“I’ll be all right,” Catherine said, reading the concern on his face.

His eyes met hers. Smiling a little, he replied, “Of course. I have every confidence in you, Catherine.”

She picked up her trunk and recalled the first time she’d come here, with her father.

How uncertain she had felt, how decided she had been despite that.

Now here she was with Guy Nolan at her side and the unknown before her.

She said, “I’ll pay you a call in the evening,” and started for the door.

She’d taken only a few steps, when Guy said, “Catherine, wait.”

He caught up to her. And then he paused, clutching his hat in front of him. A carriage passed by on the street, its wheels rolling through the puddles, sending up small waves of rainwater.

Catherine raised her eyebrows in question. “Is evening not a suitable time?”

“No,” he said. “I mean—yes, it is. Of course. I only… I only wanted to—” He swallowed visibly, his face reddening. “I just wanted to say how much I admire you, Catherine, and—” He stopped again, shutting his eyes tight. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Never mind.” Turning on his heel, he began walking quickly away.

Catherine stared after him. The wind blew at his coat, his hair. He put on his hat and dug his hands into his pockets. Picking up her skirts in her free hand, she dashed down the street. Now she was the one calling out. “Guy, wait!”

He looked back around, his expression shy. “Yes?”

Grinning up at him, she smoothed a hand over her coat. “So, you admire me, do you? I’d like to hear the rest.”

Guy let out a startled laugh. It was such a lovely sound, and he grinned the way he had last night, with his happiness gleaming in his dark eyes. “My apologies,” he said. “I panicked.”

“Yes, I gathered.” She took a step forward, her smile softening. “Would it ease your mind to know that I also admire you?”

His eyes glistened with tears. He wiped them away, laughing as he did. When she offered him her hand, he held it in both of his. “Stay for dinner tonight, won’t you?” he said. “I promise it’ll be most entertaining and I’ll make wonderful conversation and food and it’ll be wonderful.”

“Well, that’s certainly a promise.” She squeezed his fingers. “Of course I will.” She let herself gaze at him a moment longer—his windswept hair, the depth of his brown eyes, the curve of his smile—then looked back at the brick and mortar of the print shop. “But for now I must return to work.”

Catherine set her completed forme on the bed of the press, wiping her hands on her apron. It was close to afternoon, and through the front windows, the weather looked dull and dreary. The others in the shop were composing type, inking formes, hanging printed sheets to dry. Rather than settle into the routine with ease, Catherine had spent the morning on edge. She knew the source of her discomfort—the memory of Ainsworth’s dead body only three floors up, the notion that someone here may be a killer. She inked her forme for printing, her grip tight on the roller.