Douglas came back to the counter with her post. Her name was penned across it in her mother’s tidy handwriting. Catherine smiled at the sight, pocketed it in her coat, and passed on the money to have her own letter sent off.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, she started for the corner. There was another stop she wished to make before heading back to the Chronicle. She came upon it a couple of blocks later, in the midst of a row of adjoining buildings. Shop windows advertised the merchandise to be found inside, names and trades painted crisply above doorways. NOLAN’S WATCH & CLOCK REPAIR was a little green-fronted building with a brick flat above it, the curtains pulled across the white windows.

The bell atop the door announced her arrival.

She’d been here before on errands for Ainsworth. Like the print shop, Nolan’s offered more than the name implied. It was whispered that Henry Nolan, alongside watchmaking and repairing, was a horologist who sold segments of literal time. And Catherine could think of no better place to go to find out if this buried timepiece was indeed enchanted. Despite herself, she was curious. It wasn’t the sort of magic anyone at the print shop could accomplish. There were some who thought the device’s capabilities were nothing more than rumor.

The watchmaker’s shop appeared empty, and she was met only by an assortment of clocks on the wall behind the counter, all polished to a shine. Pendulums hung from several, while others were spring-driven, with brass inlay, decorative flourishes, gold edging.

The back-room door hung partially ajar. Through it, Catherine saw not Henry, but his son. He sat behind a worktable, hunched over what she assumed was a disassembled watch. With the slow, deliberate carefulness of someone used to handling delicate things, Guy Nolan set down his tweezers and removed the magnifying loupe he wore. He took off his wire-rimmed spectacles too, rubbing a hand over his eyes before getting up.

He didn’t notice her until he came around the table to meet her at the door. He was tall and leanly built, wearing an apron over his clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His brown hair was tidy, and he had a pleasant face—a certain clarity to his dark eyes, his expression attentive and curious as he regarded her. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

Catherine hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin. “I’ve something particular to ask.” She clasped her hands together, biting her lip. “Mr. Ainsworth has tasked me with obtaining a timepiece. And I’d like to know if the rumors about it are true.”

“How do you mean?” A small crease appeared between Guy’s brows. Then he brightened. “What sort of timepiece? We’ve several fine new pocket watches.”

“No. That is, the timepiece he wants isn’t here.” Catherine felt around in her coat pocket for the silver coin Watt had given her, drawing it out and setting it on the counter. “It’s buried in a plot in the public cemetery. I’m to dig it up tonight, and I’ll pay you to study the piece.”