Guy nodded tightly. The memory of the last time he’d used his magic hung between them unsaid. Out on the street, Catherine tried not to look too closely at those she passed, fixed as they were midstep, suspended in a single moment. As they turned the corner, the print shop just ahead, Guy faltered.

“Catherine,” he said. “What if there’s nothing to find?”

If there was nothing to find, then Guy had lost memories to no purpose. His face was pale, and he was shaking as if he were cold, though the wind remained still along with everything else.

“We’ll find something. I know it.” And she hoped by saying so, she made it true.

The way to the Chronicle was murky with fog, heavy with silence. Catherine could usually hear the wash of the river this close to it, but the tide was unmoving, boats stationary in the water.

She opened the door to the print shop and stepped inside.

Across the way, she saw Bridget at her desk, alongside others she knew. Their heads were bent, hands motionless around composing sticks, fingers paused in the act of reaching for type. Catherine glanced over at Guy. He closed the door slowly, his tone uncertain as he said, “Where do we look first?”

“Upstairs.” She bit her lip. “Are you all right?”

He nodded without meeting her gaze. She made out a muffled ticking, and Guy drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was still counting down the minutes, the time that continued to elapse for them.

“Mr. Carlyle’s room is on the third floor,” she told him.

They started upstairs, and in the timeless silence, Catherine was all too aware of her own footfalls, the creak of each step, the pounding of her heart. They came to Spencer’s door, and she opened it, only to find the room empty.

“Oh, good,” said Guy. “He’s not here.”

Catherine shook her head. “The timepiece could be on his person.”

“Might he be somewhere else in the building?”

“Perhaps. I didn’t notice him on the print floor.”

He must’ve returned here sometime in her absence—where his desk was clear the day before, now there were papers across it, a few pens, a pot of ink, alongside one of Ainsworth’s ledgers. Catherine flipped it open, paging through it.

Guy opened a cabinet and surveyed its sparse contents. There were knickknacks, but no watches. Looking back at the desk, Catherine pulled open the first drawer.

Envelopes, paper for correspondence. She tried the second, but the timepiece wasn’t there, either. Fear crept into her heart. What if someone else had it? Someone they hadn’t considered.

In the third drawer, she found a plain vial, half full, a cork stopper in place. She lifted it out carefully and showed it to Guy. The label had been torn, but Catherine didn’t need one, for what she also found in the drawer was a timepiece, the crystal cracked across the front. It was an old pocket watch, tarnished silver. She took hold of it and brought it out into the light.