“I don’t know, either, Guy,” she said softly. “But I know you needn’t figure it out right now.”

He bowed his head, a sob escaping him. “This shouldn’t have happened. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” His voice choked. “Owen and my father—my father never should’ve—” He tipped his head back, blinking up at the ceiling. “You were going to come to dinner.”

Catherine whispered, “I’m here now.”

He looked at her. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths. And after a moment, he asked, “Should we go to the print shop tomorrow?”

Catherine swallowed, thinking over the past few days. She recalled Spencer standing beside her in Ainsworth’s office. She remembered the pallor of his face and the shaking of his hands as he’d looked upon Ainsworth’s body. She imagined him poisoning Ainsworth’s tea with arsenic, switching out Henry’s medicine, taking the timepiece from the worktable and stepping back out onto the street.

He could be a murderer.

“Let me go with you,” said Guy. “We can search for evidence.”

“I don’t see how we’ll manage that, with everyone else there. I tried to have a look around Mr. Carlyle’s room today, but my roommate caught me at it.”

Guy held on to her hands. His eyes were dark and steady in the candlelight. “We can manage it,” he said. “I’ll still time, and we can manage it.”

Catherine looked back at him. It seemed an easy answer in the quiet of the kitchen. At this hour of the night, time was dreamlike; she could imagine them existing outside the bounds of it already, without consequence.

“Only if you’re certain,” she told him.

Guy nodded. He drew away from her, his gaze lowered. “What my father did,” he started, voice quiet, “I can’t bear it, Catherine.”

“He wasn’t the one who killed Owen.”

“Perhaps he didn’t hold the knife, but Mr. Watt was right in that he must’ve known—he must’ve realized the cost. Now he’s gone, and I can’t even speak to him of it. He kept selling hours, not telling me why. I never would’ve thought he did so to forget.” Guy stared at the candle flame between them. “Every time I think on it,” he whispered, “it hurts to breathe, like I’ve a shard of ice in my chest.”

“You are grieving.” Catherine folded her arms on the table and tipped her head to the side. “And you’ve a kind heart. You know what is good and right in the world.”

Guy’s mouth quirked. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “At the moment, I feel I do not know much of anything.”

From down the hall, a door cracked open. The floorboards creaked under footsteps, and Owen appeared in the kitchen doorway, scratching the back of his head. “What are you two doing?” he asked. “It’s very late.”

Guy scrubbed the tears from his eyes. He stood up and pressed his hands against the table. “Catherine and I are going to the print shop tomorrow.”

Owen regarded them. “Will you be all right?”