Once they reached the other side, more passengers stepped on and off. They passed the city library—smooth red sandstone, carvings in the shadows of the archways—and the marble columns of the museum. The peaked roofs rose higher than any in Old Town, where the tallest building was the clock tower in Elgin Square.

Near the hospital, the four of them got off the omnibus to walk the rest of the way to the university’s medical department.

The building Sydney led them to was a great stone pile. In the courtyard before it, the grass lay pale and glittering with morning frost, crunching beneath their feet. A group of young men in wool overcoats stood outside the double doors, talking with one another. Catherine hoped they wouldn’t question them, and though a few glanced over as they started up the steps, none of the men remarked on their presence.

Sydney ushered them inside, the doors opening onto a polished entrance of dark wood with a grand carpeted staircase, light from one of the high windows gilding the banister. Guy tilted his head back, and Catherine followed his gaze to the lit chandeliers between the wood beams spanning the ceiling.

“Francis has rooms here,” said Sydney, heading for the stairs. “But I’ve never paid him a call this early in the day. He might be at a lecture.”

Catherine asked, “Does he know anything of the timepiece?”

With a smile, Sydney replied, “I daresay he does. You’ll have to ask him, won’t you, Miss Daly?”

And yet, when they came to Francis’s door on the fourth floor, no one answered.

“Well,” said Sydney, sounding mildly irritated. “Perhaps we should try the library. It’s back downstairs.”

The library was at the far end of the building, an expansive room filled with bookshelves that soared up to the arched ceiling. Claw-foot tables lined the space, marble sculptures set against the stacks, their shadows stretching across the floorboards. Sydney surveyed the room from the doorway. Catherine looked about at the bent heads of those reading at the tables. The place was quiet, but not unnervingly so. It was like the print floor without the clatter of the presses, that same concentration to the task at hand.

Sydney started forward, peering between the stacks. He said, “Ah,” and directed them to a table near one of the tall windows. A young man sat there alone, a book open in front of him, other leather-bound tomes piled at his elbow. His hair was wavy and blond, his waistcoat embroidered green silk. He glanced up, and Catherine saw his eyes were green as well—a shade paler than his waistcoat. His brow furrowed. “Sydney?” he said. “What…?” Then, taking in the sight of Catherine, Guy, and Owen, he added, “Hello.”

“Good morning, Francis,” said Sydney. “We don’t mean to disturb you at your studies, but we’ve a matter to discuss—one you ought to find quite interesting—if we might speak in private.”

Francis smiled a little, gesturing at the empty table. “Isn’t this private enough?”