by Kelly Powell
Douglas came back to the counter with her post. Her name was penned across it in her mother’s tidy handwriting. Catherine smiled at the sight, pocketed it in her coat, and passed on the money to have her own letter sent off.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, she started for the corner. There was another stop she wished to make before heading back to the Chronicle. She came upon it a couple of blocks later, in the midst of a row of adjoining buildings. Shop windows advertised the merchandise to be found inside, names and trades painted crisply above doorways. NOLAN’S WATCH & CLOCK REPAIR was a little green-fronted building with a brick flat above it, the curtains pulled across the white windows.
The bell atop the door announced her arrival.
She’d been here before on errands for Ainsworth. Like the print shop, Nolan’s offered more than the name implied. It was whispered that Henry Nolan, alongside watchmaking and repairing, was a horologist who sold segments of literal time. And Catherine could think of no better place to go to find out if this buried timepiece was indeed enchanted. Despite herself, she was curious. It wasn’t the sort of magic anyone at the print shop could accomplish. There were some who thought the device’s capabilities were nothing more than rumor.
The watchmaker’s shop appeared empty, and she was met only by an assortment of clocks on the wall behind the counter, all polished to a shine. Pendulums hung from several, while others were spring-driven, with brass inlay, decorative flourishes, gold edging.
The back-room door hung partially ajar. Through it, Catherine saw not Henry, but his son. He sat behind a worktable, hunched over what she assumed was a disassembled watch. With the slow, deliberate carefulness of someone used to handling delicate things, Guy Nolan set down his tweezers and removed the magnifying loupe he wore. He took off his wire-rimmed spectacles too, rubbing a hand over his eyes before getting up.
He didn’t notice her until he came around the table to meet her at the door. He was tall and leanly built, wearing an apron over his clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His brown hair was tidy, and he had a pleasant face—a certain clarity to his dark eyes, his expression attentive and curious as he regarded her. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
Catherine hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin. “I’ve something particular to ask.” She clasped her hands together, biting her lip. “Mr. Ainsworth has tasked me with obtaining a timepiece. And I’d like to know if the rumors about it are true.”
“How do you mean?” A small crease appeared between Guy’s brows. Then he brightened. “What sort of timepiece? We’ve several fine new pocket watches.”
“No. That is, the timepiece he wants isn’t here.” Catherine felt around in her coat pocket for the silver coin Watt had given her, drawing it out and setting it on the counter. “It’s buried in a plot in the public cemetery. I’m to dig it up tonight, and I’ll pay you to study the piece.”
Now Guy looked thoroughly confused. He rocked back slightly as if pushed. “You… You wish me to help you dig up a grave?”
Before she could answer, footsteps sounded from above. Guy’s eyes darted up to the ceiling. Wiping his hands on his apron, he said, “This way, please, Miss Daly.”
She thought at first he intended to lead her upstairs. Instead, they passed the back staircase and went out the door that brought them into the lot backing onto the building the next street over. It was little more than a bit of pavement, weeds growing heartily through the cracks. A washing line was strung up; Catherine very much doubted Guy wished her to see the nightclothes and drawers hanging there, so she cast about until her gaze landed on a flowerpot.
“Those are lovely,” she said, just to be kind. Most of the flowers inside were brown and wilted, their stems drooped over the edge of the pot.
Guy’s mouth curved in a half smile. “They aren’t doing so well, are they? Too gloomy and cold this time of year, I’m afraid.” He knelt before it. “I was thinking of getting some window boxes for the flat, but then, you wouldn’t really be able to see them from the street.” He shook his head and straightened up. “Miss Daly, how do you expect me to help you?”
“Have you heard of a timepiece that can bring back the dead?”
Scratching an eyebrow, Guy said, “That’s an old tale.”
Catherine grinned. “Yes, well, my employer thinks not, and I understand you’re skilled in enchanting timepieces here. Could you determine what sort of magic it holds?”
His eyes flitted over her face. She wondered if he was thinking of the silver she’d placed on the counter or the reputed magic of this timepiece. In the distance, the city clock tower chimed the hour. A softer echo of it sounded from the closed door behind them, the Nolans’ clocks striking in harmony. Guy looked down, twisting the fabric of his apron between his hands. “Perhaps I can.” He glanced back up and swallowed. “You wish me to meet you tonight?”
She nodded quickly. “Midnight,” she told him. “Do you know the willow tree on the grounds? The plot is near there.”
Guy cut his gaze away from her, studying the brick wall of the lot.
“Mr. Nolan?”
“Very well.” He spoke in a quiet, hesitant tone, as though fearful of being overheard. “If such a thing exists, I’d like to see it.”
At his words, Catherine felt no small measure of relief. She’d never wandered the city’s graveyards alone in the dark—lately, the watchmen had taken to patrolling the public cemetery almost as frequently as they did the private one—and it was a comfort knowing she’d have Guy Nolan’s company tonight.
When they went back into the shop, Catherine took a last glance at the clocks along the wall. She wondered if some magic lay between the dial and gears, if an hour or so of time was conserved inside like the magic she placed within pieces of type. At the door, she said, “I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Nolan.”
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.
&nbs
p; 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.
“Don’t fret, Catherine,” he’d said. “I’ll be home in the winter months.”
But it wasn’t the thought of his absence that troubled her so. It was where he was going. She’d heard tales of the mines in town—how dark and damp they were, how dangerous. Quietly, she said, “You don’t have to go.”
“It’s a fair wage,” John replied, as if this decided things. Her brother was ever and always practical. It was one of the many traits they shared, and it was her practicality that stopped her arguing. She didn’t want her goodbye to be a discouraging one.
Putting her arms around him, she said, “Take care, John.”
In the print shop, Bridget leaned forward in her chair. “Be careful, won’t you, Catherine?”
“Of course,” she said. And with a sigh, she set down her brother’s letter and pushed the box back under her bed.
* * *
It was just past the eleventh hour when Catherine reached the cemetery gates. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the marble mausoleums and slanted grave markers, rooted trees and familiar pathways. She fetched the spade she’d tucked away behind the fence, swung it up onto her shoulder, and headed down one of the winding dirt trails.
In many ways, the city’s cemeteries were as much a home to her as her room at the print shop. Invercarn Public Cemetery had existed long before Rose Hill, its age reflected in its surroundings. Here were the oldest headstones: crosses interlaced with knot work; stone angels, their arms outstretched, carved faces upturned in perpetual grief. Ivy grew through the cracks, twining around the monuments, masking their crumbled foundations. The walls of a dilapidated church loomed in the distance, its stones stained by damp and blanketed with moss.
The coffin maker’s plot was unmarked, but Ainsworth had noted it near the old willow tree on his map. Gripping her lantern, Catherine placed her spade outward from the trunk, using its length to measure out the distance to the grave. Reaching the point written in Ainsworth’s directions, she tapped her spade twice against the earth. Guy Nolan had yet to arrive, and with a sinking sensation, she realized that without him, digging up and reburying the coffin would take twice as long. Her eyes itched with tiredness; she looked up into the night, exhaling a clouded breath.
Then she got to work.
She pitched spadeful after spadeful of dirt aside, sweat collecting in the space between her shoulder blades and the small of her back. She cleared another mound of dirt and caught sight of a shadow beyond the grave’s edge.
Guy Nolan stood at the foot of it, pale-faced and specter-like. He carried a spade of his own and wore a thick dark coat and a black top hat. He raised his free hand to touch the brim of it as their eyes met.
“Hello, Miss Daly.”
“Mr. Nolan,” she said gladly. Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped the sweat from her face. “It’s good to see you.”
He removed his coat and hat and set them down next to her lantern. Catherine was pleased to see he was dressed for the work. He wore a plain shirt and waistcoat, brown wool trousers. Joining her in the dug-up grave, he said, “Well, here I am. Is this how you usually spend your nights?”
Catherine let out a breathless laugh and pocketed her handkerchief. “Certainly not.”
Guy studied her, his eyes black as ink in the darkness. “I know of the farewell service offered by the Chronicle—the magic you use in the cemeteries.”
“Do you, now?” She leaned against her spade, smiling a little. “Yes, I don’t much care for it, but I suppose it’s why Mr. Ainsworth’s interested in this timepiece.” She angled her spade toward him. “I’ve heard you sell pieces of actual time in your shop. That seems quite the venture.”
Guy turned his face away. “My father used to. He doesn’t anymore.”
There was an odd quality to his voice—an unexpected hardness—that made Catherine feel she’d overstepped in some way. She went back to digging, relieved when Guy followed suit.
His blade hit wood some time later. They cleared the remaining dirt, their breaths fogging the air. Catherine tossed her spade onto the grass and fetched a small crowbar from her coat.
“Let me,” said Guy, reaching for it. “You did most of the digging.”
She passed him the crowbar. The coffin was caved in a little from rot and the weight of the soil, the nails rusted and sunk deep. Whoever this coffin maker was, he’d been buried some time ago.
Guy wrested free the last nail and leaned back on his heels. He was flushed but smiling, holding up the offending nail like a prize. Catherine grinned in return. She took up her lantern and rubbed a spot on the glass.
When she turned back, Guy’s smile faltered. In the lamplight, he appeared somber and thoughtful as a mourner. Standing up, he said only, “Hand me the light.”
She did so, and he pushed aside the coffin lid. The two of them peered inside.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Guy was the first to speak. He cleared his throat and said, in a rather delicate manner, “Miss Daly, are you quite sure we have the right plot?”
She swallowed. “I am.”
“Did you not say he had a timepiece?”
“I did.”
“Right.” His attention returned to the coffin. “Then, if I might ask, where is it?”
CHAPTER FIVE
INSIDE THE COFFIN, the body was mostly decomposed, dried out and skeletal beneath a frayed suit. Catherine bent down, feeling along the coffin’s sides. Nothing. She searched through the suit pockets only to be met with the same result.
The timepiece was gone. If it’d even been there at all.
She sat back, turning to Guy. He knelt beside her, pale and shivering as wind whistled over the grounds. “What now, Miss Daly?”
She wished she knew. “It ought to be here. This is it, the unmarked plot.”
“Perhaps your employer’s information was faulty.”
They looked back at the remains of the corpse. Skin and muscle tissue stretched taut over the bones, only hollow sockets in the places where his eyes once were. His hair was dark and matted. He’d clearly been dead for years, long enough Catherine couldn’t tell his age.
She wondered how he’d died.
“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “I can wake him.”
The type from Stewart and Sons was still in her coat pocket, though she wasn’t altogether sure her magic would work. The longest dead she’d ever brought back were in the ground six months at the outside. They were intact, preserved—not rotted to the bones.
When Guy said nothing, she looked his way.
He bit his lip. “Is that wise?” he asked finally. “He’s not… He’s been dead a long while, Miss Daly.”
“Indeed, I might not be able to wake him.” Her gaze flickered back to the corpse. “But he could very well know where this timepiece is.” Reaching into her coat, she took out the blank type. She set a corner of it hard against her palm until it broke skin.
Guy whispered, “Do you know who he was?”
“No.” She swallowed. “Mr. Ainsworth only said he was a coffin maker.”
Placing the bloodstained type piece on the coffin’s edge, she closed her eyes in concentration. She realized she didn’t have a name to call on—no title to tie the coffin maker to his body. No sooner did
she have the thought than the wind picked up, quickening her heartbeat. There came a sound like the breaking of crystal, thin and barely audible. Catherine frowned, wondering if she’d imagined it, just as Guy inhaled sharply and scrambled back, fetching up against the dirt wall behind them.
“Well, Miss Daly,” he said, wide-eyed. “I think he moved.”
She looked back at the coffin. And almost imperceptibly, the corpse shifted.
Catherine’s stomach gave a lurch. She stared, transfixed, as the coffin maker’s body began to flesh itself out—by nerve by sinew by vein by artery by organ.
A little awed, Guy said, “Is this your doing?”
“No,” she replied, voice hushed. “This isn’t my magic.”
This was something new.
Sitting alongside Guy, Catherine watched it happen.
The boy—it was a boy, she saw, no older than them—lay inside the coffin as if he merely slept. He had a sweep of dark hair, a thin face, lashes that fluttered against his cheeks. His chest rose and fell beneath the folds of his suit jacket. He was breathing. Breathing.
Catherine’s heart thudded.
This boy wasn’t back on a temporary thread of magic. He was alive and whole, like death had never touched him.
The timepiece. It must be.
But where was it?
She got to her feet, eyeing the boy who, minutes prior, had been little more than a skeleton. Guy rose to stand next to her.
“The timepiece,” he said, echoing her thoughts. “Could it have done this?”
“That would be my guess.” Her voice came out faint.
“But how is that possible? It’s not even here.”
The lantern rested near the coffin, illuminating the cracked wood. Catherine stepped closer, kneeling beside it. She reached out to touch the boy’s cheek.
