolan.”

They headed upstairs, where Guy collected blankets for her from the linen chest, and Catherine fetched clothes from her trunk. After dinner, after Owen went off to bed, Guy took a seat in a wingback armchair by the fireplace. The floral-patterned upholstery was worn thin along the chair arms; the printed roses were faded to a pale pink. He’d loosened his cravat and unfastened his shirt cuffs. He tipped his head back, a certain light to his eyes as he looked over at the hearth. In the grate, the fire was slowly dying, the wood blackened, the coals glowing red.

Catherine clasped her hands in front of her. “Well,” she said. “Good night, then.”

She made to leave, and Guy said softly, “Wait.”

Catherine glanced back at him.

He straightened up. “Are you…? Are you very tired? Only I thought we might”—his face reddened, noticeable even in the low light—“sit together for a time. If you’d like.”