by Kelly Powell
“I see your point,” said Guy. His relief was evident in his tone. “I was—I thought I might bring him to the tailor’s today.”
They came to Fernhill Park, a stretch of green space lined with walking paths, a wooden footbridge built across the pond. In the summer, the grass was shaded over by the canopies of oak and ash trees. Now the branches were almost bare of leaves, stark against the gray sky. Owen Smith sat on one of the park benches, tearing up pieces of bread and feeding the birds gathered on the path.
Guy narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Smith,” he said slowly, “is that your breakfast?”
Owen tossed what remained in his hand to the birds. “Only some of it.” He turned to them, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Guy stepped up to the bench, sending the flock scattering in his wake. “Right. On your feet. We’ve a lot to do today.”
Owen stood and brought one hand up to cover a yawn. He said, “Morning, Miss Daly,” before fetching his hat off the bench and putting it on.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith.”
They left the park together, Guy walking a little ahead. Catherine quickened her pace to fall in step with him. “Mr. Nolan,” she said, “I can’t see it being much longer before your father notices Mr. Smith. You can’t leave him in the park all day. It’s cold enough as is. What about in the winter?”
Rubbing his eyes, Guy said, “By then, he’ll hopefully be apprenticed somewhere. I’ll speak to my father about letting him stay if it comes to that. I know my father—he won’t turn him away. But for now… Perhaps I am being fretful, but I don’t want my father to worry, and Mr. Smith hasn’t any money, nor anywhere else to go.” He glanced over his shoulder and called to Owen, “Come along, Mr. Smith.”
Owen was trailing some distance behind them, gazing out at the stretch of grass. He looked around and hurried to catch up. As he did, Guy turned back to Catherine. “Shall we meet in the afternoon? We can head over to the watchmaker’s then. That is,” he added with a smile, “if you don’t find the timepiece in the cemetery.” Owen came up on the other side of him. “Mr. Smith, I know a fine tailor. Why don’t we pay him a call today? Miss Daly will be heading back to the cemetery for another search.”
Owen looked between the two of them. “Miss Daly,” he said, “Mr. Nolan told me what happened last night. Frightful business. Are you quite certain you want to go back?”
It was a matter of need rather than want, Catherine thought. She hadn’t a chance of getting her job back without the timepiece in hand, and what evidence she had of its whereabouts traced back to the cemetery grounds.
“I’ll be just fine,” she told Owen.
“I’ve a stop to make at the lodging house first,” Guy said. “If you want to walk with us a little ways.”
* * *
Catherine knew the lodging house on Navy Street. It was adjacent to the river, near the docks, the proximity made noticeable by the heavy smell of silt, the creak and clank of ships at port, and dock workers calling out to one another. The house was almost as large as the print shop, four stories tall, the bricks water-stained and soot-marked.
Guy took an envelope from his coat and knocked on the door; Catherine and Owen looked on as an elderly woman answered. Guy doffed his hat. The two exchanged a few words, and Guy handed her the message he’d written for Sydney Mallory.
Once she closed the door, Guy headed back over to them. They had almost reached the corner when Owen glanced back at the lodging house. “What does Mr. Mallory do?” he inquired.
Guy grimaced. There was a pause in which Catherine thought he wouldn’t answer, but the moment passed and he replied, “Unpleasant work.”
“I daresay my work at that coffin shop was unpleasant.” But Owen said it pleasantly. His expression changed, however, turned solemn, and he fell silent as they walked on.
At the next street, they parted ways, Catherine starting off in the direction of the cemetery. She hesitated at the front gates, looking over the graves still shrouded in morning fog. The sounds of the city quieted, grew distant, as she headed inside. She became more aware of her own footfalls, her breath misting in front of her. She walked down a trail they had taken yesterday, pausing when her eyes caught on a familiar name within a row of tombstones. It was the grave marker Guy had stopped at the night before. Now she realized why.
The name NOLAN was carved across the top, and below it, three names. The years of birth were different, but they had all died the same year—more than a decade ago.
Catherine tore her gaze away and continued along the path. Guy hadn’t mentioned having family buried here, and looking upon the grave felt like prying into his past.
She headed to the back of the cemetery, to the watch house. It was unmanned at this early hour, and she peered in through a window, considering the bare room. There was nothing to see but dirt tracked across the floor.
Instead, she turned her attention to the church. In the watery daylight, it appeared no less imposing, the empty bell tower rising up out of the fog. The stonework was dark and damp-stained like many of the graves, eroded by weather and time. When she came to the entrance, she noticed two women in mourning dress walking between the rows of graves.
“Oh, miss,” said one of them. “I wouldn’t venture in there. It’s not safe.”
Catherine stepped back from the doorway, heat rushing to her face. “Undoubtedly.” She swallowed. “Good day.”
Mud squished beneath her boots as she made her way around the other side of the ruins. She waited, leaning against the stone. Once the pair had moved on, she went back to study the front of the church. From a glance, it was clear she’d need a lantern. Shadows obscured much of the space, and debris littered the ground. Perhaps she could borrow one from Guy.
The city clock tolled the hour as she headed out of the cemetery. At the watchmaker’s, it seemed Guy and Owen had yet to return from the tailor’s. The back-room door swung open, and Henry Nolan took off his glasses to regard her. “Hello again, Miss Daly.” His brow furrowed. “Is Guy not with you?”
Catherine crossed the shop floor, pausing at the counter. “He should be along in a moment. He asked me to meet him here.”
The clocks on the wall ticked steadily, pendulums oscillating. Last night, Guy had told her his father no longer used magic, no longer sold hours. The timepiece she sought was of a different enchantment, but it was possible Henry might know something of it.
She said, “May I ask you something, sir?” And when he nodded, she went on. “I’m looking for a timepiece, an enchanted one. It—it’s said to be able to bring back the dead.”
Henry frowned. “I’ve heard of it, yes.”
“What have you heard?”
He let out a sigh. Not unkindly, he said, “Only of its existence, Miss Daly. I imagine my son has mentioned to you that I don’t enchant timepieces anymore. And the magic in that timepiece isn’t magic I’m capable of doing.”
Catherine inclined her head.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you looking for such a thing?”
The words put an unexpected ache in her chest. He’d asked so carefully, so gently; if he were her father, she would’ve told him. But he wasn’t. Her parents were miles from here, unknowing of her predicament. She’d lived in this city for two years, yet she felt more alone than she had that first night she’d spent at the print shop, with the memory of Father riding off on the cart sharp in her mind. She hadn’t cried then, but she’d come close, and she felt close to tears now, standing before Henry Nolan in the small and tidy watchmaker’s shop.
The bell above the shop door chimed, and Guy stepped in. He took off his hat but kept near the door, as though preparing for an imminent departure.
“Hello, Miss Daly,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Hello, Father.”
Catherine scrubbed hastily at her eyes. Bidding goodbye to Henry, she joined Guy at the door. He followed her outside, and on the street, she looked about
for Owen.
“He’s just around the corner,” Guy told her, “at Mr. Fields’s shop. He wanted to inquire about an apprenticeship, I believe.”
She met his gaze. “What did you write to Mr. Mallory?”
Guy looked back at her. He held his hat at his side, and his brow creased with concern. “You didn’t find it in the cemetery, then?”
“Not as of yet.”
“Ah, well.” He replaced his hat, offering her his arm as they started down the pavement. “I agreed to the arrangement. I told him to meet us at the shop if anything turns up.”
“And this friend of your father’s—do you really suppose he’ll know something of the timepiece?”
“I’m not certain what Mr. Everley knows, but there’s no harm in asking, is there?”
His optimism did little to cheer her. She was still lost in memories, the past shadowing her thoughts. It’d been her decision to come here after her brother left home. A purely sensible choice—before she’d learned to set type and organize sorts, before she’d become familiar with the creaks and groans of the building settling at night and the way sunlight patterned the wallpaper of her room in the mornings.
Everything she relied upon in life was slipping between her fingers, falling away, too quickly for her to grasp.
“Miss Daly?” said Guy.
Just ahead, the wooden sign above the cordwainer’s door swayed in the wind. Owen Smith stood with his back to the shop, his hands in his coat pockets. He looked out at the passing carriages with a downheartedness that Catherine herself felt all too keenly.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” she murmured, “if I don’t find it.”
Guy gave her a reassuring smile. “We may yet uncover something,” he said. “By tonight, we could have our answers.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MR. EVERLEY’S SHOP lay in another part of Old Town, so it was rather a long walk there. Catherine’s teeth chattered, her toes numbing in her boots. They headed down a narrow street, where a mossy stone wall edged one side of the pavement. The buildings were built of the same gray stone, the shopfronts along the way painted an assortment of colors. It wasn’t an area of the city Catherine was well acquainted with, and it was a good deal quieter, away from the river, from the market stalls.
A fierce gust of wind nearly carried off Guy’s hat. He caught hold of it and said, “Oh dear.”
“We’re not lost, are we?” asked Owen.
“Not lost,” Guy said firmly. “But perhaps we should’ve taken an omnibus. I haven’t visited in some time—I forgot just how far it is.”
Catherine said, “How well do you know him? Mr. Everley?”
“I’ve known him almost my whole life. He and my father have been friends since I was a child.”
They came upon the shop a little while later. Above the door, in white paint, it read EVERLEY—HOROLOGIST. There were clocks on display in the front window, golden and gleaming, in engraved dark wood cases. Inside, the place was arranged in a similar fashion to the Nolans’ shop. The countertop was just as clean and polished, the wallpaper a shade darker, but clocks still took up much of it. Catherine rubbed her gloved hands together, grateful to be out of the wind. She wondered if Everley had the same magic as the Nolans, if he too once sold hours to people.
There was a set of stairs near the entrance—the newel post faded and scuffed, the steps dipped in the middle—and Guy stopped at the foot of it, calling up, “Hello? Mr. Everley?”
Above them, the floorboards creaked under footsteps. And someone replied, “Guy?” A man descended the stairs, neatly dressed in a white shirt and black silk waistcoat, a frock coat and gray trousers. He looked about the same age as Henry Nolan, his black hair threaded with silver. He smiled. “It’s good to see you. What brings you here?”
Guy smiled back. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The man glanced from Guy to Catherine and Owen. His brow creased. “Is your father not with you?” he asked.
“He’s back at the shop. These are my friends Miss Daly and Mr. Smith,” Guy added, gesturing to them. “Miss Daly, Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Everley.”
Catherine said politely, “How do you do, sir?”
“We’re needing information about a particular timepiece,” Guy told him.
“Well, come upstairs. I’ll build up a fire.”
In the kitchen, Everley swept the fireplace clean and put coal into the grate. Catherine sat beside Owen at the table, while Guy remained standing near the hearth. Books crowded the mantelpiece, a shelf clock placed in the center. A mirror hung on the wall above, and Catherine saw Guy’s reflection in the glass. He’d removed his overcoat, hat, and gloves, and his hair was a little disheveled, his cheeks still pink from the chill outside.
“Is Mrs. Everley not in?” he asked.
“No. She’s out of town at the moment, visiting her sister.” Everley returned his poker to the rack of other fireplace tools, moving toward the kitchen counter. “And how is your father? Is he well?”
“Very well,” Guy said with alacrity. He took a seat at the table across from Catherine, and the worries he’d expressed to her last night felt like well-buried secrets now.
Everley set out a plate of biscuits and poured tea for each of them. He sat down at the table, and when Guy turned the conversation to the timepiece, Everley replied, “You don’t want any business with that. I’d leave it for those at the university to find, if they haven’t already.”
“It’s my employer who wants it—at the Chronicle,” Catherine told him. She swallowed, meeting his gaze. “He tasked me with finding it. Doing so is the only chance I have of keeping my job.”
Everley let out a sigh, closing his eyes briefly. “No one ought to have it, to be using magic of that sort—”
“Have you heard tell of who might’ve made it?” asked Guy.
Everley paused. “No,” he said. “But I don’t suppose it’s very old. I’ve only heard rumors of it in the past decade.”
The device was thought to be buried in Owen’s grave; it could’ve been crafted around the time of his death. Catherine glanced his way, but he kept his eyes trained on his teacup.
On their way out, Everley stopped Guy in the hall. Catherine hesitated around the corner at the top of the stairs, listening.
Everley said, “Does Henry know about this?”
“Sir?”
“Does he know you’re searching for this timepiece?”
“Good gracious, no. I’m helping Miss Daly, is all.”
There was a pause. Catherine looked to Owen, waiting on the landing just below.
“Mr. Everley.” Guy lowered his voice. “You don’t think I’d ever use it, do you?”
“No,” said Everley softly. “I only fear your father might.”
Guy answered in a rather stiff manner. “I don’t believe so, sir.”
“Guy…”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Everley. We’ll manage rightly.”
At his approaching footsteps, Catherine started down to the shop floor. Through the window, the light was waning, and the clocks along the wall were turned to dark shapes, silhouettes, ticking on, as constant a sound as in the Nolans’ shop.
Guy came downstairs, and Catherine turned to him. Raising her eyebrows, she asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Quite.”
He helped her into her coat before pulling on his own. Owen took his coat from the rack and gazed out the window. “I didn’t realize,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “Are there… are there many people looking for this timepiece?”
They stepped outside, heading down the quiet street, and Catherine said, “Well, it is something many people want—magic to return the dead to life. One could bring back one’s family, one’s friends.”
“But they don’t know,” said Owen. “If people are brought back without their memories…” He paused, biting his lip. “I wouldn’t know my family even if they were standing right in front of me.”
Catherin
e clucked her tongue. “Now, Mr. Smith, you don’t know that for certain. Your memories could still come back.”
Owen looked away from her. His eyes shone bright and clear as he fixed his gaze ahead of him. “Perhaps it’s better if I don’t remember. I’ve no idea what I was like, truly. I might’ve been an awful person.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Mr. Smith,” Guy said. “I’m sure you were a perfectly decent fellow, just as you are now.”
At that, Owen sighed, but he said nothing further. Catherine cast her eyes down to her boots, still muddied from her wanderings in the graveyard.
Owen’s words about the timepiece gnawed at her. It was a flawed bit of magic, that was true, to bring a person back to life without any memory of who they were. She couldn’t help thinking that perhaps the device ought not to be found—by her or anyone else. As Everley had said, no one should be using such magic.
* * *
At the watchmaker’s, the OPEN sign was upon the door, though the shop was empty. The gas light flared as Guy turned up the lamps. He reached the back staircase, calling up, “Father!”
Catherine’s gaze drifted to the back-room doorway. She started as a shadow moved near the worktable.
“Afternoon,” said Sydney Mallory. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
“What are you doing back there?” Guy asked.
“Your father said I might wait for you.” He looked around at the three of them, considering, assessing. “He wasn’t sure where you’d gone.”
Something inside Catherine drew tight at his tone. There was an underlying sharpness to it, clear as a shard of glass. He was without his coat and hat, and she realized belatedly they were already hanging on the coatrack alongside theirs. They joined him in the back room, though there wasn’t much in the way of space; Sydney sat on the chair behind the desk, Catherine and Owen on the sofa. Watchmaking tools crowded the desk’s surface, shining under the light of an emerald-green shaded lamp. There were metal trays holding loose parts, tweezers, magnifying glasses, small pots of oil, other things Catherine couldn’t identify. A silver pocket watch was set to one side—the glass over the dial cracked through the middle—together with half-melted candles and empty cups of tea.
