Trinket let out a sigh as she watched what she hoped was an imaginary worm wriggle its way out of the severed hand lying on the workbench before her.

It couldn't be real.

Right?

After all, the woman hadn't appeared to have been dead for all that long. Her body hadn't even begun to smell. Being filled with maggots was unlikely.

Ignoring the worm, Trinket examined the hand more closely. She leaned down and wrinkled her nose at the sight of its flaking skin. Granted, it wasn't the first severed limb she'd seen. Since becoming Booker's assistant, she'd witnessed the removal of many a body part.

However, this was the first hand she'd seen with webbed fingers.

"So kind of our dear constable to allow us to take home a keepsake from our examination, no?" Booker said as he trotted down the laboratory stairs.

Frowning, Trinket glanced over her shoulder. "Can it really be said he allowed it when you got your wife to distract him while you cut the hand off the corpse and then had her smuggle it back home so you could perform a fake autopsy?"

Booker grinned and leaned against the operating table. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"But couldn't it cause problems with the investigation? What if they think the poor woman's missing hand is a clue to who killed her?"

"I highly doubt consumption can take a person's hand."

Trinket furrowed her brow. "Consumption?"

He nodded. "That's the conclusion I came to."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, "Are you sure?"

Feigning hurt, Booker laid a hand on his chest. "My dear, are you suggesting I fabricated a cause of death simply to suit my own needs?"

She raised an eyebrow.

Laughing softly, he pushed himself away from the table and joined her at the workbench. "You know me far too well, my dearest Trinket." He kissed her cheek and then set his eyes on the hand. "But lucky for me, this time I had no reason to lie. The woman did indeed succumb to consumption."

"Then if there was no suspicion of foul play, why did Jewkes call you in to do an autopsy?"

"Likely still spooked from Benedict's little game. I mean, you have to admit, it is quite reminiscent of his work."

This was true. The webbing between the fingers was very similar to some of Benedict's experiments. Jewkes had good reason to worry this could be the beginning of another morbid scavenger hunt.

"Anyhow," Booker said as he went to fetch an empty glass jar from one of the shelves lining the walls, "we'd best get to work preserving this beauty."

"Didn't Jewkes wonder what happened to her hand?"

"He was too relieved to learn there wasn't a mad scientist running around the city performing ungodly surgeries to notice." He gave her a wink and set the jar on the workbench. "One mad scientist is enough for the old man."

Trinket pulled down the formaldehyde from another shelf. "And when he does realize it's gone?"

"Our bobby friend will surely cover up the missing appendage for his two favorite denizens."

Placing the strong-smelling container beside the hand, Trinket again raised an eyebrow at Booker.

He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to plant another kiss on her cheek. "Well, for his least favorite denizen's long-suffering wife."

Suffer, suffer, suffer.

You only deserve to suffer.

You piece of—

Gritting her teeth, Trinket forced herself to push the voices into the background and smile up at Booker. "Ah, yes. Being married to you is quite possibly the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

His intoxicating eyes softened, and he shifted a bit, loosening his grip on her shoulder. "Speaking of being married, I—"

A loud knock came from the door. Trinket met Booker's gaze, and they sighed in unison before heading up the stairs.

Upon opening the laboratory door, they found Daphne standing in the hallway with a boy who couldn't have been older than ten. He was sporting a large gash in his forehead. Despite the blood trickling into his eyes, though, he was still managing to gawk at the glass portiums on Daphne's neck.

"What happened here?" Booker asked, taking the boy's face in his hands and turning it to get a better look.

Daphne shrugged and nodded at the injured lad.

"Accident, sir," the boy said, his curious gaze flickering back to Daphne.

"Well, I assumed you didn't purposely slice your head open," Booker said. "Here, use this to stay the bleeding."

He pulled out his oil-stained handkerchief and pressed it firmly to the boy's head. The blood quickly began to saturate the cloth, coating the boy's fingers as he tried to hold it in place.

"I'm going to fetch my bag," Booker said to Trinket. "Help him into the parlour, will you?"

She nodded and guided the boy over to the settee. Keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder, she took a seat beside him. Daphne, who'd disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a clean rag and carefully replaced Booker's now-red handkerchief with it.

"Did someone do this to you?" Trinket asked.

The boy's eyes followed Daphne as she slipped through the dining-room door with the sullied handkerchief. "Do what?" he asked, staring at the closed door in anticipation.

"Cut your head open. You said it was an accident, correct?"

He blinked and finally turned his gaze to her. "Huh? Oh, right. Um, yeah, sort of."

"Sort of? How does someone sort of hurt you?"

"All right, let's get you stitched up," Booker said as he entered the parlour with his medical bag in hand.

He knelt before the injured boy and got to work cleaning the wound with alcohol. The boy winced and squeezed his eyes shut, but he commendably did not shrink away.

"So, you were explaining to my partner how this happened?" Booker said as he lit a candle.

"Hm? Oh. Well, my friend and me, we were playing a game."

"What kind of game could end with someone's head being sliced open?" Trinket asked in horror.

"Oh, now, my dear, it's not that unheard of for children his age to engage in some roughhousing," Booker said, passing a needle through the flame of the candle.

Trinket gave him a withering glare. "Beg pardon, Mr. Larkin, but your childhood is probably not the best touchstone to go by. Most children don't attempt surgery on their playmates."

Booker opened his mouth to object but quickly closed it and gave a sheepish grin.

"But that's what we were doing," the boy interrupted.

Both Trinket and Booker snapped their attention to him. "Pardon?" Booker said, his hands poised to thread the needle.

"Well, we weren't really trying to cut each other open. We were playing numbered corpses."

Trinket grimaced. "Numbered corpses?"

The boy nodded and sent blood flying onto the settee. "Yeah, see, I was the numbered corpse, and my friend, Josh, was the madman. He was only supposed to pretend to carve a number into my head, but then there was this gunshot and his hand slipped and . . . well . . ."

He motioned to the gash that was again bleeding rather profusely. Trinket cast Booker a disapproving frown and picked up the blood-stained rag on the table. As she cleaned the boy's face, Booker doused another rag with some ether. When she was finished with the cut, she traded the bloody cloth for the drug-laced one, and Booker offered an apologetic wince. She shook her head, unable to keep an amused smile from tugging at her lips.

"Now, this is something to help ease the pain while Mr. Larkin sews you up," she explained as she sat beside the boy once more. "It'll make your head feel a tad fuzzy, though. Is that all right?"

He gave a slight nod.

"Good." Trinket placed the rag over his mouth and nose. "Just breathe in slowly."

He took several deep breaths, and when Trinket was sure he'd inhaled enough of the drug to prevent any extreme pain, she removed the cloth and set it on the table. Booker then approached, needle at the ready, and got to work sewing up the wound. Trinket watched with fascination as his nimble fingers wove tiny stitches into the boy's skin. No matter how much she practiced, she doubted she would ever be as skilled as he was. The sloppy pillow covers in her childhood home were proof of her lack of talent.

"There," Booker said, sitting back to admire his work. "Almost good as new."

Trinket wiped some stray specks of blood from the boy's cheek with her sleeve while Booker poured a bit of honey into a small vial. He handed the vial to the boy and then rose to his feet.

"You'll want to apply that twice a day," he said as he and Trinket saw the boy to the front door. "I recommend returning in two days so I can be sure no infection is setting in."

The boy nodded slowly, gazing down at the honey. "Thank you, sir. Here, I don't have much, but—"

Booker held up a hand to stop the boy as he dug through his pockets. "No need. Just promise me you won't try to replicate any more gruesome scenes. Tinkerfall is exciting enough without children playing at butcher."

Nodding again, the boy gave a toothy smile. "Thank you, sir. Really, thank you."

He scampered outside, and Booker closed the door behind him. He then turned to Trinket and grimaced.

"Quite charitable of you, Mr. Larkin," she said.

"Well, I figured since it was partly my fault, it would've been wrong to charge him."

Trinket wrapped her arms around his waist and grinned up at him. "Such progress."

He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now, I believe before we were interrupted, I—"

The bell went off, and Booker let out an exasperated sigh. He didn't even have a moment to remove himself from Trinket's embrace before there was a second ring, soon to be followed by a frantic pounding.

"Good Lord, I'm coming, I'm coming," he said, making his way to the door with Trinket on his heels.

There were two people on the steps: a petite, tanned young woman and a burly, pasty man who she was holding up. "He's dead!" the girl cried out as she stumbled inside. "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead!"

She tripped over her feet and lost her grip on the allegedly dead fellow, causing him to land face-first on the floor. Bursting into tears, the girl fell to her knees and sobbed over the prone body, hiccuping words Trinket couldn't understand.

"My dear, if you want me to assist you, you're going to have to move," Booker said, raising his voice to be heard over the girl's hysterics.

Trinket helped her onto her feet and put an arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea while Mr. Larkin examines your friend?"

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead," the girl sobbed, still staring at the man on the floor. "He's dead and it's all my fault. It's all my fault, it's all my fault!"

"I'm sure it's not your fault. If—"

"It was the stew. I know it was. I told him I'm an awful cook, but he wouldn't listen. Lord, I killed him!"

Daphne approached and wrinkled her brow at Trinket. Shrugging, Trinket turned back to the girl who was now hyperventilating. "Listen, I've made my fair share of bad stews, and no one's died yet. I'm certain—"

"He's not dead," Booker said as he got to his feet after examining the girl's companion. "He's drunk."

"Drunk?" the girl repeated, running her sleeve under her nose.

"Quite," Booker said. He paced into the parlour to fetch a small bottle from his bag and then returned to the foyer. "This should give him a little jolt."

Jolt!

The Jar!

He's going to electrocute him!

Trinket gave her head a quick shake. She knew Booker was not in possession of the torturous device Elysium had used on her and the other patients. The voices were just being ridiculous again.

Kneeling beside the inebriated fellow, Booker uncapped the bottle and waved it beneath his nose. It only took a few seconds for the previously unconscious man to give something between a sneeze and a cough. His chest heaved, and he struggled to sit up.

"Sir?" Booker said as the man looked around in a daze. "How much did you have to drink tonight?"

The man blinked sluggishly and parted his lips as if to respond. But instead of words, an impressive amount of vomit projected from his mouth. Booker just barely ducked out of the way.

"Bloody . . ." He checked his jacket for any stray chunks of stew as he muttered curses under his breath. "Should've thought about that before pulling out the smelling salts. Not the first time this has happened after using them."

An acidic stink filled the room. Gagging, Trinket covered her nose with her blood-stained sleeve and turned away from the retching man.

"Sir, if you—"

The young woman cut Booker off as she pushed past him and ran towards her companion. Booker nearly slipped in a puddle of puke, but Trinket managed to catch him.

"You lying sack of—gah!" The girl rained blows upon the sick man's head. "You swore you wouldn't touch that swill again! You swore, you vile piece of—"

Her angry words only seemed to induce more vomit from the man. Booker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose while Trinket buried her face in his shoulder to shield herself from the awful stench. Daphne had disappeared once more but soon came hurrying down the hall with a bucket of water and an armful of rags.

"You rotten, dirty, nasty—"

Another stream of vomit splattered against the wall. A large chunk of what might have been potato or parsnip stuck to the coat rack.

Booker cursed and closed his eyes.

"Ah, sir, madam?" Trinket said, taking shallow breaths as she stepped forward. "Now that it's clear no one is dead, perhaps we could take this little domestic dispute outside? It's getting a tad crowded in here."

They didn't seem to notice her, but she persisted nonetheless. Carefully skirting the puddles of vomit, she leaned over them and opened the door.

"Really, I think this would be an argument best settled at home," she tried again.

When they still showed no signs of hearing her, she took a deep breath and pushed at them with the tip of her boot. The man was rather heavy, but the girl was easily toppled. Her rage, though, seemed to give her unusual strength. She gripped the man's shirt and dragged him out with her as she rolled onto the front steps.

Quickly closing the door, Trinket let out a relieved breath and leaned against the stair railing. Daphne lost no time swooping in to clean up the mess,and laying down rags so Trinket could tiptoe her way back to Booker.

"Blood I can do," he said as he took Trinket into his arms. "Viscera? No problem. Severed limbs? Easy. But vomit? That's where I draw the line."

"Squeamish, are we?"

He chuckled and nodded towards the laboratory. "Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less . . . vomity."

"Is that a technical term?"

Leaning in with a playful smile, he said, "I wouldn't want the overwhelming stench in the foyer to distract you from what I—"

The front bell cut off his words. Throwing his head back dramatically, he gave a long groan. "That seems to happen a lot, doesn't it?" Trinket said as Daphne scrambled to her feet.

"It's like someone is orchestrating interruptions just to keep us apart," Booker grumbled.

Trinket laughed. "Isn't that a little paranoid? To think some otherworldly being is manipulating events to prevent us from enjoying a few romantic moments together?"

"Doctor Larkin?"

They turned towards the voice and found standing in the half-cleaned foyer a rosy-cheeked woman anxiously wringing her hands.

"Yes?" Booker responded, his tone laced with impatience.

"Grace told me you might be able to help me."

"Do you need medical assistance?"

"Ah, yes?"

"Then you've come to the right place. Unfortunately."

"Booker," Trinket hissed, elbowing him the side.

"What is it I can do for you, my dear?" Booker asked the woman.

She swallowed hard before responding in a stage whisper, "It's a personal problem."

"Most medical complaints are."

"Of the female variety."

Booker paled.

"See, I've gots this strange rash on my—"

"Doctor!" shouted a young man with a mop of bright red hair as he rushed through the open door.

"Oh, thank heavens," Booker mumbled. "Can I help you, sir?"

The red-headed lad held up his hand, which was drenched in blood. His index finger was hanging on by only a few threads of muscle and skin.

"Can you fix this?" he asked.

"I can try," Booker said, taking a step towards him. He glanced at the woman, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Ah, madam, would your . . . ailment, be able to wait until—"

"Daphne and I can take care of you, madam," Trinket said, putting an arm around the woman's shoulders. "But why don't we go somewhere more private?"

"Are you sure, Trinket?" Booker asked.

Leading the patient to the stairs with Daphne close behind, Trinket nodded and winked at Booker. "Daphne's more than capable. Besides, I know vomit isn't the only thing that makes you squeamish."

He let out a sigh of obvious relief. "What would I do without you, my dear?"

"Most likely die of embarrassment."

Flashing her an amused grin, Booker turned to the bleeding young man and motioned towards the laboratory. "Come, my good sir. Let's see what we can do about that finger."

Trinket smiled and set her attention on her own patient as they continued up the stairs. "So you said you know Grace?"

By the time Trinket and Daphne were finished tending to the woman's rash and cleaning up the foyer, Booker was guiding his patient out of the laboratory.

"Watch it for infection," he said to the young man, who seemed a little dazed. "Come back in a day or two so I can see how it's healing. If the reattachment doesn't take, we can discuss other options."

"Thank you, Doctor," the red-headed lad said as he stepped outside.

Booker gave a polite nod and closed the door before letting out a long, heavy sigh. He turned to Daphne and Trinket and raised his eyebrows. "Just another day in the life of the Larkins," he said.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way," Trinket said, taking his hand and tugging him towards her.

"How did your patient fare?"

"Do you really want to hear all the intimate, itchy details?"

He blushed and cleared his throat. "Right, never mind. At least I know she was in good hands."

Daphne waved to catch their attention and then gestured down the hall to the kitchen while rubbing her stomach.

"Oh, Daphne, you've done more than enough tonight," Trinket said. "We can fend for ourselves with dinner."

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, Daphne headed into her domain, likely to make them something divinely delicious.

"Come on," Trinket said, pulling Booker over to the laboratory door. "We still have that hand to take care of."

"Always work with you," he teased as she led him down the stairs.

"Well, you can't just leave body parts lying all over the place, Mr. Larkin. It's unseemly."

As they reached the last step, Booker spun her around and caught her lips. It took her by surprise, but she happily sank into his embrace and deepened the kiss, a delightful electricity coursing through her veins. When they finally parted, she smiled up at him and stroked the back of his neck with her thumb.

"I didn't realize preserving severed limbs put you in such a romantic mood," she said.

"I've never been very good at romance," he said. "And tonight has made that incredibly clear."

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

Taking a step back, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small box. "But I suppose I didn't have all that much control over our patients' timing. So before that blasted bell goes off again, here."

He placed the box in her hands, and it was then that she realized it was, in fact, a ring box. Casting him a confused glance, she opened it up and gasped.

Inside was a silver band with a single pearl set in the center. Three tiny brass gears framed the jewel, as if petals on some bizarre mechanical flower. It was like nothing she'd ever seen.

"Booker, what—"

"I did tell you this was only temporary," he said as he took her left hand and removed her simple wedding band. "Someone as beautiful and brilliant as you deserves a ring to match."

Sliding the new ring onto her finger, he placed a tender kiss on her knuckles. Her heart fluttered, and the pearl glinted in the low light, as if winking at the man who had made it bloom so sensationally.

"Do you like it?" Booker asked softly.

She continued to gaze down at the ring. Words could not properly convey how deeply she loved it. It was strange and beautiful and everything that encompassed their partnership.

It was eccentrically perfect.

"I do," she said at last, clearing her throat to rid herself of the tears welling up in her eyes. She turned her face up to him and smiled. "But not nearly as much as the man who created it."

Grabbing hold of his shirt collar, she pulled him close and kissed him again, relishing in the way his arms snaked about her waist to draw her nearer. After a long moment, they parted slightly, noses still touching. Booker released a satisfied breath.

"Mr. Larkin?" Trinket whispered.

He toyed with a loose strand of her hair. "Yes, my dear?"

"That hand isn't going to preserve itself."

A smile spread over his face as he chuckled. "Only you would choose a severed limb over jewelry."

Lacing her fingers with his, she led him over to the workbench where the webbed hand was waiting. "Are you complaining?"

They stationed themselves in front of the bench. Trinket handed Booker the formaldehyde and raised an eyebrow. He accepted it and leaned down to place a kiss on her temple.

"Never," he whispered.