When Bridget didn’t answer, Catherine looked back at her. She was wringing her hands, brow furrowed. Strands of her pale hair had loosened from her plait in the night, curling about her face. Finally, she said, “Mr. Boyd hasn’t spoken much of it. I don’t suppose he cares to dwell on such dreadfulness. But Spencer told me the police believe he died of apoplexy.”

Catherine frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Sudden death,” whispered Bridget. “They say he was bleeding on the inside.”

Could poison do such a thing? Catherine felt at once entirely out of her depth.

“I heard he had you searching for that timepiece,” Bridget said, still in quiet tones. “It wasn’t right, what he did.”

Rubbing at her temple, Catherine murmured, “I never did find it. The timepiece.”

“No one will, Catherine. It’s only a tale.”

Catherine got up, smoothing out her skirts without meeting Bridget’s eye. The timepiece was far from a tale—that much she knew. It was magic that had brought Owen back to life. “I’m going to wait for Mr. Boyd downstairs. I’m sorry for waking you.”

Bridget reached out, clasping one of Catherine’s hands in hers. “Don’t apologize for that. I was worried—I hadn’t any idea where you went.” She tilted her head. “Where did you go?”

Catherine hesitated, then wondered why she did. There was no harm in telling Bridget of her time spent at the watchmaker’s shop. She’d already told Spencer about asking for Guy’s help. And yet something had changed. Now the way before her felt perilous; things she didn’t think to be secrets became so.

Owen’s voice echoed in her mind. Take care.

“Here and there,” Catherine replied lightly. “I’ll let you know what Mr. Boyd says.”

Back downstairs, she wandered along the lines of presses. She remembered learning how to set type, how to lock it into a chase with furniture and quoins. It was fine work, a good wage.

She went to her desk, but it was clear of notes. There was nothing to mark her presence, not here nor in her room. Her belongings were still packed away in her trunk in the Nolans’ flat.

The shop door opened, the bell above it chiming.

“Hello there.” The voice was mild, pleasant, and Catherine turned to find Boyd at the front entrance. He doffed his hat, removed his overcoat, hanging both on the rack.

“Good morning, Mr. Boyd.” Catherine folded her hands in front of her. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you. I’m Miss Catherine Daly.”

“Miss Daly, yes.” Boyd smiled. “Mr. Carlyle made mention of you.” He started toward the desks, gesturing for her to follow. “I was rather hoping you’d return. Most intriguing, your story.”

Interestingly, he didn’t lead her upstairs to what was previously Ainsworth’s office. Instead, he went to the back office on the print floor, a place Catherine regarded as Spencer’s during the workday. Boyd answered her confusion, saying, “I’m afraid neither myself nor Mr. Carlyle wish to make use of the upstairs office for the time being. This is not how I imagined beginning my proprietorship, but lo! Here we are. Good gracious. Take a seat, please, Miss Daly.” He settled behind the desk, and Catherine sat in the chair in front of it.