Magic Dark and Strange

by Kelly Powell

  Guy closed the door and remained standing. “Did you get my letter?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Sydney. His gaze slid to Catherine, then Owen. He said nothing further.

  “Well? Did you go to the university?”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  “And?”

  Sydney leaned back in his chair. “Why are you so interested in this timepiece, Guy? It’s only a story, after all. Are you sure it even exists?” He returned his attention to Owen. “Are you still looking for work, Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes,” said Owen, though his voice rose a little, as if he were uncertain. “Do you… work at the university? Mr. Nolan said—”

  Sydney interrupted him with a laugh. “Do I work at the university? Guy, you didn’t tell him that, did you?”

  Guy stood motionless by the door. Catherine supposed he’d rather steer past this conversation completely.

  Still looking at Sydney, Owen wrung his hands together. “Mr. Nolan said your work was… unpleasant. If I may ask, what is it you do?”

  A smile tugged at the edge of Sydney’s mouth. His eyes glinted in the lamplight as he leaned forward. “Yes, I’ll tell you, shall I? Perhaps you’ll take to it as well. You can make quite a bit of coin, if you can stomach it.”

  Guy started, “Sydney—”

  Sydney paid him no mind. “You see, Mr. Smith, I dig up bodies. Those learned men at the university? The anatomists? They need a ready supply for their dissections, more than just executed criminals, and they pay finely for them.”

  Owen blanched. He pressed back against the sofa cushions, staring at Sydney. He let out a quiet, shuddering breath, and the next moment, he was on his feet, stumbling out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Catherine heard the staircase creak sharply as he made his way up.

  Guy shot Sydney a furious look. “Well done, Sydney. Are you pleased with yourself? You’ve just terrified him half to death.”

  “He asked. I’ve yet to find a delicate way to put it.”

  Guy folded his arms over his chest. “Do you have information about the timepiece or not? If not, you can leave.”

  Sydney drew himself up. He stood over Guy, looking down at him. Guy held his ground, chin tipped up, eyes narrowed.

  “Why,” Sydney began, “should I tell you anything when you’ve lied to me?”

  “I haven’t lied to you.”

  “No? You’re not a good liar, Guy. I can see the shape of it.” Sydney pointed at the door. “Is Mr. Smith staying here? He ought to be in a poorhouse if he can’t find work. How do you even know him?” Rounding on Catherine, Sydney continued. “And you, Miss Daly—you’re seeking this timepiece, yes?”

  Catherine stood up. “Mr. Mallory, pardon my saying so, but I don’t see how any of this is your business.”

  “You’re asking for my help. That makes it my business.” Sydney peered up at the ceiling before looking to Guy, his eyes alight with curiosity. “He was dead, wasn’t he? Mr. Smith. I can’t fathom why else he’s here, all of a sudden, and you’re so keen on finding this timepiece, all of a sudden. It’s worked its magic on him.”

  Catherine drew in a breath. “Mr. Mallory—”

  “You can’t tell anyone, Sydney.” Guy’s voice took on a pleading edge. “He hasn’t any memory of who he was.”

  Catherine said, “Mr. Ainsworth at the Chronicle is the one who wants the timepiece. He thought it was buried in Mr. Smith’s plot.”

  Sydney raised an eyebrow. “And it wasn’t?”

  “No. But Mr. Smith returned to life, so it’s likely somewhere near there.”

  “I see.” Sydney pressed his knuckles to his mouth. He looked between the two of them. “Perhaps you ought to bring Mr. Smith to the university.”

  Guy bristled. “To the medical department? Why ever would we do that?”

  “They’d want to see him, most assuredly,” said Sydney with a smile. “It’s a strange sort of magic that’s brought him back.”

  “Well, it’ll be his decision,” Guy replied. “And I doubt very much he’ll want to step foot there after you spoke of it so horrifically.”

  Sydney moved past him to the door, his smile widening. “Ask him. I’ll stop by in the morning—he can give me his answer then.” He set a hand on the doorknob. Turning back around, he added, “And there’s to be a funeral tomorrow at the public cemetery. I’ll need your services come nightfall.”

  “No,” Guy snapped. “You haven’t given us any information.”

  “For that, you may want to come along to the university.” With a nod at Catherine, Sydney left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The bell above the shop door chimed as he headed out.

  Guy closed his eyes, releasing a sigh. “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped,” he said.

  Catherine looked away. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, either.

  Guy opened the door, letting in more light, and positioned the chair Sydney had sat in so it was flush against the worktable. Reaching across it, he put out the lamp.

  “Miss Daly.” He glanced her way. “Shall we see where he’s gone?”

  He meant Owen. She couldn’t hear anything from upstairs, the quiet broken only by the soft, collected ticking of the clocks in the next room. She nodded, and they started for the stairs together.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IN THE KITCHEN, they found Owen at the table across from Henry Nolan. A cup of tea sat steaming in front of him, but when he saw them, he stood abruptly. “Forgive me, Mr. Nolan,” he said to Henry. “I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

  Guy stepped forward. “Mr. Smith—”

  But Owen strode past them as if they were ghosts. He ducked his head and took to the stairs. Catherine called after him, “Mr. Smith, where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Henry made his way over. The fire in the grate cast him in shadow and light, accentuating the lines at the corners of his eyes. “He seems rather upset.”

  “Sydney was unkind to him,” Guy replied. Rubbing his forehead, he turned to his father. “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing of it—I could see it on his face. Is he a friend of yours? He said he’s an apprentice at the coffin shop on Burnside Lane.”

  Catherine glanced to Owen’s neglected teacup.

  Oh, Mr. Smith.

  Then Henry’s attention settled on her. “Hello again, Miss Daly,” he said lightly.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Nolan.” She nodded to him even as her heart thudded with unease. She clasped her hands together in the hopes of steadying herself. “My apologies, but I must be getting back to the Chronicle.” Giving Guy a pointed look, she added, “Mr. Nolan, if you might accompany me…”

  “Of course, Miss Daly.”

  They turned for the door. Before they left, Henry said, “Come home directly, Guy.”

  Guy hesitated. He looked as if he were weighing his next words, but in the end he said only, “Yes, Father.”

  Outside the shop, the street was not as busy as it was earlier in the day. Few people were about, and fewer carriages. Catherine looked along the row of buildings on the other side of the street. Painted shopfronts, white sash windows.

  “Where do you think he’d go?” she said, turning to Guy. “Shall we try the park?”

  He nodded tightly.

  When they came to it, they walked the same path they’d taken that morning. Tree branches shivered in the breeze, some leaves still clinging in place, autumn colors of yellow and red-brown. The pond across the green glinted in the evening light, fallen leaves circling its edges.

  Owen Smith stood in the middle of the footbridge. His coat was the same dark gray as the water below, and he looked faded as a shadow, his shoulders hunched as he stared down into the murk.

  Catherine said, “Mr. Smith, are you all right?”

  He didn’t look at either of them, but his mouth crooked down. He shook his head.

  “Sydney shouldn’t have spoken so carelessly,” said Guy
. “I should have—”

  “Is it true?” Owen whispered. “He’s a resurrectionist?”

  Guy leaned against the bridge beside him. “Yes.”

  Owen swallowed hard, looking down at himself. “Would he have dug me up?”

  “No.” Guy glanced to Catherine. He cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Smith, you were—I mean, your body was rather… You had been dead for a long time. The anatomists—they need fresh corpses.”

  Owen scrubbed at his red-rimmed eyes with his coat sleeve.

  Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, Guy said, “My father is waiting for me, so I need to head back, but wait for me at the corner and I’ll let you in.” He looked around, meeting Catherine’s gaze. “And you, Miss Daly.”

  He left the bridge, starting down the path, as the clock tower tolled the hour. Catherine watched him until he was a dark figure in the distance, just another gentleman passing through the park. She turned back to Owen.

  “Mr. Mallory knows about your situation,” she told him. “And about the timepiece. He thought you might consider visiting the university.”

  Owen folded his arms atop the parapet, peering over the bridge into the water. “What for?” His voice shook. “So they may cut me open and study my insides?”

  “Mr. Smith,” Catherine chided. “You’re not a cadaver. Mr. Nolan and I won’t let you come to harm.”

  He turned to her. There was still something raw about his countenance, but he smiled a tiny, hesitant smile, and it brightened his whole face. “I’ll go,” he said. “If you and Mr. Nolan come along, I’ll go.”

  “Very well, then.” And Catherine smiled back at him.

  * * *

  It was fully dark by the time Guy led them inside the shop and put the CLOSED sign on the door. A couple of lamps were still lit along the wall, burning low in their brackets. Light reflected over the clock dials, the pendulums and weights, the polished cases. Guy took Catherine’s coat and bonnet, hanging them up.

  She studied his face in the dim. “Your father…?”

  “He’s already asleep. He won’t wake.” He ran a hand through his hair and added, “He takes medicine to help with his nightmares. He’ll sleep until morning.”

  Catherine couldn’t help but glance up. She waited for some creak to alert her to the fact that Henry Nolan was indeed awake, but no footsteps sounded on the floorboards. There was only the low, occasional groan of the building settling, the temperature falling with the evening. She shivered.

  “You may sleep on the sofa down here, Miss Daly,” Guy continued. “I hope that’s agreeable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nolan.”

  They headed upstairs, where Guy collected blankets for her from the linen chest, and Catherine fetched clothes from her trunk. After dinner, after Owen went off to bed, Guy took a seat in a wingback armchair by the fireplace. The floral-patterned upholstery was worn thin along the chair arms; the printed roses were faded to a pale pink. He’d loosened his cravat and unfastened his shirt cuffs. He tipped his head back, a certain light to his eyes as he looked over at the hearth. In the grate, the fire was slowly dying, the wood blackened, the coals glowing red.

  Catherine clasped her hands in front of her. “Well,” she said. “Good night, then.”

  She made to leave, and Guy said softly, “Wait.”

  Catherine glanced back at him.

  He straightened up. “Are you…? Are you very tired? Only I thought we might”—his face reddened, noticeable even in the low light—“sit together for a time. If you’d like.”

  She paused, eyebrows raised. She didn’t think the pause to be more than a moment, but in that time Guy’s blush turned a deeper scarlet, and he said, “No? Yes, as I thought. Good night, Miss Daly.” He looked away, fixing his attention on the fireplace.

  She went and sat down in the armchair opposite him. “I’m not very tired.”

  He leaned forward. A grin spread across his face. “Nor am I.”

  Taking up the poker, he nudged at the burnt logs, sending white flakes of ash into the air. He sighed and set it back down. As he did, his gaze flicked up to the painted miniature on the mantelpiece. “Miss Daly, I’ve been wondering.” He looked over at her. “Your family… are they…? Do you not have…?”

  Catherine swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “I have a family.”

  “Oh. It’s just—you’ve never mentioned them.” He bit his lip and added anxiously, “I’m sorry. Am I being too familiar?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, it’s only… They’re out in the country. I came to the city to work at the Chronicle, and I haven’t been home in the two years since.”

  Guy tilted his head. The fading light of the fire played across his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “You must miss them.”

  “Yes. Terribly, sometimes. I write almost every week.” She looked to the mantel clock, watching the slow movement of the minute hand. “My older brother, John, is often away from home too. He works in the mines. And there’s my younger sister, Anne. She’ll be fourteen now.” She could see their faces in her mind’s eye as clearly as the framed painting beside the clock.

  “I had two older brothers,” said Guy. He nodded to the painting. “That’s Robert. He was the eldest. Then Wilfrid, but we haven’t any pictures of him. They passed away from fever along with my mother when I was small.”

  Catherine murmured, “I’m sorry.” She’d printed death notices for whole families struck down by fateful accidents or disease. It was not an uncommon plight, but that didn’t make it any less sorrowful.

  “Thank you. I can’t really remember them.” He leaned back in his chair. “My father and I get on well. Everything I know about our trade, I learned from him.”

  The last of the flames flickered out, leaving them in near darkness. Behind Guy’s chair, light from the street shone in through the window, the pattern of the lace curtains casting a shadow over the far wall.

  Something about the encroaching night made Catherine quiet her voice to a whisper. “Do you think we’ll find something out at the university?”

  “Sydney seems certain,” Guy replied. “And I suppose they do have more knowledge at their disposal.”

  “But no one there has found it.” Catherine twisted her hands in her lap. “What if…? What if Mr. Smith was murdered for it?”

  Guy’s eyebrows went up. “Do you think it belonged to him?”

  “Why else would it be said to be buried in his grave?”

  Looking toward the kitchen doorway, Guy frowned. “We won’t know, will we? He doesn’t remember anything of it.”

  Catherine stood up and smoothed out her skirts. “We ought to get some sleep,” she said. “We shan’t be getting much tomorrow night if we’re going to the cemetery.”

  “You’re quite right, Miss Daly.” He tipped his head back against the chair, his smile soft with sleepiness. “And we’ll have to wake early, before my father does.” He rubbed at his eyes, getting up. “I’ll fetch you a candle.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pottered around the kitchen in the dim, finding matches and a candlestick holder. The back of his waistcoat was creased, his hair sticking up in parts. Below them, the clocks chimed the hour, tones low and recurring.

  Guy passed her the candle. Their fingers brushed, and he drew back quickly, a blush rising in his cheeks. He said, “Be careful on the stairs.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “Good night, Mr. Nolan.”

  “Good night, Miss Daly.”

  She made her way by candlelight down to the shop floor. As she slipped into the back room, putting the candle on the table, she smiled to herself. Despite the fact that it was her first night away from the print shop in two years, despite the fact that she may no longer have a job there, she felt a certain steadiness.

  She could possibly discover the timepiece tomorrow. In the meanwhile, she was safe, here under this roof, with her family’s letters and her belongings from home packed away in her trunk. Sh
e liked the reliable ticking of the clocks, the comfortable sofa, the wash of pink she’d seen across Guy’s cheeks as he’d bade her good night.

  Settling beneath the blankets, she fell into dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CATHERINE WOKE NEAR dawn. When she headed up to the kitchen, she found Guy was already making breakfast, well dressed for the day. He wore a crisp white shirt, a dark-blue waistcoat, his trousers pressed and his boots polished.

  “Good morning,” he said upon seeing her. “I’ve woken Mr. Smith, so he should be joining us shortly.” He set out plates and silverware, bread and butter and jam.

  Catherine raised a hand to her hair, smoothing back the loose strands. She’d done it up in a neat chignon, and she’d donned a clean brown dress. Sitting at the table, she asked, “Did you sleep well?”

  He glanced up, meeting her gaze with a smile. “Quite well. I hope you didn’t mind the sofa.”

  “Not at all.”

  His eyes shifted to the doorway as Owen entered the room. “Mr. Smith, there you are. Here, sit and eat something. We ought to be ready before Sydney gets here.”

  Beyond the window, the sky was deep blue, lightening with the coming dawn. They ate by lamplight, how Catherine had often eaten breakfast at the Chronicle. Guy fetched paper and pen to write a note to his father, left it on the counter, and opened a small tin, taking out a few coins. After putting on their coats and hats, they waited for Sydney Mallory near the front of the shop.

  Clocks lined the window display—small brass carriage clocks with carrying handles, decorative mantel clocks. Guy busied himself winding those that needed winding, and though there was no dust to be seen, he retrieved a cloth from the back room and began polishing the display. Catherine looked on, sleepy-eyed, charmed by the care he took, the way he angled the clock faces toward the streetlight, studying each one.