How badly she wanted to stay.

On the third floor, she paused outside her room. Lamplight glowed beneath the door’s edge, though it was still quite early. She stepped inside and found Bridget sitting at the desk, already dressed for the day.

She turned, offering up a smile. “Catherine. It’s good to see you.”

“I suppose you’ve heard what happened.”

“Yes.” Bridget stood up from the desk. Light from the lamp turned her fair hair golden, shining over the wallpaper behind her. “The police were here most of yesterday. They told us about Spencer—about the timepiece—”

“The magic is gone. It’s only an ordinary pocket watch.” Catherine sat on the edge of her bed, looking about the room. Quietly, she asked, “How did Mr. Boyd take it? Is he angry with me?”

“No, indeed. Though he’ll probably want to speak with you about it.”

She felt the press of Owen’s record, secure inside her coat. After Bridget left to head downstairs, Catherine knelt at her bedside, pulling out the box beneath it. She set the orphanage papers carefully inside, among her reminders of her family home. It was still home to her, but then, the city had become her home as well.

Catherine put on a clean dress and pinned her dark hair into a chignon. She buttoned her cuffs and smoothed down her skirts. She did a quick study of herself in the looking glass above the washstand, the light coming in through the window catching in her blue eyes. Taking a breath, she started downstairs, waiting at her desk on the shop floor.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Mr. Boyd walked into the shop wearing a wool overcoat, which he hung on the rack alongside his silk hat.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

Boyd smiled, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, Miss Daly. Your aid in the apprehension of Mr. Carlyle was rather notable.”

Catherine recalled her suspicion of Boyd when he’d first taken management of the print shop. She had thought it possible for him to kill Ainsworth, to have taken the timepiece, when Spencer was at fault all along.

“I did not do so alone, sir. Mr. Nolan was also involved.”

“Ah, yes. A reputable young man. It was a shame to hear about his father.” Boyd’s polished shoes clicked over the floorboards. “There’s no need to look so worried, Miss Daly. I shan’t dismiss you for something you are blameless in. What you did was commendable.”

A rush of relief coursed through her. “Thank you, sir. I was rather hoping you would take that opinion.”

His eyebrows rose and his mouth crooked upward. “I’ll be in the back office, if you require anything.”

The door to the back room clicked shut, and then, galvanized, Catherine went to fetch an apron. She slid out a type drawer on her way back, placing it on the desk and taking up her composing stick.

Bridget grinned, sorting through type in the drawer at her own desk. “You see,” she said. “I told you it would work out rightly. It was quite the to-do without you here, Catherine.”