Finishing his sketch of the timepiece, Watt handed the paper to Catherine. “That timepiece holds powerful magic. Someone from the Chronicle—Mr. Carlyle—was asking me about it only recently. He knew I misled Mr. Ainsworth regarding its whereabouts. I told him it might still be in the Nolans’ shop, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. Mr. Nolan would do well to find it.”

Catherine looked down at the timepiece Watt had drawn. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, and Watt’s words echoed in her mind as she and Owen left the parlor.

Outside, Guy stood in the front courtyard. It was raining quite steadily now, and the shoulder cape of his overcoat was soaked through. He looked over at the sound of their footsteps. Owen began to say something, but then Guy put his arms around him. And despite being pressed against the wet wool of Guy’s coat, Owen leaned in gratefully.

“It was vile what he said,” Guy told him. “Your life isn’t worth any less than mine. My father oughtn’t have—” His voice turned choked. “I’m so sorry. You died because of—”

Owen managed to free one of his arms to pat Guy on the back. “Do not think it your fault. It wasn’t, Guy. It wasn’t.”

“Guy,” said Catherine. She held out the bit of paper. “Have a look at this.”

He stepped back from Owen, taking his reading glasses from his pocket. Raindrops dotted the paper as Guy studied the picture of the timepiece. “Dear God.” He shook his head. “To think, all this time…”

“So you know where it is?” Owen asked.

“It’s the pocket watch I was wearing… the night Catherine and I dug up your grave.” Guy looked up from Watt’s sketch. “In fact, the crystal over the face broke. I thought it was so old, I must’ve cracked it while we were digging. I left it on the worktable. I’ve been meaning to repair it.”

Yet Catherine felt a creeping dread rather than any sense of relief. She started across the courtyard, rain slipping down past her collar, making her shiver. She said, “Let’s hope it’s still there.”

The omnibus ride back to the watchmaker’s shop was a long one. They got off, and though the streetlights illuminated the way, no lamps burned inside the shop. Guy reached into his pocket for his key, gazing up at the curtained windows of the flat. Catherine’s heart clenched.

He went inside and began lighting the lamps. The shop glowed with warmth, all dark wood and clockwork, the smell of polish and metal. Catherine took off her coat and bonnet, setting them on the coatrack.

Guy paused at the doorway to the back room. Catherine came to stand beside him. Only yesterday, Guy had sat at the worktable while his father looked over his shoulder, advising him. Now he stared into the dimness of the room, his expression achingly vulnerable.

He took a breath and stepped inside, lighting the desk lamp. There were several pocket watches on the table—in movement holders, gears exposed, or still in their casings—but after a fleeting glance, Guy said, “It’s not here.” He bent down, opening drawers. “Unless my father moved it, but I doubt that.”