“Mr. Boyd, I’m not sure what Mr. Carlyle has told you about—about my dismissal.”

“Oh, the whole of it, I believe.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile knowing. “I’m quite aware of the fact you don’t have the timepiece Mr. Ainsworth was after. I certainly doubt you would be here if you did.”

“I don’t, sir.” Catherine held his gaze, bracing herself. “I only want to return to my work as a compositor. I did a fair job in Mr. Ainsworth’s employ.”

“Yes, Mr. Carlyle has assured me of your proficiency. You’re most welcome back to your position, Miss Daly. I’ve enough to manage at the moment without looking for another to take your place.”

They were the words she’d hoped to hear, but they didn’t ease her disquiet. Had Boyd been in Ainsworth’s office when he died? Had he smiled just as he smiled at her now?

Catherine inclined her head. “Thank you, sir,” she said, grateful when her voice remained steady. “I’m much obliged.”

“I should be thanking you, Miss Daly. I’m glad you wish to come back after what occurred.” He eyed a pile of papers set to one side of the desk before returning his attention to her. “I won’t be carrying on the farewell service this establishment offered under Mr. Ainsworth’s management. I assume that’s agreeable to you?”

She nodded.

Boyd went on. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but the way he conducted business was entirely wrong. I very much want to do better by all of you employed here.”

Catherine did not know if he truly meant it. All the same, she replied, “That’s gracious of you, sir.”

Outside the office door, there was movement—the scrape of chairs, the shuffling of paper. Boyd stood up to show her out. “I’ll give you the day to get things in order,” he said. “But I’ll expect you at work tomorrow morning.”

“Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Boyd.”

She hurried upstairs to tell Bridget the news. And after Bridget went down to the print shop, Catherine stayed in their room for a time. She sat at the desk, looking over the loose bits of paper, the collection of inkpots—most of them nearly empty—and the tidy arrangement of pens. She reached across and cracked open the window, letting in some fresh air, watching the sway of the lace curtains in the breeze. The open window also let in the noise of the waking city. People called to one another on the street, and coach wheels clattered over the cobbles.

Catherine leaned forward, gazing at the sleek black tops of passing carriages, gentlemen crossing the road dressed in fine cloaks and silk hats. She caught sight of a familiar young man as he came into view, walking down the opposite sidewalk. He held a newspaper in his gloved hands, his head bent as he read. He seemed so absorbed by whatever was on the page, he passed right by the print shop. A laugh escaped her as, a few minutes later, he reappeared, having doubled back.