Understanding flashed in Guy’s eyes. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Catherine, I’m not sure anyone there would tell us anything.”

“How else are we to get answers?”

From down the hall, a door cracked open. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards, and Owen appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You might’ve told me you were in.”

Guy stepped away from the mantel. There were shadows beneath his eyes, accentuated by the firelight. “You were asleep, Mr. Smith.”

“Is everything all right?” Owen asked. “Did you go to the cemetery?”

“Yes.” Guy dragged a hand through his hair. “We didn’t manage to find the timepiece, unfortunately.”

“We were just discussing Mr. Ainsworth,” said Catherine. Her gaze returned to her letter, the sweep of her cursive across the page. “I’ll head to the print shop in the morning and see what I can find out.”

Owen said, “Good night, then.” He rubbed at his eyes and curled his other hand around the doorframe. “You both ought to get some sleep.”

He went back down the hall, the bedroom door closing, and Guy came over to the table. His voice was almost a whisper as he said, “Are you still writing your letter?”

“I’m almost finished.” Catherine looked up at him. “Guy—what will you do?”

He seemed to know what she meant. He let out a sigh and lowered his gaze, his fingers tracing the dark knots in the table. “I’ll figure something out. Perhaps we can open the shop for longer hours.”

“You should rest,” she told him. “I’ll head downstairs in a moment.”

He looked at her. “I’m not all that tired,” he said, and smiled.

He returned to the fireplace, nudged the logs with his poker, then picked up a slim brown book from the small pile of volumes on the mantelpiece. He dropped into the flowered armchair, and for a moment, Catherine looked over his tousled hair, the curve of his shoulder, watching as he slid his reading glasses onto his nose. She went back to her letter, and sitting there in Guy’s company, she felt a quiet calm, easing her heart a little of her worries.

Once she finished writing, she sealed the letter in an envelope. She rose from her chair, took hold of the candle, and Guy set down his book, glancing up at her. He stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you again for coming along tonight,” he said.

Catherine tilted her head to the side. “I ought to be thanking you. We’re going back there, aren’t we? We didn’t search all of the church.”

“Indeed. There was quite a bit of debris about the place from what I could tell. It looked ghostly.”

The shop clocks began to chime the hour. The sound of the tolling eerily underlined Guy’s words, and they both smiled, laughing softly. Catherine’s candlelight reflected in his spectacles, a small, wavering glow. She cleared her throat as the last of the chimes fell silent, her voice coming out as a whisper. “Good night, Guy.”