His eyes widened. Wringing his hands, he started, “Miss Daly, I—”

“Hurry.” Fear tore at her insides, panic closing around her heart.

He hunched his shoulders, mouth pressed thin, but he reached for the ladder to make his way down.

Below them, Guy’s voice: “Is something wrong?”

Catherine didn’t answer him but went down the ladder after Owen. She saw the glow of Guy’s lantern at the bottom, heard him say, “Here, Mr. Smith,” offering his hand as he helped Owen, then her, past the cracked rung.

“A watchman is out there,” Catherine whispered. Guy peered up the length of the ladder, but she grabbed him by the sleeve. “Mind your light.”

They moved farther into the storeroom, Guy leading them to the empty crates piled in a corner. He turned one over and sat on it, setting his lantern on the dirt floor.

There was a small cut on his face, just above his jaw. The line of blood shone bright red in the light. Catherine said, “You’re bleeding.”

Guy gave her a blank look. “Pardon?”

She touched the place on her own face, and Guy put a hand to his cheek. He studied the blood on his fingertips, brow furrowed. “I must’ve got it when the rung gave way.” Glancing to her, he asked, “Is it very bad?”

“It’s just a scratch.” She took out her handkerchief, passing it to him.

He brought the cloth to his face and leaned back, glancing around. “This is cozy. How long are we to stay down here?”

The ceiling at this part of the storeroom was quite low; Owen raised a hand, his palm resting flat against it. “It feels like I’m back there.” His voice was unsteady. “In the grave.”

Guy made a sympathetic sound. “Oh, Mr. Smith.” He turned over two other crates and said, “Here now, come sit.”

“We just have to wait for the guard to move on,” said Catherine, taking a seat. “And we must be quiet.”

They sat in silence for some minutes, before Guy murmured, “The timepiece… It doesn’t look to be here, either.”

The room was bare aside from the crates, the packed-dirt floor clear of debris. Through the cellar opening, Catherine could make out the whistling of the wind. She put her arms about herself. “Mr. Smith, do you recall anything? Being back here?”

He ducked his head, rubbing his palms together. “No, Miss Daly.”

Getting up, she began to search through the remainder of the crates. Guy stood as well, lantern in hand, giving her more light. The boxes were splitting along the grain, damp-stained—all of them empty. With a sigh, she shook her head.

Guy took a step back. “I’ll go and see if the guard has gone.” He headed up the ladder, and Catherine and Owen waited in the dark.

Minutes slipped past. Catherine closed her eyes against the dim, her nerves fraying as time went on. Owen fidgeted and asked, “Do you suppose he’s all right?”

Then—

“Miss Daly? Mr. Smith?”