Magic Dark and Strange

by Kelly Powell

  “We’d best have a look in the church,” she told him.

  He nodded. Together, they started for the stone heap. In another corner of the cemetery, there lay the small windowed structure of the new watch house, a lookout post where people could watch over the dead, guarding them against resurrection men. As they neared it, Guy stopped, raising his lantern. He said, “There’s someone over there.”

  Catherine spotted the figure: a man with a lantern of his own, coming around the side of the watch house. She swallowed. “Put out your light,” she murmured.

  Guy hurried to do so, speaking low and fast as the flame went out. “Should we not be here? It’s quite late, isn’t it?”

  Few people wandered the city’s cemeteries in the dark. Those who did were usually watchmen or grave robbers, and Catherine did not think this man was the latter. Before she could answer Guy, the stranger looked their way. He lifted his light, calling out, “Hello! Who’s there?”

  Catherine stood frozen for only a moment longer. Catching hold of Guy’s sleeve, she said, “Mr. Nolan, run.”

  They ran, stumbling, slipping on the wet ground. The entrance was too far; Catherine darted onto the grass, her fear razor-sharp and clawing at the back of her throat. “Here,” she gasped. “This way.” She passed a tall cross marker and ducked beneath a low wall facing one of the older tombs. Guy came around after her, crouching down. They sat with their backs against the cool and grimy stone, catching their breaths.

  Guy whispered, “I thought the watchmen only patrolled the private cemetery.”

  “More regularly, perhaps, but I’ve seen them make rounds here before.” She looked over at him. He had his knees to his chest, his arms around them, his eyes shut tightly.

  “Last spring,” he said in a hushed tone. “Last spring, Miss Daly, they imprisoned three grave robbers.” He swallowed, turning to meet her gaze. “They were flogged, and Sydney told me one of them died some days later from—from the wounds.”

  “We haven’t robbed any graves,” Catherine whispered back.

  “We’ve taken poor Mr. Smith from his resting place,” said Guy. He shuddered and reached over his shoulder, touching his back as if he were already imagining the lashing.

  Catherine tried to quiet her breathing, tried to listen for the sound of footsteps past the roaring of blood in her ears. A flicker of light touched the tombstone, the words engraved there illuminated in the glow. She looked up, wide-eyed. The watchman set his lantern on the wall and took Guy roughly by the collar.

  “You think you can hide from me, boy? I saw you run off.” He yanked him to his feet and shoved an old pistol under his chin. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

  Catherine scrambled up. “Sir,” she said. “Please, let him alone. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Next to her, Guy stood completely still. His face was blank, white shock, his eyes black as the night sky.

  The man glanced at Catherine. There was a hard glint in his eyes, the lantern light leaving half his face in shadow. Looking back at Guy, he pushed the barrel against his skin. “Answer me.” The man studied him, eyes narrowed. Then his expression changed. “Wait. I know your face. You’re Henry Nolan’s son, aren’t you?”

  Guy stared back, wordless, as though he’d forgotten his own name. “Yes,” he choked out finally. His voice wavered, and his breath caught. Tears slid down his face when he blinked. “I’m Guy. Guy Nolan.”

  “All right.” The man tucked away his pistol. “Your father did me a good turn a few years back. My apologies if I gave you a fright.”

  Catherine exhaled in relief. Guy put a hand against the stone wall, wiping at his eyes with the other. “A fright,” he echoed.

  “You oughtn’t be wandering through here this late,” the man continued. “I won’t tell your father, but have a care, eh?”

  Guy didn’t answer. The watchman looked from him to Catherine. He nodded at her. “Sorry for the trouble, miss. Good night.”

  He started back for the path. Catherine watched him go until he was out of sight. Then there were only the old graves, the cold night wind, and Guy Nolan shivering beside her. Softly, she said, “Are you all right, Mr. Nolan?”

  He nodded without meeting her gaze. He picked up his lantern, tried to light it, but his hands were trembling and he couldn’t manage it. Catherine took the matches from him. She lit the lantern and carried it as they made their way out of the cemetery.

  Halfway to the watchmaker’s shop, Guy stopped to be sick in an alleyway. And by the time they reached the flat, he was shaking even worse than he was when they were among the tombs. Catherine looked on as he slopped water over the edge of the washbowl in the kitchen. The chill from outside had settled into her bones; she tasked herself with building the fire—brushing out the grate, taking logs from the basket. Guy left briefly to go down the hall to his room. When he returned, he was in clean clothes, and Catherine had moved on to making tea, the fire burning strong in the hearth.

  “Thank you,” Guy said upon seeing it. They were the first words he’d said in a while, and his voice came out rough. His eyes were red-rimmed, his gaze shifting about the room.

  Catherine brought the teapot to the table, set out saucers and cups. “I don’t mind.”

  They sat across from each other, and Guy stared down at his hands.

  “Mr. Nolan,” Catherine said after a pause. “Is your father in? Should I wake him?”

  “No.” Guy looked up. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Thank you, Miss Daly, but I’m perfectly fine. I—I’m just… I haven’t even a scratch on me.” His mouth twisted, and he put his face in his hands, choking on a sob. “I’ve just never been so scared in all my life,” he cried. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  Catherine’s heart ached. She reached out, her hand poised just over his shoulder. She wanted to comfort him somehow but knew not what comfort she could offer. In the end she pulled back, took up the teapot, and poured tea into their cups. She slid the saucer to him across the scrubbed table.

  Downstairs, clocks chimed the hour. The sound was muffled, ringing up through the floorboards. Guy sniffed and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Thank you,” he said again, taking hold of his teacup.

  Catherine drank her tea. “Do you know what he meant?” she asked. “The watchman? He—he said your father did him a good turn.”

  Guy hunched his shoulders. Curling his hands around his cup, he said, “I suppose my father sold him some hours. It’s what people are always thanking him for.”

  “Why did he stop?”

  Guy looked to the fireplace, and Catherine followed his gaze. The wood in the grate crackled, turning to ash. The clock on the mantelpiece, as well as the darkness beyond the window glass, told her of the late hour.

  Guy said, “I asked him to.” He placed his cup neatly in its saucer. “The magic you use for the farewell service—it takes something from you, does it not?”

  She shifted in her chair. “Time,” she answered. “Time off my life.”

  His eyes widened a little. “Truly?”

  “Yes. But the people we bring back don’t return as Mr. Smith did. They’re still dead.” She ran a finger over the rim of her empty teacup. “They’re—they’re like ghosts, Mr. Nolan.”

  He leaned forward, holding her gaze. His eyes shone to a dark polish. “Our magic takes memories. My father would put pieces of time in a watch—an hour, more than an hour—and an equal amount of time would be forgotten from his past.” He set his jaw. “The magic was eating away at him—I could see it. And he has dreadful nightmares sometimes.”

  A log tumbled in the hearth, but neither of them moved to fetch the poker.

  “Other watchmakers in the city aren’t keen on doing such business,” Guy went on. “My father made quite a tidy profit. Once he stopped, well… a lot of clients didn’t come back after that.” He twisted his hands atop the table. “He doesn’t wish me to use magic, and I agree, but now…”

  Standing u
p, he headed over to the fireplace. He took the poker and tended to the fire, the flames flickering and curling about the wood. “Sydney Mallory doesn’t do things for nothing,” he told her. “If he’s going to ask around about the timepiece, he wants a favor in return.”

  Catherine asked, “What sort of favor?” But she could already guess.

  “He wants me to still time for him during resurrections—to avoid the watchmen.” Guy turned to face her. “I’ve never done it before, Miss Daly. Magic.” He held the poker limply at his side; for a moment, he looked dreamlike, fey, a knight with a fallen sword.

  Catherine looked away. Closing her eyes, she listened to the tick of the mantel clock, the crackling of the fire. “I understand,” she said. “It’s all right. If you don’t want to—I understand.”

  “No,” said Guy. “I’ll do it. I’ve already quite made up my mind.”

  She looked back around. He set down the poker, walking over to place his hands on the table. His eyes were dark and bright, his face flushed after being near the heat of the flames. “This is what I’m trying to tell you, Miss Daly. Honestly, I have little choice in the matter. I can suspend time for Sydney and he’ll give me a cut of his pay, or I can do as my father did and start selling time to people. We’re—we’re going to lose the shop otherwise. Perhaps not next week or next month, but if things keep on the way they have—” He stopped, stepped back. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have said all that.”

  Catherine stared at him. She felt a rush of sympathy so fierce it hurt her heart. She rose from her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “You ought to get some rest, Mr. Nolan.”

  “What about you?” He studied her face. “The timepiece—”

  “I need to speak with my foreman. Mr. Ainsworth may have given me more time to search.” She hoped for that, at least. Perhaps Spencer had managed to convince him of the fact she had no knowledge of the timepiece’s whereabouts.

  Guy accompanied her down to the shop. Gazing out the front window, he said, “Thank you again, Miss Daly. For earlier.”

  She finished tying her bonnet and looked up at his face. “You’re welcome.”

  “Tomorrow—let me know what the word is, either way. I’ll help however I can.”

  She nodded. “Good night, Mr. Nolan.”

  “Good night.”

  She made her way through the dimly lit streets back to the Chronicle. Inside, she breathed in the smell of metal and ink, surveying the empty floor. It felt like an age since she’d last been here.

  Up on the third floor, she went to Spencer’s room and tapped her knuckles lightly against the door. There was a part of her that didn’t want him to answer, to have this night go on, and in the morning, everything to be as it was.

  Spencer opened the door. He was in his nightclothes, but something about his face, the sharpness of his gaze, told her he hadn’t been asleep. “Catherine.” His voice was half a whisper. “Where have you been?”

  Rather than answer, she asked, “Did you speak with him?”

  “Yes.” He paused. In that silence, Catherine knew she wouldn’t like whatever he said next, but she willed her expression to keep from showing it. “Catherine, you should pack up. You oughtn’t be here when he comes in tomorrow.”

  She fixed her eyes on the hall wallpaper. “What—what did he say?”

  “Just what you already told me. He didn’t take kindly to me arguing the point, but here’s some luck for you—he’s having a meeting with Mr. Boyd tomorrow. I imagine he’ll be too distracted to think on much else.”

  Mr. Boyd was the proprietor of the new paper in the city, the Journal.

  Catherine picked at a curling seam in the wallpaper. It was below the gas light, and the stain there dirtied her fingertips. “What sort of meeting?”

  “I don’t know.” Spencer rubbed at the skin between his eyebrows, as if attempting to push back a headache. “I heard some people say Mr. Boyd wants to buy the paper from him—or a share of it. I don’t know,” he said again.

  “Right.” She dropped her hand from the wall. “Well, I’m going to bed, then. I doubt I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Catherine, I’m sorry.” He put a hand on the doorknob. She thought, oddly, for an instant, he was going to swing the door shut in her face. Instead, he bit down on his lip and added, “Just… keep away for a while. This will sort itself out, I’m sure.”

  A little ways down the hall, she turned back. “Thank you for trying, Spencer.” She held his gaze in the dim. “Don’t think this was your fault.”

  In her own room, she closed the door behind her, and across the small space, Bridget didn’t stir from sleep. Catherine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness; she washed up with water from the ewer and slipped on her nightgown. As she got into bed, her foot hit the box beneath it, the letters from her family tucked inside. She’d have to remember to pack those in her trunk. Pulling up the blankets, she turned to face the wall, listening to the muffled sounds of the city beyond the window.

  It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CATHERINE STOPPED at the corner before the watchmaker’s shop. It was a gray morning, a fine mist hanging in the air; she wore her coat and bonnet, her grip tight around her battered trunk. From here, she could see the green shopfront. A carriage rolled past, momentarily obscuring her view.

  She made a start down the street. As she neared, the kitchen curtain twitched, the window was pushed open, and Guy Nolan leaned out of it.

  “Hello, Miss Daly!”

  Her heart thrilled, warmed, at the gladness in his voice.

  She said, “Good morning, Mr. Nolan.”

  He folded his arms over the sill. Tipping his head to the side, he regarded her with a slight smile. The cuffs of his shirt were unfastened, his cravat loose about his neck. Then he appeared to take note of the trunk she carried, and his smile fell away. “My father’s in the shop,” he told her. “I’ll be down in a minute.” He ducked back inside, sliding the window closed.

  She walked into the shop to find Henry Nolan behind the counter, cloth in hand, polishing one of the many clocks on the wall. He paused to look in her direction. “Good morning, Miss Daly. It is Miss Daly, isn’t it? I heard Guy upstairs.”

  “Yes. Good morning, Mr. Nolan.”

  Like Guy, Henry wore spectacles. He took them off, put them in his trouser pocket, and set his cloth on the counter. There was a marked resemblance between father and son. They had the same fall of dark hair, the same angular features, though Henry’s eyes were blue, not brown, with fine lines at the corners of them, his hair graying at the temples.

  Just then, Guy came down the back staircase. He looked more put together than he had at the window, his cravat tied and centered. “Father,” he said, “might I have a moment to speak with Miss Daly?”

  Henry glanced over, meeting his gaze. “Very well.” He went into the back room without closing the door, so Catherine still saw him at the desk, opening a drawer in search of something.

  Guy turned to her. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Why do you have that trunk with you?”

  “I need somewhere safe to put it.” She adjusted her grip, holding the trunk out to him. “I can’t go back to the newspaper at the moment, and I thought—I wondered if I might keep it here? For now?”

  “Of course.” Guy blinked, looked down, and took the luggage in his arms. “It’ll be quite safe here. I’ll store it upstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  When he returned, they stood together at the front window, whispering. The glass was fogged, streaked with condensation. The street beyond it was a hazy impression of watery sunlight and brown buildings; the people passing by were made into shadows, black cloaks flapping in the wind like raven wings.

  Catherine asked, “Where is Mr. Smith?”

  “Fernh
ill Park. At least, I hope so. I had to bring him there earlier, before my father woke up.” Guy tugged a little at his cravat. “Will you wait for me? I can be out of here in fifteen minutes or so.”

  Waiting on the corner, she watched coaches rattle past, horses stamping their hooves, people heading in and out of shops along the street. The door to the watchmaker’s shop opened, and Guy stepped out in his dark coat and hat. He glanced at his pocket watch before tucking it away, then looked up, caught sight of her, and made his way over.

  “What’s happened, then?” he asked.

  Catherine told him the whole of it. Altogether, there wasn’t much to tell. Without the timepiece, she couldn’t return to the Chronicle. Without the timepiece, she was without a job.

  “Oh, Miss Daly,” Guy said in sympathy. “If you need somewhere to stop tonight, you’re more than welcome back at our place.”

  She was rather hoping she might find the timepiece by tonight. Yet the more she thought on it, the more distant the possibility seemed to her.

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Nolan.”

  Patting his coat pocket, he said, “I’ve a note to drop off for Sydney about this business. He’ll ask around at the university.” They paused at the sidewalk’s edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. “There’s also a watchmaker across town who’s a friend of my father’s. He may know something. We could visit him, if you’d like. Someone made this timepiece, after all.”

  Catherine looked over. “That seems a fine idea.”

  He grinned.

  After crossing the street, she added, “I’d like to go back to the cemetery, too.”

  “Oh.” Guy hesitated. “Yes. Of course.”

  She recalled last night: how they’d run through the dark, the flash of the watchman’s light, the terror in Guy’s expression as the man took him by the collar and pressed a gun to his skin.

  “It’ll be quite safe in the day,” she went on. “I can manage perfectly well on my own. And I doubt Mr. Smith is interested in going back.”