Clocks lined the window display—small brass carriage clocks with carrying handles, decorative mantel clocks. Guy busied himself winding those that needed winding, and though there was no dust to be seen, he retrieved a cloth from the back room and began polishing the display. Catherine looked on, sleepy-eyed, charmed by the care he took, the way he angled the clock faces toward the streetlight, studying each one.

She didn’t catch sight of Sydney until he knocked on the door.

When Guy answered it, Sydney looked over at Owen. “Are you set on visiting the university after all? Very good. I rather thought so.”

They followed him out onto the street. The morning was bitter cold; Catherine’s teeth chattered as they waited for a passing omnibus. Guy paid Owen’s fare as well as his own; Catherine and Sydney followed after them, stepping up into the coach. At this early hour, there were scant few passengers. Catherine sat on the wooden bench next to Owen, Guy and Sydney sitting just across from them.

They started down the road, the coach wheels bumping over the cobbles. Guy removed his hat and fidgeted with the brim. His eyes cut to Sydney as the other boy leaned forward, hands clasped, his gaze steady on Owen.

“Guy tells me you don’t remember aught before you died,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “Does that mean you don’t remember dying?”

Owen frowned. “No,” he said shortly.

Guy said, “Don’t needle him, Sydney, please.”

“I’m only curious.” Still looking at Owen, Sydney leaned back in his seat. “What a shock it must’ve been for you—waking in a grave! I can’t imagine.”

Catherine turned toward Owen. “I think it would be wise,” she started, “if you did not mention the entirety of what happened to you to those at the university.”

He swallowed visibly. “I don’t even know the entirety. Isn’t that why we’re going?”

“I agree with Miss Daly,” said Guy. “We ought to think of some story—”

“Nonsense!” Sydney cut in. “No one there will care to see him if we don’t tell them the truth of the matter.”

The omnibus made another stop. They had reached a main street; outside the coach windows, shopkeepers were sweeping their front steps, arranging the merchandise in their displays. The omnibus moved on, turning a corner, and Catherine narrowed her eyes at Sydney. She asked, “Who are you bringing us to meet, Mr. Mallory?”

“One of the medical students. Francis Williams. He’s a good sort.”

Guy took out his glasses to polish them, but glanced up to share a smile with Catherine. He said, “He sounds remarkable.”

Sydney snapped, “Oh, yes, Guy, because what you do is so adventurous. Listen. Francis is a fine fellow. If we tell him about Mr. Smith here, he’ll keep quiet.”

They came to the wide stretch of the river, and the omnibus rattled onto North Bridge, slowing amid the surrounding traffic. The water below was black as an ink spill in the early-morning light, rowboats and barges navigating the harbor.