by Kelly Powell
After she’d sat down, Owen said, “I’ve been thinking over this plan of yours and I’ve decided I do not like it one jot.”
Guy turned a page of his newspaper. He said, “It’s a fine plan. And we’re doing it. We’re only having a look around. The police ought to be scouring the place.” He shifted his gaze to Catherine and offered her a smile. Like Owen, he was neatly dressed. His dark cravat was tied sharply, his waistcoat free of wrinkles. His eyes were a little clearer, not as haunted as they had looked in the night. “Good morning, Catherine.”
“Good morning.” She poured herself a cup of tea, adding milk to it.
Owen said, “This person is a murderer. You need to be careful.”
“We’ll be safe as houses,” Guy replied. “No one will even know we’re there. I’ll hold time still long enough for us to search properly. If we find the arsenic used, or the timepiece, we can bring them to the police.”
Owen ducked his head, staring into his teacup. He hadn’t touched it, and from what Catherine could tell, he hadn’t eaten anything, either. “But what if you don’t come back?” His voice was a half whisper. “What if something happens?”
“Oh, Owen,” said Catherine, not unkindly. “Nothing will happen.”
Guy took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Perhaps I should come with you.” Owen swallowed, fidgeting with a handkerchief on the table. “I could help.”
“No.” Guy’s tone brooked no argument. “If you come along, you’re one more person I have to extend my magic over. The fewer people there, the better.”
In the back room, he found a watch to use, marking the case with a spot of his blood and fitting in the winding key. Catherine watched as he wound it, but it wasn’t like before. Guy took out the key, and time halted—then continued on. He wound the watch again. Once everything was still, Guy looked to her, his eyes glassy with tiredness.
“How long do we have?” she asked.
“Two hours.” The watch slipped from his grasp, landing on the floor with a thud, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead as Catherine moved to pick it up. “That ought to be enough time, yes?”
“Are you well?”
He closed his eyes. “I feel strange.”
Catherine reached out, taking his hand. “You should’ve gotten more rest. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Guy nodded tightly. The memory of the last time he’d used his magic hung between them unsaid. Out on the street, Catherine tried not to look too closely at those she passed, fixed as they were midstep, suspended in a single moment. As they turned the corner, the print shop just ahead, Guy faltered.
“Catherine,” he said. “What if there’s nothing to find?”
If there was nothing to find, then Guy had lost memories to no purpose. His face was pale, and he was shaking as if he were cold, though the wind remained still along with everything else.
“We’ll find something. I know it.” And she hoped by saying so, she made it true.
The way to the Chronicle was murky with fog, heavy with silence. Catherine could usually hear the wash of the river this close to it, but the tide was unmoving, boats stationary in the water.
She opened the door to the print shop and stepped inside.
Across the way, she saw Bridget at her desk, alongside others she knew. Their heads were bent, hands motionless around composing sticks, fingers paused in the act of reaching for type. Catherine glanced over at Guy. He closed the door slowly, his tone uncertain as he said, “Where do we look first?”
“Upstairs.” She bit her lip. “Are you all right?”
He nodded without meeting her gaze. She made out a muffled ticking, and Guy drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was still counting down the minutes, the time that continued to elapse for them.
“Mr. Carlyle’s room is on the third floor,” she told him.
They started upstairs, and in the timeless silence, Catherine was all too aware of her own footfalls, the creak of each step, the pounding of her heart. They came to Spencer’s door, and she opened it, only to find the room empty.
“Oh, good,” said Guy. “He’s not here.”
Catherine shook her head. “The timepiece could be on his person.”
“Might he be somewhere else in the building?”
“Perhaps. I didn’t notice him on the print floor.”
He must’ve returned here sometime in her absence—where his desk was clear the day before, now there were papers across it, a few pens, a pot of ink, alongside one of Ainsworth’s ledgers. Catherine flipped it open, paging through it.
Guy opened a cabinet and surveyed its sparse contents. There were knickknacks, but no watches. Looking back at the desk, Catherine pulled open the first drawer.
Envelopes, paper for correspondence. She tried the second, but the timepiece wasn’t there, either. Fear crept into her heart. What if someone else had it? Someone they hadn’t considered.
In the third drawer, she found a plain vial, half full, a cork stopper in place. She lifted it out carefully and showed it to Guy. The label had been torn, but Catherine didn’t need one, for what she also found in the drawer was a timepiece, the crystal cracked across the front. It was an old pocket watch, tarnished silver. She took hold of it and brought it out into the light.
“Yes,” said Guy. “That’s it.”
And then he frowned. Removing the watch from his own pocket, he stared down at the face of it, a crease marking his brow. He snapped his attention to the window. “Oh dear.”
An instant later, Catherine understood his alarm. The distinct clatter of the presses echoed up from the print floor, work continuing downstairs. The stillness of Guy’s magic had fallen away, and Catherine recalled the way time jarred to a halt before carrying on at the watchmaker’s shop.
“I can wind it again,” said Guy. “I can—it won’t take a moment.” He dug into his pocket, presumably in search of the winding key.
Out in the hall, the stairs groaned under footsteps.
They hadn’t even thought to close the door.
“Guy,” Catherine said, and it was a whisper, a breath.
He looked back at her, the panic in his eyes clear as glass. “Let’s leave,” he said. “We can just—”
Spencer Carlyle appeared in the doorway. He paused at the sight of them, blinking, bringing one hand to rest on the frame. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. He took care doing so, but he may as well have slammed it shut, the way Catherine’s pulse jumped.
His voice was careful too.
“Catherine.” His gaze flickered over her, before landing on Guy. “Mr. Nolan. What are you doing in here?”
Catherine gripped the vial, the pocket watch clutched in her other hand. She showed the vial to Spencer, trying her best to keep her voice steady as she asked, “Why do you have this?”
Spencer let out a weary sigh. “Catherine—”
“You poisoned Mr. Nolan? Mr. Ainsworth?”
He regarded her, a dangerous shine to his blue eyes. Tipping his chin in Guy’s direction, he said, “Did he tell you that timepiece belonged to his father? A boy was killed to work its magic, and Mr. Nolan let it happen.”
Beside her, Guy flinched.
“He didn’t know,” said Catherine softly. “He didn’t know until it was done. We only learned of it recently.” She put the timepiece and the vial away in her coat pocket, not taking her eyes off Spencer. “You stole it from Mr. Nolan’s shop, didn’t you? Why?”
Spencer didn’t answer at once. He stood blocking the way to the door, and all Catherine could think was:
How are we to get out?
“That timepiece is valuable, Catherine. Mr. Ainsworth made a bit of coin from the farewell service, but this—this magic—is what people truly want. How much would someone pay to bring those dearest to them back to life?”
Catherine took a shuddering breath, chancing a look over at Guy. His face was ashen, and in his still
ness he seemed almost fixed in place by his own magic, one of his hands still tucked in the pocket of his coat.
“Spencer,” Catherine said, turning back. “You need to let us leave.”
“Need to?” He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, yes, so you may take the timepiece and do whatever you please with it.”
Her jaw clenched. For two years, she’d lived under the same roof as him, spoke with him as easily as her fellow printers. She did not know how to align the Spencer she knew with the one standing before her now. “I’m not giving it to you,” she said. “No one ought to use it.”
“Catherine.” He extended a hand, palm up. “I can’t let you leave. I can’t let either of you leave. I know you well enough to know you’ll take this to the police.”
“You killed two people, Spencer.”
He stepped closer, and Catherine drew back, pressing up against the desk.
“Mr. Carlyle,” said Guy. His breathing was a little short, but his voice held firm. “You cannot… You cannot kill us in this room. It would be too difficult to hide our bodies. We’ll leave the watch and the vial. We’ll take no evidence.”
Catherine stared, wide-eyed. How could they do such a thing?
But then Spencer said, “I can’t take that chance. You know what I’ve done.”
Guy didn’t waver. He held Spencer’s gaze and told him, “My magic could be of use to you.” His voice was quiet, serious. “Let Miss Daly leave, and I’ll give you time to gather your things and go.” From his pocket, he took out his watch and winding key.
Spencer considered him. Catherine curled her fingers around the desk’s edge, unsure of what Guy was doing. She looked over, but his eyes remained fixed on Spencer. He slotted the key into the watch and continued. “It’s a fine offer, Mr. Carlyle. You’d do well to take it.”
Eyes narrowed, Spencer said, “It’s a fine offer, indeed. But I don’t know you, Mr. Nolan. How am I to trust you’ll keep your word?”
And, finally, in that moment, Guy’s eyes flitted to Catherine. His grip tightened around his watch and key, and she realized what he meant to do. Glancing back at Spencer, he said grimly, “I suppose you can’t.”
He closed his eyes. He wound the watch at a swift pace, his magic unfolding—until silence fell, settling like a sudden frost.
Spencer stood just as he was. His eyes were wide, his mouth open as though he were caught midprotest.
Guy let out a breath of laughter. He stumbled back a step and knelt, clutching his watch to his chest. He looked to Catherine with a grin, tears shining in his eyes. “I wasn’t sure that would work.”
“Oh, Guy.”
He scrubbed at his tears with the back of one hand. “Do you have the timepiece?”
She nodded. Pulling herself away from the desk, she took out the pocket watch. It was an ordinary, dull silver, its casing scratched.
Guy straightened up. “And what about Mr. Carlyle?”
They looked over at him. Despite his still expression, there was a harshness to it, a stark light in his pale gaze.
“I believe there’s some rope in the kitchen,” said Catherine. “We can restrain him.”
She stepped out into the hall, Guy following just behind. He shut the door, and at the click of the bolt, the finality of it, Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. She put her arms around him, and he leaned his head upon her shoulder, holding on to her. She felt him shaking, the rapid beat of his heart. Tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Guy whispered, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” And though it was the truth, she choked on the word. “Are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Catherine supposed they hadn’t much time, but Guy said nothing of it. The two of them stood, embracing each other in the dimly lit hall, quiet, everything around them still.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TIME RECOMMENCED JUST before they reached the police station. Guy leaned against the building, his eyes drifting shut, the shadows beneath them noticeable. They blinked open when Catherine took his hand.
“Come,” she said. “We can’t stand out here in the cold.”
Inside, there was a lobby wallpapered in dark green. A line of chairs was set against the wall, thin-cushioned and hard-backed, but Guy dropped into one without complaint, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, closing his eyes again.
Catherine said softly, “I’ll speak with the police, Guy. You wait here, all right?”
When he made no reply, she realized he’d fallen asleep.
The secretary at the desk directed her to a detective sergeant, who sent out a few constables to collect Spencer at the print shop. He then led her down a dimly lit hallway, into his office, where she sat in an armchair across from his desk.
She told him the whole of the situation. She spoke haltingly, her voice sounding too high to her ears, but the sergeant remained patient as she explained. The task Mr. Ainsworth had given her, the suddenness of his death, followed by Henry Nolan’s, and her suspicion of Spencer Carlyle. She continued on, telling him how she and Guy had found the timepiece in Spencer’s room, along with the vial of arsenic. She set the vial on his desk. It rolled a little, the substance inside shifting.
The sergeant clasped his hands atop his desk. His side-whiskers were trimmed neatly, his face pale and haggard in the lamplight. His dark eyes watched the vial of arsenic tip back and forth until it settled. “Miss Daly,” he said, “you should’ve come to us with this sooner, rather than put yourselves in harm’s way. We were aware of the arsenic poisoning in Mr. Ainsworth’s case, as with Mr. Nolan’s.”
“Yes, sir.” Truly, she wasn’t sure what else to say. Any argument she made would do her no favors.
The sergeant let out a sigh, rubbing at the lines across his forehead. “All right, Miss Daly. Thank you. I suggest you attend to Mr. Nolan now.”
Catherine nodded and hurried out of the room, returning to the lobby. Guy was awake, sitting up, and he smiled when he caught sight of her.
“I still have the timepiece,” she told him. “The sergeant didn’t ask for it.”
She passed it to him. He handled it with the utmost care, tucking it away in his coat.
She continued. “I gave him the vial of arsenic. He’s sent some constables to fetch Mr. Carlyle.”
Guy got to his feet, dusting himself off. “If they don’t need anything else, let’s be on our way. I’d rather not be here when they bring Mr. Carlyle in.” He made for the door, and out on the street, he held his arm out for her. “You were incredibly brave back there, Catherine.”
“As were you.”
Guy blushed. He said, “Well, I suppose,” and glanced over at the front window of the police station.
Catherine caught sight of her own reflection in the glass. There was nothing about her countenance to show she’d just faced a killer and escaped.
As they started in the direction of the watchmaker’s shop, Guy took out the timepiece. It was as Catherine had seen it in Spencer’s room, the pale silver flashing in the sunlight. “It’s empty,” said Guy. “I didn’t notice before, but I can feel the difference—there’s no magic left. Everyone thought this timepiece could bring back the dead when there was only ever enough magic for one life.” Placing the watch in his pocket, he let out a shaky breath. “I’m glad it was given back to Owen—it never should’ve been taken from him.”
They came to the shop, the CLOSED sign propped up in the door, the lamps inside burning low. Catherine felt a rush of relief at the sight of it, overwhelmed that they’d made it here. When they entered, Owen rushed out from the back room. “Oh, thank goodness,” he said. “What happened?”
Guy removed the timepiece from his coat. “Well, we’ve got this.”
Owen swallowed. When Guy passed him the watch, he turned it over in his hand, holding it a little away from himself. Giving it back, he said, “It’s true, then? Mr. Carlyle—did he—”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “We’ve just come from the polic
e station.”
Guy put aside his coat and hat before heading into the back room. Catherine and Owen followed, taking a seat on the sofa; Guy closed the door and sat down at the desk. The shop was quiet as it ever was—the sound of the clocks beyond the door accentuating the silence between the three of them.
It was Owen who spoke first. “I’m glad you’re both all right,” he said in a whisper. “I sat here all the while, waiting. Whatever we do with the timepiece, it matters not to me—I’m just glad you’re back safely.”
Catherine untied her bonnet and held it in her lap. She thought Guy ought to be resting after all the magic he’d done, but he seemed quite set on considering the timepiece. He placed his magnifier on his glasses, located a movement holder and the needle-fine tools he required.
“No one will be using the timepiece for anything,” said Guy. “There’s no magic to it anymore.” He set the watch into the movement holder, removing the cracked crystal from the face. “It was used up the moment you awoke from the grave, Owen.”
Owen ducked his head to stare down at his hands. “Mr. Carlyle did it all for naught then—poisoning Mr. Nolan and Mr. Ainsworth.”
Guy took off his spectacles. He set his eyes on the opposite wall, not looking at either of them. He said simply, “Yes.”
Owen made a soft, choked sound that pierced Catherine’s heart like an arrow. He said again, “I’m glad you’re all right,” and brought his knees to his chest, pressing his face against the fold of his arms. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Guy put the timepiece to one side of the desk, his movements slow and careful. Catherine got up from the sofa, standing beside his chair. The tools for watch repair were spaced neatly across the desk’s polished surface. In her mind’s eye, she saw her desk at the print shop—type in compartments of the case, the handwritten notes, her composing stick. She asked, “What shall we do with it?”
“I’ll keep it here,” replied Guy. “If the police come asking for it, they can have it.” He turned toward her, and she remembered his exhaustion, sitting in the station’s lobby.