He nodded back at her. “Good day, Miss Daly.”

She walked out into the chilly November afternoon. A few stray leaves swept past on a gust of wind, the wheels of a carriage squeaking along over the cobbles. She slipped a hand into the pocket that held her mother’s letter, reassuring herself it was there, before heading back in the direction of the print shop.

CHAPTER FOUR

AT THE CHRONICLE, there was always type to be cleaned and sorted. Catherine sat at a table on the print floor, a type case in front of her, its wooden compartments lit by the steady light of her lamp. It was quite late; she was alone downstairs, but she could make out the muffled footfalls and voices of others in the upper rooms.

This was the hour of day she liked best. When everything was calm and still, when she could let her mind wander, to think over things at her leisure and without interruption. Sometimes, oftentimes, she thought of home. Sometimes the ache of missing it was sharp enough to steal her breath.

She took a moment to admire the result of her handiwork—the type clean and squared away—before returning the case to its cabinet. Taking up the lamp, she headed for the stairs to her room. Bridget was there, seated on a chair in the corner, darning a hole in her stocking.

Catherine set the lamp down on her bedside table. In the window glass, she glimpsed her reflection as she pulled the curtain closed. “I’m running an errand for Mr. Ainsworth tonight,” she said.

Bridget looked up. “Can’t it hold until morning?”

Catherine shook her head. Kneeling at the side of her bed, she pulled out the box she kept beneath it. Its contents were reminders of home, letters she’d received over her time here. The most recent one from her mother was already tucked inside. She’d opened it as soon as she’d returned to the shop that afternoon. It read:

Dear Catherine,

I hope this letter finds you well. John has left for the mines again since last you wrote, and as of late, we’ve had only gray skies and rain. Is it so in the city? How are you getting on at the shop? Your father and Anne went into town yesterday and everyone there asked after you.

Catherine usually found herself considering the letters during the night—as though to ensure they hadn’t vanished during the daylight hours, to make certain she still remembered the life she’d had outside the brick and mortar of Invercarn. She lifted another envelope from the box. Opening the worn flap, she regarded her brother’s handwriting. Now they were both working in the dark: he in the coal mines, and she, here in the city, unearthing coffins and waking the dearly departed.

She remembered the quiet morning when John left.

She’d sat across from him at the kitchen table, attempting to eat breakfast despite the lump in her throat. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she offered to help him load the cart he’d be taking to the mines.