Catherine scrambled to her feet. She curled both hands around a ladder rung, letting out a breath of relief upon finding Guy at the opening. “We were wondering where you got to.”

She saw the flash of his grin. “Come up,” he said. “I don’t see anyone about. I think we’re quite safe now.”

Catherine gestured for Owen to go up first. Once she reached the top herself, Guy carefully pulled the hatch door closed. From somewhere inside the church, old wood groaned, creaking in the wind. Owen looked between the two of them. “Are we leaving, then? We ought to leave.”

Guy went back through the doorway. At the place where the roof gaped open, he stopped, staring up as Catherine had at the fractured timber beams and the open sky.

His dark coat was unbuttoned, and his watch chain glinted against his waistcoat. Catherine remembered the complete silence that had enveloped them when he’d made time stand still. There was a similar stillness to him now, his expression thoughtful.

She walked over to him, Owen following her out of the room. Guy raised his lantern, casting his face in light.

“I do wonder,” he said, “if perhaps Mr. Carlyle found the timepiece here after all. Perhaps we missed our chance.”

Catherine bit her lip. “I’m going to speak with him tomorrow.”

Guy’s gaze went to the church entrance. Voice low, he said, “I’m beginning to think this timepiece is not worth finding, if those looking are being killed.”

Catherine crossed her arms. The night wind tugged at her coat, strands of her hair loosening from her chignon. “It’s magic that brought Mr. Smith back to life. There are people who would take another’s life for such a thing.”

“Contrary, isn’t it?” Turning to Owen, Guy continued. “Someone took your life, Mr. Smith. Then it was restored to you. It’s entirely cruel.”

“You’re assuming,” Catherine pointed out, “that the person who killed Mr. Smith is the same person who enchanted the timepiece and that the magic worked as intended. Given our involvement, I suspect it did not.”

The three of them made their way out of the church. Walking over the grounds, Owen kept a few paces ahead. He wandered through the rows of tombstones, his head down, his hands in his pockets. Beyond the glow of Guy’s light, he looked like a ghost among the graves, a fleeting shadow caught in the corner of one’s eye. Something ephemeral.

Catherine glanced to Guy. “The last time I was in Rose Hill Cemetery,” she said, voice quiet, “the client didn’t pay Mr. Ainsworth with coin but with information. He knew the location of Mr. Smith’s plot.”

“You’re just mentioning this now?”

“It only just came to mind.”

Guy adjusted the wick of his lantern, the light flaring brighter. “What was the gentleman’s name? Do you remember it?”

“Mr. Geoffrey Watt.”

Surprise flickered across his face. “I know him,” he said. “He’s a past client of my father’s. I’ve seen his name in the books.”