“Just as I’d thought. Everything falls to pieces in my absence.” She looked at Bridget sideways. “It wasn’t as if I disappeared.”

Bridget’s countenance turned grave. “You could’ve told me, Catherine—about Spencer. You know that, don’t you?”

Catherine fixed her eyes on her composing stick. “And what if I was wrong? I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, if you ever suspect there’s a murderer in our midst again, I’d appreciate a note at the very least.”

Catherine put a hand to her heart. “I’ll do my best.”

The following day, Catherine made her way to the watchmaker’s shop. She walked with a lightness to her step as omnibuses clattered past on the street. She came to the corner and her eyes alit on the small green-fronted building. What a lovely sight it was, as dear to her now as the print shop. The OPEN sign was upon the door; she stepped inside and looked about at the assortment of clocks, the shine of the lamps against the wallpaper.

Guy Nolan emerged from the back room, pausing at the counter. “Catherine.” He grinned. “Did all fare well at the print shop?”

She pulled off her gloves, smiling back at him. “It did. Very well, in fact.”

He came around the counter to meet her at the front of the shop. He wore an apron over his clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. “That’s grand,” he said as he helped her out of her coat. “I’m pleased for you.”

Catherine turned, gazing up at him. He looked back, his eyes dark. Carefully, he raised a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “Catherine,” he said, and swallowed. “May I kiss you?”

She nodded, wordless. She tilted her face up just as he brought his down. The kiss was soft, earnest, gentle, all the things she knew Guy to be. He pulled back, the color high in his cheeks, and she grinned at him.

Just then, Owen dashed down the staircase. His feet were hard and fast on the steps, in a way that was unlike him. He was no longer a stranger to her, no longer strange. Every day, she knew him better—Owen Smith, the boy she and Guy had pulled out from the grave. A smile lit his face. “Hello, Catherine. I thought I heard you.” He darted a look at Guy and said, “I meant to bring it down,” before hurrying back upstairs.

“What are you having him do?” Catherine asked Guy.

Guy crossed his arms, tipping his chin up with a smile. “We’re going through old watches. I thought it best for him to start with those rather than repairs for clients.”

“That’s probably wise.”

Owen returned with a crate in hand. He brought it into the back room and left it on the worktable. Standing in the doorframe, he looked over at Catherine. “What happened at the print shop,” he asked, “when you went back?”

“I still have my job,” Catherine told him. “Mr. Boyd thinks what we did is commendable.” She met Guy’s gaze. “The police have been there. They’re likely to pay you a call as well.”