Looking toward the kitchen doorway, Guy frowned. “We won’t know, will we? He doesn’t remember anything of it.”

Catherine stood up and smoothed out her skirts. “We ought to get some sleep,” she said. “We shan’t be getting much tomorrow night if we’re going to the cemetery.”

“You’re quite right, Miss Daly.” He tipped his head back against the chair, his smile soft with sleepiness. “And we’ll have to wake early, before my father does.” He rubbed at his eyes, getting up. “I’ll fetch you a candle.”

“Thank you.”

He pottered around the kitchen in the dim, finding matches and a candlestick holder. The back of his waistcoat was creased, his hair sticking up in parts. Below them, the clocks chimed the hour, tones low and recurring.

Guy passed her the candle. Their fingers brushed, and he drew back quickly, a blush rising in his cheeks. He said, “Be careful on the stairs.”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Good night, Mr. Nolan.”

“Good night, Miss Daly.”

She made her way by candlelight down to the shop floor. As she slipped into the back room, putting the candle on the table, she smiled to herself. Despite the fact that it was her first night away from the print shop in two years, despite the fact that she may no longer have a job there, she felt a certain steadiness.

She could possibly discover the timepiece tomorrow. In the meanwhile, she was safe, here under this roof, with her family’s letters and her belongings from home packed away in her trunk. She liked the reliable ticking of the clocks, the comfortable sofa, the wash of pink she’d seen across Guy’s cheeks as he’d bade her good night.

Settling beneath the blankets, she fell into dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CATHERINE WOKE NEAR dawn. When she headed up to the kitchen, she found Guy was already making breakfast, well dressed for the day. He wore a crisp white shirt, a dark-blue waistcoat, his trousers pressed and his boots polished.

“Good morning,” he said upon seeing her. “I’ve woken Mr. Smith, so he should be joining us shortly.” He set out plates and silverware, bread and butter and jam.

Catherine raised a hand to her hair, smoothing back the loose strands. She’d done it up in a neat chignon, and she’d donned a clean brown dress. Sitting at the table, she asked, “Did you sleep well?”

He glanced up, meeting her gaze with a smile. “Quite well. I hope you didn’t mind the sofa.”

“Not at all.”

His eyes shifted to the doorway as Owen entered the room. “Mr. Smith, there you are. Here, sit and eat something. We ought to be ready before Sydney gets here.”

Beyond the window, the sky was deep blue, lightening with the coming dawn. They ate by lamplight, how Catherine had often eaten breakfast at the Chronicle. Guy fetched paper and pen to write a note to his father, left it on the counter, and opened a small tin, taking out a few coins. After putting on their coats and hats, they waited for Sydney Mallory near the front of the shop.