One year later

Booker cursed under his breath as he drew his coat tighter, attempting to fend off the bitter cold. What a waste of a night that card game had been. While he'd won more money than he'd lost, he hadn't obtained what had brought him to the game in the first place: information.

Everyone in the city was talking about the Wolf. Stories were passed around at the Clocktower by bored servants and embellished with every telling. Plenty of folks claimed to have seen the creature, entertaining others with flowery descriptions of how terrifying its metal teeth were. Some even swore they'd been attacked. But there hadn't been any evidence behind the rumors. That is until a few days ago. When a body showed up, sliced and hacked to bits as if by a wild animal wielding a knife, the citizens of Tinkerfall realized that they had more than just a good horror story on their hands.

For all the rumors, though, Booker hadn't been able to fish out any new information during that night's card game. He had unfortunately not been present when the mutilated body was found. And considering the victim had been a small child, the police relented and allowed the family to bury the body rather than have it sit in the mortuary for inspection. They wrote it off as an accident, though Booker had to wonder what kind of accident could have sliced a young child up to bits. More than likely, the police believed the Mice were involved and did not want to cause any more trouble by investigating further.

Hoping to find someone who had actually seen the body, Booker had been interrogating everyone he could. Alas, none of the urchins or shopkeepers or night flowers had gotten a look at it. Even the scum who attended the card games had no real input on the matter, though they still flapped their gums with theories on the beast:

A demon summoned from the depths of hellfire.

A pet escaped from a menagerie.

A clever ploy to cover up the heinous crimes of the Dead Mice.

But Booker believed otherwise. This was no supernatural being or household creature or even a made-up story. No, the brilliance and brutality of a wolf with metal teeth echoed the creations of a genius yet slightly mad young man in an orphanage.

Benedict.

It had to be him. He had to be the creator of this monstrous wolf. But why had it shown up in Tinkerfall? Well, to Booker, it seemed obvious: because Tinkerfall was where he resided. Benedict was too clever to not be able to track him down. So if this mutant wolf had suddenly shown up in the little city that Booker called home, it could only mean that Benedict was here, too, and was trying to get his attention.

The thought filled Booker with excitement and a bit of anxiety. Benedict was here. After all these years, Benedict wanted him back in his life. Or at least, that's what he assumed. Why else would he go to all the trouble of releasing such a masterpiece into the city? To wreak havoc? No, Benedict wasn't like the Mice who enjoyed chaos for chaos' sake. He was far more methodical than that. If he had released the Wolf, he'd done it with the intention of announcing his presence to Booker and testing how far he'd come in his studies and pursuits.

And Booker would not let his old friend down. He would make him proud. And then he would prove to him how he had surpassed him in both genius and inventiveness.

But first he had to find the blasted creature.

The snow was coming down in thick flurries, and he had to squint against the white flakes to even see where he was going. As he trudged home, something caught his attention. It was a strange sound, like metal clashing against metal. Stopping in his tracks, he glanced about, trying to find the source of the noise. And then there was a second sound, this one low and guttural, like a dog growling.

His heart skipped a beat as his eyes happened upon the hazy outline of a person standing in an alley. Just beyond them was a strange flash of light, as if the glow from the nearby gaslamps was reflecting off of something.

Something metallic.

His fingers twitched, and he licked his chapped lips. Could he be so fortunate? Was he about to witness a Wolf attack firsthand? It seemed so, for even though the creature in the alley continued to snarl and growl and snap its jaws, the lone figure proceeded into the darkness. Booker furrowed his brow. What sort of mad person would willingly walk towards certain death?

Then there was a cry, and the figure stumbled back. Somehow this snapped Booker out of his daze. He raced over to the scene of the attack, though nearly blinded by the gusts of wind blowing snow into his eyes. When he got closer to the entrance of the alley, he realized that the brave individual was a young woman in an oversized men's coat and ill-fitting boots. Her long, blond hair was filthy and tangled, matching her gaunt and unbathed appearance. She was staring in disbelief at the snarling wolf before her, its teeth stained with the same blood that was dripping from a rather large gash in her leg.

Booker sidled up beside her and snaked his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to himself. She let out a gasp as she glanced up at him, her wide, blue eyes wandering up and down his face, as if she couldn't believe he was actually there.

"My dear, you seem to be in need of some assistance," he said, casting her a sidelong glance and a charming smile.

The young woman did not respond, but continued to stare at him suspiciously.

"Though I must say, I marvel at your bravery," he went on. "To approach such a beast as this is quite an act of fearlessness."

He motioned to the Wolf, and the young woman followed his gesture. The creature was still there, snarling and baring its metal teeth at them.

"You can see it, too?" she whispered, sounding almost relieved.

"Oh yes," he said, gazing at the Wolf eagerly. "I can see it clear as day."

As if on cue, the Wolf lunged at them, ready to strike again. But Booker was faster, pulling a pistol from his coat pocket and shooting at the beast. The Wolf released out a sharp cry as the bullet buried itself into the monster's flesh, causing it to stumble and fall.

Moving to take a closer look at the wounded animal, Booker was distracted when the young woman beside him suddenly spoke. "I think I should warn you, I believe I am about to faint."

She barely got the words out before her body went limp. He caught her, struggling not to slip on the thick layer of snow that had accumulated on the ground. With his attention on her, he almost didn't see the Wolf come barreling towards them. He managed to get them both out of the way so as not to be knocked over, but he hissed a curse as he watched the beast disappear into the snowy night.

Again, his eyes turned to the unconscious young woman in his arms. Her leg was bleeding badly, the massive blood loss likely the cause of her sudden fainting spell. She needed medical treatment quickly or she might not make it.

"Well, my dear," he said as he lifted her up with a grunt, "you chose the right arms to faint into."

~

Fortunately, Booker's house wasn't too far away, and despite the added weight in his arms, he was able to get the injured woman into the safety of his parlour in record time. After laying her down on the settee, he quickly tied a tourniquet around her leg to slow the bleeding. He checked her pulse to be sure she was still alive before rushing downstairs to retrieve his medical bag. It was imperative that he keep this girl alive. She was the first person he'd found who had seen the Wolf. There was no way he was going to lose such an important eyewitness.

As he returned to the parlour, he was startled to see the young woman awake and taking in her surroundings. She tore her eyes away from the fire that he had carelessly left going before heading out that night and focused her attention on him.

Booker flashed her a smile, pleased that she was indeed still alive. "Ah, you're awake. That wasn't a very long fainting spell."

He approached the settee and kneeled before the young woman, removing the needed tools to care for her injury. She watched him carefully as he laid each one on the low table.

"I was just about to take care of that nasty gash in your leg," he explained. He gestured to her injured limb. "May I?"

She nodded and pulled up the skirt of her dress to reveal the wound. It was still bleeding despite the tourniquet, but not nearly as much as before. Booker ran his hands over her leg, noticing the number of bruises on her pale skin but brushing them off as the remnants of a sad past. He examined the gash carefully. Jagged. Clean cut. Like a knife wound but wilder.

His eyes widened, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Absolutely fascinating," he mumbled to himself. Sitting up straight once more, he took up a wet cloth and began to clean the cut. "As I'm sure you're already well aware, you were not attacked by an ordinary wolf. That creature appeared to have—"

"Metal teeth," the young woman finished.

He raised his eyebrows, and a smile again tugged at his lips. "Yes. And to support that theory, your wound does not look like a typical dog bite. Or wolf bite in this case. It's far too clean. The beast's teeth sliced through your flesh like a knife through butter."

He gazed at the young woman excitedly, but she just stared at him blankly. He realized his excitement over the Wolf was likely not shared by the person who had been attacked by it.

Clearing his throat, he tossed the damp cloth onto the table. "Anyhow, I should probably stitch this up."

Picking up the bottle of ether, he poured a generous amount onto a rag and moved it towards the young woman's face. But as soon as he did, she recoiled from him, her eyes filled with panic. He pulled back a bit, surprised by her reaction. He furrowed his brow at the rag before returning his gaze to her.

"It's only ether. For the pain when I suture your leg."

Again, he moved towards her, but she plastered herself against the settee, her eyes wide with horror. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw her limbs twitch.

He lowered the rag. "Are you sure? It's going to hurt."

She shook her head until he sighed in defeat and placed the ether and rag back in his bag.

"As you wish," he said.

After lighting a candle, he picked up a needle and passed the pointed end through the flame several times. He then threaded it and bent over her leg, casting her a single worried look before stabbing it into her skin.

Amazingly, the young woman did not cry out in pain. He continued to steal anxious glances at her, finding her jaw clenched and her eyes squeezed closed. But there were no gasps or cries of anguish. Not even a stray tear. Her tolerance for pain was remarkable.

"Finished," he said only a minute or so later, cutting the thread and sitting back on his heels.

The young woman opened her eyes as her body visibly relaxed. She examined the stitches thoughtfully as he turned back to his tools.

"I'll apply some honey to stave off infection," he said, retrieving a jar from his bag. He laughed a bit as he removed the lid and stuck his fingers into the sticky substance. "You're the first person I've met who's refused anaesthetic. I've known grown men who wept even with ether. And with far less serious injuries."

The young woman bit her lip. "I don't like drugs."

"Clearly." Having finished coating her wound with a thin layer of honey, he began to gently but firmly wrap her leg with a bandage. "You're also unafraid of vicious wolves with otherworldly features. So unafraid that you willingly and unflinchingly walked into an alley where one such creature was cornered."

She shrugged.

"I haven't encountered such bravery in all my life," he said.

The young woman mumbled something under her breath.

He leaned towards her. "What was that?"

"You seem to know an awful lot about what happened before you arrived on the scene. Am I to understand that you watched from afar and did nothing as a young woman walked into certain death?"

Her bold reply brought a smile to his face. "I didn't do nothing. I interfered."

"Only after I had been attacked."

"Well, you seemed to have a handle on it."

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, neither of them willing to back down. Booker found he quite liked her subtly feisty nature. Letting out a laugh, he put his hand out to her. "The name is Booker Larkin."

The young woman glanced down at his hand and then back up at his face.

He wiggled his fingers. "This is generally the part where the other person takes the offered hand and introduces themselves with their given name."

Still, she would not move.

Lowering his hand, he tilted his head. "Not one for formalities? Well, I can appreciate that. How about just your name?"

The young woman pursed her lips together.

He grinned. "No? So it's the name you have an issue with. Very well. I won't pry. I'm sure you have your reasons for such secrecy. But I need to call you something, so it seems I'll have to come up with one for you. And let me warn you, I'm rubbish with names. Let's see."

He got up and paced about the room, examining the walls and mirrors and paintings, searching for some sort of inspiration. He'd never had to name something before. His mother's beau had not allowed animals in his home, and Booker had always been more interested in books than toys as a child. There had been the cat he and Benedict operated on back in the orphanage, but Frieda had been the one to name it. Booker would've just as well thrown the stupid creature back outside.

Then his eye caught on a few stray gears on the mantelpiece, pieces from one of his latest creations. He thought about the many devices he had stored away downstairs, which somehow brought back a memory from his days working with the clockmaker. A memory of how he would dig through the trash to find the bent and worn-out gears his master had deemed unusable. But with those same gears, Booker had been able to build his moving toys, like the ballerina Frieda had been so taken with. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing so broken that it couldn't still be useful. One only needed a little patience and a steady hand.

For some reason, this stuck in his head as he thought about the young woman sitting on his settee. A young woman who was unafraid of mutant wolves but terrified of ether. A young woman who was covered in bruises and could stomach pain in silence. Someone who carried herself with an air of elegance and class but wandered the streets in rags. There was something more to her, he was sure of it. Like those broken trinkets.

With this in mind, he returned to her. "So, my dear, because you refuse to give me your actual name, I am bestowing upon you a new one. From now on I shall refer to you as Trinket. Quite terrible, isn't it?"

The young woman stared at him wordlessly. He waited for a response, raising an eyebrow at her silence. Still, she refused to speak. Maybe he had been wrong about her? Maybe there wasn't more to her than what appeared to the eye. Maybe she was just a silly, careless damsel in distress. Nothing special or extraordinary about that.

Giving up, he went to head back down to the laboratory. But before he could take two steps, the young woman called out to him.

"Mr. Larkin. It's lovely to meet you. My name is Trinket."

He turned and smiled when he saw her extending her hand out towards him. Slowly pacing back to her, he took it and gave it a firm shake.

"A pleasure, Miss Trinket."

~

Trinket fell asleep shortly after introductions, before Booker could even bring her to one of the guestrooms. Perhaps it was for the best, though. Being without a maid for about a year now, he had taken to cleaning only the necessary parts of the house. Unused rooms were not on that list.

After recording his latest findings on the Wolf, as well as checking in on his sleeping patient and stoking the fire to keep her warm, he dozed off in the laboratory for a few hours. When he woke and ventured upstairs, he found that Trinket was still asleep, though her twitching fingers and twisted expression suggested it was not a very peaceful rest.

"Where did you come from?" he mumbled as he leaned against the doorframe and gazed at her.

After a moment of staring, he snapped out of his thoughtful daze and realized that Trinket was the first overnight guest he'd had in his house in quite some time. Even his surgical patients generally turned down his offer to stay for a few days for observation. He could only imagine the state of his home had contributed to that. So it was rare that he ever had to think of feeding anyone but himself. And since he usually dined at the Clocktower when he remembered to eat at all, did he even remember where the pans were?

Heading into the kitchen, he got to work toasting some bread and boiling water for tea. It wouldn't be anything fancy, but by the looks of the young woman, any sustenance would do her good. She somewhat resembled an animal that had spent most of its days locked in a tiny, dark cage. Suspicion and fear clouded her eyes. And those bruises on her legs. And her reaction to the ether. What horrors had she gone through to make her react so strongly to something as simple as anaesthetic?

The more he thought about the mysterious girl, the more intrigued he became. In fact, he was so lost in his thoughts about where Trinket may have come from that he didn't realize the bread had finished toasting until the strong scent of charcoal wafted up to his nose. Quickly reaching for the pan, he let out a hiss of pain as the heated cast iron burnt his palm. Pulling away, he grabbed a rag and threw it over the handle before touching it again. As he slathered the blackened bread with butter in an attempt to cover up his lack of culinary skills, the kettle started to whistle. Tossing the sad toast onto a plate, he fetched the boiling water and poured it over a teacup set with a strainer filled with the only tea he had.

He stepped back and took stock of the breakfast he had thrown together. "Well, it's better than nothing, I suppose," he said with a sigh as he placed the plate of toast and the cup of tea onto a silver tray and headed back to the parlour.

When he entered the room, Trinket was sitting up and rubbing her arms. Was she cold even with the fire? Perhaps she had been wandering about in the snow for longer than he thought. Hopefully the tea would take the chill from her bones.

"Good morning, Miss Trinket," he said, placing the tray on the table before sitting on the arm of the settee. "How are we today?"

She shrugged.

"Your leg feels fine?"

She gave a slight nod.

He smiled. "You're not a woman of many words, are you?"

"I find that speaking too much or too often can get one into trouble."

Booker nodded in understanding. "I can't disagree with that. Prudence is a most admirable quality. Anyhow, I need to check your wound for infection and change the dressing, if you don't mind. Please, help yourself to some breakfast while I fetch my things."

Getting up from the settee, he made his way back into the hallway and went downstairs to collect his supplies. His eyes quickly passed over his notes from the night before, and he stopped for a moment as his gaze caught on a line he did not recall writing.

Trinket—???

He furrowed his brow as he picked the notebook up and tried to remember why he had recorded that. There was nothing after it, so it must have been right before he'd fallen asleep. Granted, it wasn't completely out of the blue. He couldn't deny that he had a slight interest in the young woman. After all, he was a man of science and learning. Mysteries were absolutely irresistible to him.

But her mystery would have to wait. The Wolf was more important. If he had some spare time, perhaps he could search for more information about her. Caring for her leg was the most he could do at the moment.

Returning to the parlour with his medical bag, he found Trinket placing a piece of half-eaten toast back on the plate. There was a look of utter disgust on her face as she chewed the unfortunate bite she had taken.

Laughing as he approached the settee, he set his bag on the table. "Yes, I'm not much for cooking, I'm afraid. When I feel the need to eat, I usually stop by the Clocktower. Although to be fair, their food isn't any better than mine."

"It's fine," she said, swallowing several times as she clearly tried to school her expression into politeness. "I'm grateful to have any sustenance at all. The flavor is just a bit different from what I've become accustomed to."

"You're very kind. Here."

He handed her the tea. She sipped at it and nearly gagged. Coughing, she placed the cup back on its saucer.

His mouth lifted in an apologetic smile as he offered her a crimson napkin. "Sorry, I do make my tea rather strong."

Trinket shook her head. "That is not strong. That is burnt. I've never known someone with the ability to burn tea."

His lips pulled up in a lopsided grin. "Where did your kindness go?"

"Embittered with the tea leaves." She wiped her mouth with the napkin and turned her eyes to him shamefully. "I apologize. You have extended such generosity to me and here I am insulting you. I thank you for all of your hospitality."

Booker knelt beside the settee and began to remove the bandages from her leg. "Don't worry, I'm well aware that my culinary skills leave much to be desired. As does my housekeeping."

"Is that not what a housemaid is for?"

"Yes, but I don't have a housemaid."

Trinket furrowed her brow and looked about the room, and he could only imagine the thoughts running through her head. Glancing away from his work to peer at her, he said, "You're wondering why a man of apparent fortune wouldn't have a maid."

She shrugged. "I'm sure you have your reasons."

"Mostly just that no maid has been able to stomach working here for any extended period of time."

His eyes turned back to the wound. It was red and hot, but there was no pus or fetor coming from it. He ran his hand across the sutures. They were holding up well. Stitching had always been a strength of his since his days of operating on animals in the closet at the orphanage.

"You see, my line of work is unusual, to say the least," he continued, pulling the jar of honey from his bag.

"You're a doctor, I'm assuming. How is that unusual?" Trinket asked as he applied more honey to the wound.

"True. I am a doctor—of sorts. That is, I've had training. My patients, however, are not always typical, nor are my methods."

There was a pause as he retrieved another jar filled with ointment. Removing the lid and dipping his fingers inside, he coated the stitches with the substance. He was impressed that she did not press him for more information. It only made him want to share more.

"I've had maids in the past," he went on as he capped the jar and pulled out fresh dressing. "They just didn't last long. Apparently thugs and night flowers showing up on my doorstep after midnight was not to their liking."

Finished with her leg, he seated himself on the arm of the settee, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning towards her.

"They also weren't too keen on finding strangers bleeding to death on the front steps. Particularly my last maid. I recall her fainting dead away when she saw a man with a missing arm passed out in the foyer. Made my work twice as difficult having to revive her before tending to the gentleman."

The memory of Ferne and her warm vomit seeping through his shoes nearly sent a shudder through his body. Lord, he had no idea how she lasted as long as she did. Or how he had.

"I can't really judge those prone to fainting," Trinket said.

"Yes, but you fainted from a substantial loss of blood, not from seeing a substantial loss of blood. Anyhow, after a while I gave up. Any maid I hired was too nosey or squeamish or judgemental. Useless, the lot of them. Besides, I'm more than capable of cleaning up after myself."

She drew her brows together and glanced about the dusty parlour before meeting his eyes again.

He smiled sheepishly and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, to a degree," he said. "It's not as if I need a lot, being on my own and all. I suppose if I ever started entertaining it would do some good to have at least one servant around. However, I don't see that happening anytime in the near future. My guests don't come to be entertained. They come to be fixed."

He watched her, waiting for her response. She stared down at her teacup for a spell before finally giving a slight shrug and raising her eyebrows. "Well, I suppose that accounts for the rubbish tea."

Not the reply he'd been expecting. Actually, he wasn't all that certain about what he had been expecting. But her simple yet slightly teasing words brought a smile to his lips that could not be suppressed.

Yes, this young woman interested him very much.

~

That was the last time Booker spoke with Trinket before she fell into a fitful, delirious state. Her body was seized with violent tremors, and she broke out into a cold sweat. The look of pain and terror on her face as she tossed and turned on the settee was difficult to behold, and he spent most of his hours by her side, doing what he could to relieve her discomfort. But by the third night, he worried that he might lose her despite his best efforts.

At some point during that night, he must have fallen asleep. He woke with a start, and as he gathered his bearings, he found that the settee was empty but for the rumpled blankets he had placed atop his patient. Furrowing his brow, he looked about the parlour. Where had she disappeared to? Had she left? If she had, she likely hadn't gotten far with her leg still healing.

Rising to his feet, he headed into the foyer. Further down the way, he heard the kettle whistling. He continued down the hallway until he reached the open kitchen door, finding Trinket standing at the table, a loaf of bread before her. She stumbled as she went to turn to the stove, gripping the table to stay upright.

"Good Lord, what's going on in here?" Booker said.

She inhaled sharply and turned to him. The utter terror and panic in her expression threw him. Was she hurt? Of course she was hurt, he'd only sewn her up the other night. But had she injured herself further?

He hurried to her side. "How did you get in here?" he asked, taking hold of her arm to help steady her. "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, really," she said.

"If you were hungry, you should have woken me up."

She averted her gaze. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. Truly, I'm so, so sorry."

Why was she apologizing like that? As if she thought he might strike her? Was he that intimidating? It's not like he was upset she had taken it upon herself to find something to eat. He was more worried she'd cause further harm to her leg.

He sighed and went to remove the still-whistling kettle from the stove. "No, no, you weren't intruding," he said as he pulled out the granite cutting board fixed into the underside of the table. "I'm just not sure you should be moving around so much after being attacked by a wolf."

Her eyes followed the kettle as he placed it on the cutting board. "I didn't want to disturb you."

He furrowed his brow and went to the dresser to fetch two cups. "You're my patient. You wouldn't be disturbing me."

"Right, but you've done enough already, so . . ."

Setting strainers atop each cup, he added a heaping spoonful of tea leaves to each one before reaching for the kettle.

"Wait," she said, grabbing his wrist.

He raised an eyebrow at her curiously.

She cleared her throat and cast her gaze downward as she released him. "It's just, if you don't let the water cool, the leaves will burn and make the tea bitter."

Make the tea bitter? Isn't that how tea was supposed to taste?

"Well, as an open-minded man of science, I'll entertain your theory," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing down at the bread on the table. "You know, that would probably taste better toasted."

Not waiting for a response, he made his way to the pantry.

"I didn't want to cause more of a ruckus searching for a pan," she called after him.

He grabbed a cast-iron skillet and the butter dish before returning to the stove. "You already broke into the kitchen. I don't see how toasting bread would have made the situation worse."

Her eyes darted between the pan in his hand and the loaf of bread. "I'm actually not quite that hungry. You really needn't—"

"Nonsense." Pushing past her, he plopped the skillet down on the stovetop and headed over to the table. "What good would I be as a doctor if I let my patients starve to death?"

"Honestly, you've done more than enough for me."

Slicing two pieces of bread, he tossed them into the pan. "Making you toast isn't exactly a strenuous activity, my dear," he said as he turned the stove up.

He wandered back into the pantry to fetch a spatula. When he returned, he found Trinket by the stove, turning the heat down considerably and letting out a sigh.

"Apparently my method of toasting bread doesn't meet with your approval?" he asked.

She jumped and spun around so suddenly she nearly toppled into the stove. He reached out to grab her arm and flashed her a crooked grin.

"I'm sorry," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I just . . . you had it up so high . . . I thought . . . I worried . . ."

He chuckled softly and held up the spatula in his hand. "Clearly you have more experience than I do. Please, show me how it's done."

Casting him a wary glance, she hesitantly accepted the spatula, and he proceeded back into the pantry.

"I'm a man of science," he said. He sauntered into the kitchen with a plate and gave her another grin as he set the dish beside the butter. "So I'm more than happy to allow a little experimentation in my kitchen."

He obtained permission from her before pouring the cooled water in the kettle over the strainers filled with tea. When the toast was finished, Trinket scooped it out of the pan and slid it onto the plate he held out to her. It was a nice, light brown color. Not black or charred at all. He helped her limp over to the table and then spread butter over a piece of toast.

"Well, the moment of truth," he said, raising a playful eyebrow as he held the toast up.

He took a bite and was impressed to find it was edible. Perhaps not as appetizing as Philomena's cooking, but better than anything he could manage.

"Not bad, Miss Trinket," he said. "It does lack that fortifying charcoal texture, but I gather most folks would consider that an improvement."

With a teasing smile, he laid down the toast and reached for the teacups. Handing one to her, he lifted his own to his nose and gave it a quick whiff. No sugar. That was a good sign.

"Here, though, is the real test," he said. "I'm quite particular about my tea, and I've yet to meet an individual who can brew it to my liking."

He took a sip and started. After all the maids he'd dealt with, he'd given up on expecting a decent cup of tea from anyone but himself. But this was nearly perfect. Hot, strong, unsweetened, free of any leaves. Granted, it wasn't exactly how he himself made it, but it was as close as anyone had ever come.

"Good Lord, I didn't know tea could taste like this," he said.

"Like what?" Trinket asked.

"So smooth and rich. I thought it was supposed to be harsh and strong to keep you awake."

She sipped her own cup and smiled. "There's nothing wrong with tea being strong, though I'm not all that partial to it that way. But it's only harsh if the water is too hot. Or if you've steeped it too long. Tea should be refreshing and soothing and, depending on the type, energizing."

Booker placed his cup on the table, his gaze darting from it to the toast. An idea was forming in his head. "Well, between the toast and the tea, you've certainly won me over with regard to your skills."

He offered her the other piece of toast. "I wouldn't call them skills," she said, accepting the slice and taking a small bite.

"I wish I had more to offer you," he said, glancing about the kitchen as he took another sip of tea. "But as you can tell, I don't do a lot of cooking."

"Well, it's not exactly like you were expecting my sudden arrival."

He turned back to her. "How're you feeling, by the way?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "As good as anyone can be after being attacked by a wolf with metal teeth."

"Right, but what about the rest of you? The past few nights were rather touch and go there."

She furrowed her brow. "How many nights have passed?"

"Three."

"I had no idea."

"Well, you did seem as though you might be dying, so I'm not surprised."

"I wonder why. Perhaps the cold?"

Narrowing his eyes, he considered her for a moment. Her strange illness was indeed a bit of a mystery, but he highly doubted it had been brought on by the cold. "Perhaps. Anyhow, I really should find something else for you to eat. You need to regain your strength after all you've been through. Tell me, what's your favorite thing to eat?"

She blinked and shook her head before gazing down at her tea. "Oh, please, that's not neces—"

"That's not what I asked. Come on, you refused to tell me your name, the least you can do is tell me your favorite food."

She bit her lip but finally relented and met his eyes. "Crumpets."

"Crumpets?"

She nodded. "With strawberry jam."

His lips twitched. Crumpets and jam? So simple yet somehow endearing. Standing up straight, he gestured to the door. "Let's go, then."

He offered her his arm. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"I'm going to change the dressing on your wound and then bring you to the bakery to buy some crumpets." He cast her a side glance and smiled. "And strawberry jam, of course."

"Mr. Larkin, please, you really—"

"No arguing. You made me a proper breakfast, now I shall make one for you. Well, buy one, but it's just as good. Better, in fact. After all, you've already been subjected to my subpar cooking."

He led her to the parlour and checked her leg. Though slightly red, it didn't seem any worse for wear. So, as gently and quickly as he could, he applied fresh honey and wrapped the wound in clean bandages.

"All right then," he said, helping her up and into the hallway. "Let's be off to get ourselves some delectable crumpets."

"Mr. Larkin, I—"

"I left your boots in the foyer," he said, ignoring her attempted objection. "Your coat, too."

After helping her into her raggedy boots and coat, he donned his own coat as well as his hat and offered her his arm. They made their way outside into the crisp, winter morning. Trinket kept her eyes down, as if she were afraid someone would see her. Did that mean she was running from someone? Her parents? A husband?

"Normally I'd just walk to the city center," he said. "But considering your injury, it might be best to take a coach. Problem is they don't often come by here. Madison! Could I ask a favor?"

Gin's good friend came hurrying over. "Yes, sir?"

"Would you mind fetching a coach for us?" Booker asked as he retrieved several coins from his pocket and placed them in the boy's hand. "This should keep the driver from protesting. And there's a little extra for you as well."

Madison gave a quick salute and scurried off. As they waited, Booker watched Trinket stare at the slums around her. She turned back to the house, her expression barely registering her surprise at seeing his beautiful home in the middle of such a rundown part of the city.

It was terribly amusing.

"Well, that was record time," he said as a hackney coach came rolling down the street. He took Trinket's hand and helped her in. "Come, my dear. Crumpets and jam will wait for no one."

He settled into the seat across from her and smiled as she stared out the window at the filthy scenery. Alas, he could no longer contain himself.

"You seem perplexed," he said.

She turned to him like she was about to reply but paused and suddenly pressed her lips into a thin line before turning back to the window.

He gave a soft chuckle. "Come, now, I didn't mean to tease. Most people who don't know me or my reputation are confused when they set foot in my home."

"Why ever would that be?" she asked, casting him an unamused glare.

Tilting his head to the side, he smiled, pleased by her sassy replies. "I have money, as I'm sure you've gathered. Logically, I should be living in the suburbs, hobnobbing with the upper crust. However, that doesn't really suit my needs."

She raised her eyebrows.

"I enjoy a good adventure," he went on. "Being a doctor, I do get more of that than the typical gentleman would. But that's not enough for me. I need to be in the know. Gossip is prevalent amongst the upper class, but not the kind of gossip I'm looking for. I like to keep an ear open for any strange happenings."

"Such as a wolf with an iron jaw roaming the streets?" she suggested.

His eyebrows twitched at the mention of the Wolf. "Precisely. Urchins, thugs, servants—they're the ones who have that sort of information. Besides, rumors are the only excitement to be found within the gentry. In the slums you get action."

"So you live in the slums in order to engage in reckless behavior?"

"I suppose you could put it that way. Anyhow, two years ago, I inherited a large fortune from the doctor I studied under after he passed away, so I used it to renovate an old apartment building. Keeping the dilapidated exterior helps me to blend in."

"But at the same time allows you to enjoy the luxuries that come with money?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Ah, here we are."

The coach stopped in front of the bakery, and after paying the driver, Booker led Trinket inside. It was warm and cozy as it always was, not to mention crowded. Luckily, the young girl manning the counter was a former patient of his. She'd nearly sliced her finger off at work, and he'd managed to stitch it back on without even having to use a mechanical prosthetic. Ever since, she had a tendency to show him special treatment whenever they crossed paths.

"Hello, my dear, how are you this morning?" he asked.

"Quite well, Mr. Larkin," the girl replied, eyeing Trinket curiously. "How can I help you today?"

"We were hoping to purchase some crumpets. I've heard tell they're absolutely delicious. Do you have any available?"

"Certainly. How many would you like?"

"A dozen should suffice."

With a nod, the girl set about gathering the baked goods.

"While you're at it, might I inquire as to where one would find jam?" Booker asked. "Preferably strawberry?"

"There's a street vendor who sells some in the market," the girl said as she wrapped the crumpets in brown paper. "My sister raves about her. Says there's no better jam or jelly in all of Tinkerfall."

She tied the bundle of crumpets up with some string and passed it to him. He gave her a handful of coins and a smile. "I thank you, my dear," he said. "Have a lovely day."

Giggling shyly, the girl cast one more look at Trinket, clearly trying to figure out who she was and why she was being escorted by Tinkerfall's most notorious doctor. To Trinket's credit, though, she showed no reaction. Good. She knew how to hold her own in the face of judgement.

Leading her back to the waiting coach, Booker directed the driver to the market where they found the vendor the bakery girl had spoken of. The woman had a variety of jams for sale, including strawberry.

"I think we have everything we need for a proper breakfast," Booker said after purchasing a jar and linking his arm with Trinket's.

The jam vendor's eyes darted between the two of them, a suggestive smile creeping across her face. Booker watched Trinket's reaction carefully and was pleased to find her seemingly unbothered, just like back at the bakery.

Yes, this might work.

"Well, we'd best hurry home before these get cold," he said as they settled into the coach.

"We can always warm them up on the stove," Trinket said.

"Are you as skilled with crumpets as you are with tea and toast?"

"It's not that difficult to place a few pastries on an already warm stove, Mr. Larkin."

"I must say, I don't think I've had one of my patients tease me as much as you do."

Trinket suddenly lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Nor have I had one apologize so often. Please, if you haven't noticed, I'm rather enjoying your sass. It's more than enough payment for my services."

"Mr. Larkin," she said, fidgeting with the cuffs of her sleeves, "I realize you've done quite a bit to help me, but I'm afraid at the moment I have no money with which to pay you."

Shaking his head, he waved away her words. "Please, don't trouble yourself over it."

"But I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

Kindness? He laughed under his breath. "It's not so much kindness, my dear, as it is opportunity. Besides, you aren't the first penniless person I've helped. I have a reputation of working on the less fortunate."

He flashed her a quick grin, which seemed to silence her protestations.

The coach dropped them off in the slums once again, and he assisted Trinket back into the house, leading her straight to the kitchen. While he set the kettle for more tea, she went about heating up the baked goods.

Once the crumpets were warmed and coated in strawberry jam and the tea properly steeped, the two of them stood together at the table and helped themselves to the delightful treats. Taking a bite of the fresh pastry, he gave an approving hum. Not bad. Far better than toast.

But then he stole a glance at Trinket, and he couldn't help but stare as her eyes fluttered closed with her first bite. The look of pure delight on her face went far beyond enjoying a favorite meal. It was like these crumpets held a deeper meaning to her. Perhaps a connection to her past? A childhood memory, even? Whatever it was, he'd never seen someone look quite so beatific while eating something as simple as crumpets and jam.

"All right, I'm not going to lie, this is delectable," he said through a mouthful of crumpet, "but the look on your face is close to euphoric. I'm not sure they're that good."

Giving a shrug, she gazed down at her half-eaten crumpet. "After such a long time of separation, reunions can be quite exaggerated."

Booker laughed softly and took another bite. What a strange, interesting young woman. "Well, reunions aside, I probably shouldn't keep you standing on that leg of yours. Come along, let's take this feast into the parlour."

He handed her the plate of crumpets and gathered up the teacups. Offering her his elbow to lean on, he helped her down the hallway and onto the settee. Placing the crumpets and tea on the table, he seated himself beside her and raised his eyebrows. She returned the gesture.

"Trinket, I have a proposition for you," he said at last.

"Go on," she said warily.

"Since you have no place to go—"

"What makes you think I have no place to go?"

"Seeing as you refused to give me your name and I found you in an abandoned alley, I assumed as much. Anyhow, that being the case, I wondered if you'd consider accepting employment from me."

"Employment? What sort of employment?"

"I was hoping you might be interested in becoming my housemaid."

She blinked. "But I thought you said you have no use for servants."

"I have no use for incompetent servants."

"Your previous servants were incompetent?"

"I mean, they cleaned and cooked well enough. But as I said before, they had no business working for me. They caused me more trouble than they were worth."

"And how do you know I won't cause you trouble? After all, I did break into your kitchen. And insult your tea."

Booker grinned. "You're self-sufficient. I like that. And I have a hunch you wouldn't be too put off by my line of work."

She hesitated. "I must admit, Mr. Larkin, I'm not all that fond of doctors. No offense meant."

Doctors, eh? Hm, her secretive past was becoming more and more intriguing. "None taken," he said. "If the bruises on your body are any indication, you've been dealt with rather roughly by someone, and if that someone happened to be a doctor, I can understand your distrust of those in my profession."

She averted her gaze. Had she really thought he hadn't noticed her injuries?

"And you show a surprising amount of bravery, perhaps due to your past," he went on. "It takes some nerves to walk into the metallic jaws of a demonic wolf. I need a maid who can stomach that sort of terror.

"On top of that, you're prudent. You know when to keep quiet and how to be subtle. And yet, at the same time, you seemed unfazed by the judgemental stares as you were escorted about the city rather brazenly by a dashingly handsome man who is not your beau. Your comfort with breaking society's rules is an attractive quality, and quite necessary if you're going to work for me."

Trinket's cheeks flushed.

"And if all of that wasn't enough, the crumpets and jam truly sealed the deal," he said with a wink. "If you take the job, it comes with a generous salary as well as a room here in my house. You will want for nothing, let me assure you. So? What do you say?"

There was a long, pregnant pause as she stared off in thought. He watched her intently, surprised to find that he would be almost disappointed if she turned him down. She was the first person in a year who had been able to impress him with both her tea and her personality. There was no way he would find anyone else he'd willingly bring into his home. If she refused his offer, his house was doomed to a state of perpetual disaster.

She finally turned to him and, after looking him up and down, gave a curt nod. "I'll do it."

His lips nearly twitched into a smile, but before they could, he got to his feet and extended his hand to her. "Let me show you to your room, Miss Trinket."