Sydney Mallory stood on the step, holding a bundle of papers. “Hello, Guy.” He stepped past him nimbly, doffing his hat. He looked for all the world as though he were here on invitation. “Morning, Miss Daly.”

Guy closed the door, regarding Sydney with a wary expression. “What brings you here?”

“I came to speak with Mr. Smith.” Sydney walked up to the shop counter, peering into the back room. “I’ve a gift for him. Where is he?”

“I don’t imagine he wants anything of yours,” Catherine put in.

“It’s not mine,” said Sydney in an injured tone. “Rather, it’s something of his. You may pass it on to him if he doesn’t wish to see me. I can understand why, but I’m here to offer an apology.” He waved the papers he held. “And I’ve brought him this as a testament to my good character.”

Guy heaved a sigh. “I’ll ask him if he’d like to come down.”

Sydney put the papers on the counter as Guy started up the back staircase. He hung up his coat and hat on the rack near the door. Catherine asked him, “Are you still digging up bodies?”

He raised his eyebrows. “No. In fact, I’ve gotten an apprenticeship at the butcher’s. It’s why I’m here so early—I’ve my shift to get to.”

Catherine blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought he’d give up the grave work, but perhaps Guy’s averseness had swayed him from it. “Well,” she said. “I’m glad for you. Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s good pay and respectable—and better than unearthing cadavers.”

The staircase creaked under footsteps, and Catherine and Sydney looked over. Owen followed after Guy into the shop, his countenance pale. He crossed his arms, aiming a level look at Sydney. “Good morning, Mr. Mallory,” he said, and his voice was as stiff as Catherine had ever heard it. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Indeed.” Sydney rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve come to apologize. I was wrong to frighten you as I did. I’m truly sorry. I—I’ve brought something you might be interested in.” He gathered the papers, offering them up to Owen.

Guy frowned and took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket.

When Owen made no move forward, Sydney said, “It’s from the Boys’ Home, Mr. Smith. Your orphanage record. And the name they gave you, if you want it.”

“I’m happy with the name I have, thank you.” But he reached for the papers and held them to his chest. “Are you certain it’s my record?”

Sydney nodded. He looked to Guy and said, “When I came by the other day with your payment, you mentioned Mr. Smith was once an apprentice at the coffin shop on Burnside Lane.” He turned back to Owen. “That record says the same—where you were apprenticed after you left the orphanage.”

Guy narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t come across this record by chance, I assume.”

“I stole it, if you must know.”

“Sydney.” Guy took off his glasses. He pointed them at him, continuing on. “What if you were caught? You can’t go around—”