Still smiling, he said, “Good night.”

Catherine left the kitchen, holding her candle aloft, and made her way downstairs.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CATHERINE READIED HERSELF for the day in near darkness. She lit the lamp in the back room and dressed in a flurry, pulling on her stockings and boots, tying her corset and petticoats over her chemise, slipping into her dress. She met Guy and Owen for breakfast with her face scrubbed clean and her hair pinned tightly.

“Will you be heading to the park, Mr. Smith?” she asked.

He shook his head, fidgeting with his teacup. “I think I’ll ask around about an apprenticeship.”

Meeting Catherine’s gaze, Guy said, “I’ll come by the print shop later. We can go to the chemist’s together.”

Catherine nodded. She ate a few bites of toast and drank some tea, even as her stomach knotted in apprehension. It was possible Boyd wouldn’t give her a job. It was possible he had poisoned Ainsworth.

She and Owen bundled into their coats and hats, setting off down the street. After some minutes, Owen said, “You don’t look too keen on this, Miss Daly.”

Catherine gave a little, choked laugh, the sound catching in her throat. “I suppose I’m not. Mr. Boyd may very well be a killer.”

“Or,” said Owen, “he may be a perfectly kind and considerate employer.”

“Well, yes, I’d much prefer that.”

They reached the Invercarn Chronicle, and it was as though Catherine was seeing it anew. She hadn’t truly realized how dark the brickwork was, the grime that blotted the edges of the windowpanes, the soot-covered chimney tops. She could see the place that was once Ainsworth’s office, up on the fourth floor. The curtains were pulled across the window. Everything appeared still.

“Take care, please, Miss Daly,” Owen said.

Before all this had started, Bridget had spoken similar words.

Be careful, won’t you, Catherine?

“I will,” she told Owen now. “You take care too.”

Inside the shop, the print floor looked the same as ever. It was too early for anyone to be at work, and the presses shone clean, the desks tidied, the row of type cabinets neat and orderly beside one another. She took to the stairs, heading up to the third floor. Easing open the door to her former room, she found Bridget fast asleep. She lit a candle and said, “Bridget. Bridget, wake up.”

Bridget’s eyes blinked open, squinting in the candlelight. “Catherine.” She sat up against the headboard, wide-awake in an instant. “Spencer told me what happened. Are you all right? Have you come back? Mr. Boyd will surely let you work here again.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Catherine sat at the desk chair. “What about the farewell service? He’s not continuing with that, is he?”

“No. No, that’s quite in the past, he said. It’s only print work.”

Catherine’s gaze flicked to the candle atop the desk. The flame twisted and sputtered, stirred by her breath. “Has he said anything of Mr. Ainsworth’s death? The cause of it?”