Booker spent a good two months free from the drudgeries of hired help when he suddenly took ill. It wasn't often that he got sick, and it always irked him when he did, as it usually meant allowing another doctor to treat him. Other doctors tended to annoy him, so he only called upon them when it became absolutely necessary. And unfortunately, this illness was getting to that point. In fact, it was getting so bad that Gin was stopping by to check on him daily.

"Booker, you need a doctor," she insisted as she followed him into the parlour where he had been spending his days and nights.

"I am a doctor," he said between coughs.

"You need a doctor doctor, then." She sat beside him on the settee. "Seriously, you look really bad. Isn't there anything you can do?"

"It's a cold, there's nothing to be done but to wait."

Another coughing fit took hold of him, and he leaned forward to take up his tea. However, he immediately regretted this action when a wave of dizziness came over him. He slumped back on the settee with a groan and closed his eyes.

"People die from colds, Booker," Gin said.

He opened one eye and watched as she retrieved the cup for him. "I'm not going to die," he said as she pushed it into his hands. "Although sometimes it feels like I am."

Gin gazed at him for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. "If you won't call for a doctor, then there's really only one other option."

He furrowed his brow suspiciously. "And that option would be?"

"A maid."

Another groan escaped his lips as he rolled his head back. After staring up at the ceiling for a spell, he turned to Gin. "You wouldn't be willing to stay and take care of me?"

"I don't have the know-how to take care of sick adults. And I can barely use the kettle, never mind cook. I think a maid is your best bet."

He heaved a sigh and took a sip of his tea. "Fine. But I'm relying on you to find one who won't rob me or judge me or try to break into my laboratory."

She nodded. "You can count on me. I can get you a maid by the end of the week. In the meantime, I'll keep stopping by to make sure you're still alive."

"Much obliged."

The urchin rose to her feet. "Do you need more tea? Or blankets? Maybe I can sneak some stew out of the Clocktower for you."

Even with how wretched he felt, he couldn't keep a warm smile from his face. "Thank you, Gin, but your company has been the best medicine I could hope for."

She grinned and tipped her hat at him. "I'm gonna find you a decent maid, Booker. Just you wait."

As she dashed out the door, he chuckled softly to himself and took another sip of tea. Despite his absolute trust in the young urchin, he couldn't ignore the gnawing unease in his stomach brought on by the thought of a servant in his home. Or maybe it was from eating nothing but burnt toast for the past few days. Whatever it was from, he had a bad feeling brewing in his gut.

~

True to her word, Gin, with the assistance of Grace, found Booker a new maid only three days later: a young blonde woman named Ferne Danaher. She was quiet, never speaking unless called upon. And she certainly knew her way around invalids. As soon as Gin brought her to the house, Ferne quickly got to work whipping up a special tea to treat his cold. It tasted a little like grass and vinegar, but his taste buds were so off from being sick that it didn't really matter. However, he couldn't help but notice how lukewarm the tea was. Nevertheless, he gave her a grateful smile and drank it down, hoping it would speed up his recovery so that he could get back to making his own tea.

With Ferne's caretaking and Gin's company, Booker was recovered and back to work within a week. Though he was still apprehensive about having another maid, Ferne had proven to be a respectful, hardworking young woman. The house was clean once again and remained clean as she went about her business dusting and scrubbing. She was a decent cook, as well. Or at least the few meals he had deigned to eat were acceptable. He found that the more he took of the drug mixture he had created to keep him awake, the less of an appetite he had. It was just as well to him. Regular meals were as much of an inconvenience as sleep. But every once in a while, he felt obligated to partake of the food his young maid served, and he was never displeased with the results of her efforts.

"Gin, I think we may have found a winner," he muttered to himself as he swallowed the last mouthful of beef stew Ferne had made that evening.

He nearly choked on it, though, when the bell at the front door went off. Ferne rushed out of the dining room as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose to follow her. However, before he could take more than a few steps, she was back in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes wide.

"Is everything all right, Miss Danaher?" Booker asked.

Sucking in her lips, she cast her gaze downward and pointed towards the front door. He furrowed his brow but followed her direction nonetheless. As he drew nearer to the foyer, he saw a woman standing on the steps outside. She was cradling her right arm, which was bright red and blistered.

"Fire?" he asked as he stopped in front of her and lifted up her arm so he could examine it closer.

She nodded. "Kitchen accident."

"When?"

"Yesterday. I put some butter on it, hoping it'd be all right, but I can't even move my fingers now."

Booker winced. He wasn't fully convinced about the whole butter remedy. From his experience, it usually only made things worse. "Why don't you go sit in the parlour while I fetch some salve."

He helped the woman settle onto the settee before heading to the laboratory. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ferne peeking out from the dining room. Her face was still pale, and it looked like her lower lip was trembling.

"Tea?" she asked, though it came out as more of a squeak than a word.

"Ah, yes, I think my patient might like that," he replied. "Thank you."

The girl quickly turned back to the dining room, and Booker continued down to the laboratory. As he gathered ingredients together to mix a healing salve for the woman's injury, his eyes caught on the newspaper clipping that one of his clients had gotten for him from a relative in Noxbury. He'd read it at least a dozen times, but the headline still hit him in the gut every time: Mad Doctor and Assistant Wanted For Murder? It was a load of hogwash, really. One of Mr. Goodfellow's former patients with whom he'd had a less than friendly relationship had been found dead, and seeing as how some of the organs had been removed, they suspected the recently missing doctor was to blame. And apparently most folks assumed that the doctor was too frail to do the actual killing himself. His quiet young assistant whom he admired and fawned over, though, was spry and able-bodied. Most seemed to think him the true killer. Some even considered him the instigator.

Booker didn't believe a word of it. If Benedict were to murder a person and harvest their organs, he wouldn't have been so careless as to let the rest of the body be found. If anything, he would have used it in his experiments. No, this was the work of someone clumsy and foolish. Or perhaps someone twisted and bent on frightening the town.

Still, reading the article sent a shiver through his body. Even if he didn't believe this murder was the work of his old friend, he worried that it was something Benedict was indeed capable of. He'd been willing to vivisect animals and experiment on friends. Was he really that far off from murdering strangers to advance his work?

Shaking his head to snap himself out of his daze, Booker finished up with the salve. No, Benedict was not a murderer. A madman, sure. But a murderer?

His eyes strayed to the article once more, a sick, heavy feeling in his gut. Was this the path his friend was headed down? And if so, was he willing to follow after him in order to keep up? He already led a rather morally ambiguous life, what with befriending night flowers and criminals and blackmailing men of the law. Could he handle plunging further into moral decay?

Though he wanted to say he would do whatever it took to surpass Benedict's genius, there was a little voice in his head that made him pause. It sounded very much like his mother. If she were alive to see him delve into murder and the like, what would she think of him? Likely she would be disappointed. His mother had not been a very moral person according to society's standards, but she'd been a kind one. Booker knew that she would never have approved of some of the cruel and twisted things he had done, never mind if he started killing people purposely.

Again, he pulled himself away from his thoughts and grabbed his medical bag, forcing his mother's faint voice out of his head. It was no use worrying about it now. Thus far, he had not been called upon to kill anyone, and he did not foresee himself in a situation that would require such action anytime soon. Besides, his mother was dead, so what did it matter how she would have felt at seeing the person he'd become? He had no one to impress but himself. Well, himself and Benedict.

When he headed back into the parlour with his supplies in hand, Ferne was placing a tray with a teacup and teapot on the table. Or rather, she was dropping it. The young girl was in such a hurry that she nearly overturned the entire setting in her haste. The woman with the burnt arm looked a tad confused, but Ferne didn't seem to notice. It wasn't until she turned to leave and bumped into the wall that Booker realized why—her eyes were squeezed shut and probably had been from the beginning.

"Miss Danaher, are you all right?" he asked, grasping her shoulders as she bumped into the wall again in her attempt to exit the room.

She opened her eyes a crack and nodded.

He furrowed his brow, hoping she might provide an explanation for her odd behavior, but none was given. "Very well, then. As you were," he said, directing her out of the parlour and into the hallway.

She practically ran to the kitchen and disappeared behind the door. Shaking his head and heaving a sigh, Booker turned back to his patient. With the flighty maid gone, the woman's attention had returned to her damaged hand, her face twisted in pain.

"So you said this happened yesterday?" he asked, sitting beside her.

She nodded. "My own stupidity, I'm afraid. Shouldn't have been wearing long sleeves in the kitchen. It's just so cold and we can't afford to keep a fire burning, so I tend to bundle myself up."

Very gently, he extended the woman's arm. Even with his careful touch, though, she let out a hiss of pain. "I'll apply a salve tonight and bandage it lightly, but you should come back daily so that I can repeat the treatment," he said, reaching for the mixture he had whipped up.

"Will I be able to move my fingers again?"

He hesitated as he spread the salve over the burn. "Hopefully. It looks like a lot of damage has been done."

The woman closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. "I need to be able to use my hands. I need to work."

"Well, it's going to take several weeks for it to heal."

"I don't have several weeks."

Placing the salve on the table, Booker reached for the bandages. "Let's see how it looks in a few days," he said as he loosely wrapped the bandages around her arm and hand. "If there doesn't seem to be any progress, I can discuss other options with you."

"What other options are there?"

A smile pulled at his mouth. "You'd be surprised. Anyhow, let's leave it at this for now. Come back tomorrow and I'll apply more salve."

He got to his feet, and the woman followed suit. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "I'm afraid I don't have much money on me, but I can get it to you eventually. Perhaps in installments?"

"No worries, my dear. Get it to me when you can. Or I can always accept payment in the form of information and favors."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Favors?"

Patting her shoulder, he led her back to the front door. "Nothing too scandalous, believe me. I'll let you know if I find you may be useful in that regard. Otherwise, small payments will do just fine."

Though still clearly uncertain about his intentions, the woman gave a curt nod and headed down the street. Booker closed the door and turned back to the parlour. He gathered up his supplies and made his way to the laboratory when he again found Ferne peeking out from the kitchen.

"Are you certain you're all right, Miss Danaher?" he asked.

She nodded as her eyes darted towards the parlour.

"She's gone," he reassured her. "Just left a moment ago."

She gave another nod and shuffled into the hallway, skirting past him to gather the untouched tea from the parlour. He shook his head slowly and made his way down to the laboratory. Surely the girl hadn't been that affected by the burn? Yes, it had been rather bad, but certainly not the worst he'd seen. Maybe it had just been the shock of it all. After all, this was the first patient she'd had to interact with. Now that she knew what she was dealing with, she'd be better prepared for the next one.

~

Alas, the young maid's squeamishness only got worse with each patient that showed up at Booker's door. The woman with the burnt hand came back every day for a week, and each time she arrived, Ferne ran in the other direction. And it wasn't only burn victims that turned her stomach. Anyone with a broken bone or a nasty gash caused her to go pale and flee. She nearly spilled an entire pot of lukewarm tea on a patient with a broken finger when she tried to set it on the table with her eyes tightly closed. It finally got to the point that Booker told her not to bother with the tea anymore.

"I'm surprised she's so sensitive," he said to Gin as the two walked through the city center on a cold, snowy afternoon. "I mean, she did care for me while I was ill. And she seems rather skilled in attending to the sick."

"But sick and mauled are two totally different things," Gin said, sidestepping a drunk who was sleeping facedown in a pile of snow. "Some of your patients are in pretty bad shape. And your mechanical doohickeys take some getting used to."

"I suppose."

"I mean, some of the stuff is neat. Like that crow you gave me a while ago."

A soft smile tugged at his mouth. "You still have that?"

Gin bounded up ahead and turned to face him as they continued to walk. "Course I do. I'm not ungrateful. It may not be hair ribbons, but it's impressive."

He chuckled. "Glad you think so."

"But your hands and feet? Some people have a hard time getting used to seeing them on folks."

"Yes, well, plenty of geniuses aren't appreciated in their time."

Shrugging, she turned and resumed walking frontwards. "I think they're buying into it, though. I mean, it's not like mechanical things are completely strange to us. We do have a tinker here."

"Only one for miles, in fact. It was part of the attraction of Tinkerfall. There aren't too many people with an inventive mind like my own who can see uses for gears and steam beyond clocks and engines."

Gin snorted. "I don't think I'd put the Tinker in the same league as you, Booker."

His mouth quirked into a smug grin. "No, nor would I."

"What about that person you're trying to find, though?"

Stumbling over his feet, he stopped and glanced at Gin. "Pardon?"

The urchin gave him a condescending look as she folded her arms over her chest. "Come on, Booker, I'm your best informant. I hear all sorts of things about you. Like how you keep asking about some doctor in Noxbury."

He clearly underestimated this girl. It was a mistake he reminded himself not to make again. "Actually, it's his student I'm more interested in."

"Does he make mechanical things, too?"

Booker gazed beyond her, off into the distance, recalling the abominable creations he and Benedict had thought up. "Something like that," he mumbled.

There was a long silence as he remembered Nuada and the frogs and the bats. And Frieda and the snakes. They certainly had come up with all sorts of gruesome ideas. His mechanical prosthetics seemed tame compared to Benedict's earlier work.

Gin cleared her throat, pulling him away from his memories. "Well, I'm a good informant, but I'm also a good partner. I won't go nosing into your business," she said.

Smiling, he playfully pushed her bowler hat over her eyes. "And that's why I'm keeping you around," he said as he continued on through the center. "Even if you do bring me squeamish maids."

Gin righted her hat and scampered after him. "Hey, all I was supposed to do was find a maid who could take care of you while you were sick and wouldn't rob you or judge you or try to break into your laboratory. You never said anything about being afraid of blood."

"Or bone fractures or burns," he said. "But you're right, it's not your fault. Aside from her sensitive nature, she's a rather good maid. Well, except for the lukewarm tea, but thus far, no maid has succeeded in making me a decent cup of tea."

"Maybe you're just picky."

He blew out a long breath. "Perhaps. But I must say, if I found a maid who could brew an acceptable cup of tea and not make my job more difficult, I'd hire her on the spot. Lord, I may marry her out of sheer joy over finding someone who met such simple qualifications."

Gin gave a snort of a laugh. "I don't think I could ever see you married, least of all to a maid."

"All right, maybe that's going a little far. But good help is slim pickings around here."

"Again, I think you're just picky."

"With my sort of work, one has to be discerning."

"Who knows, she could get better with time."

Raising his eyebrows as he gazed up at the sky, he muttered, "We can only hope."

~

A loud ringing pulled Booker from his sleep. His head shot up, and as he groggily looked about the laboratory, he felt something stuck to his cheek. Pulling off the piece of paper, he realized it was the article about Mr. Goodfellow and Benedict. The clipping was wrinkled and smudged from having been slept on. Sighing, he placed it inside the writing desk and rearranged the other papers he had been sleeping on. He must have dozed off while working on designs for some new ideas. How long had he been out? A few hours maybe? That drug was really doing wonders for his work.

Again, a loud ringing came from upstairs, reminding him why he had woken up in the first place. Quickly rising to his feet, he hurried up the stairs. A dull thump came from the other side of the front door as he emerged from below. When he opened it, he just barely managed to jump out of the way as a large man fell into the foyer. Still a tad out of it, Booker raked his fingers through his hair as he assessed the situation. He had no idea who this man was, and as he was now facedown on the floor, he couldn't get a good look at his features. However, what was readily noticeable was his missing arm.

Booker stooped down to examine it more closely. The man's right arm had been completely severed at the shoulder, leaving a stump that was bleeding profusely all over the carpet. It was a ghastly sight, and he wondered who could have done it. And why. Likely the Mice. Perhaps he owed them money. Or maybe someone paid them to get back at him for having cheated them in some way. The possibilities were endless.

"Sir?" Booker asked, shaking the man gently. "Sir, can you hear me?"

No response. The poor man had probably passed out from the blood loss. Booker would have to patch him up before he could get any answers. Hopefully the man would live that long.

A small gasp drew Booker's attention away from his patient. He looked up to find Ferne on the stairs, staring down at the bleeding man in horror. Before Booker could speak, the young maid's eyes rolled back and her body went limp. Practically tripping over the unconscious man on the floor, he caught her, though not in time to keep her head from knocking into the wall. She was a slight thing, but her dead weight and his unsteady footing caused him to collapse with her on top of him.

"Blast it all," he hissed as he tried to lift her off of himself without causing her any further harm. "Of course she's a fainter."

With much struggle, he managed to haul her into the parlour and lay her on the settee. Patting her cheek, he attempted to rouse her, but to no avail. Worried that the lump on her head could be more serious than it appeared, he rushed back downstairs and fetched some smelling salts. After a few attempts, the salts jerked the young girl awake. Her eyes were wide with terror as she looked about her surroundings.

"Are you all right, Miss Danaher?" he asked as he gently brushed his fingers against the bump on her head to be sure it wasn't bleeding.

The young girl nodded slowly, but when her gaze drifted from him to the bloody mess in the foyer, her face grew paler.

"Miss Danaher?" he said, poised to catch her should she faint again.

But she didn't. Instead, she vomited off the side of the settee, all over his trousers and shoes. Closing his eyes and biting his lip, he tried to ignore the acrid smell and the warm liquid seeping into his socks.

"Well then," he said as he rose to his feet and attempted to shake some of the mess from his clothes. "If you're in no immediate danger, I—"

Apparently her stomach had not settled, and Ferne vomited a second time, just as the injured man in the foyer let out a low groan. Booker turned to see him struggling to turn over onto his back. As Booker moved to assist him, a thump came from behind him. Spinning on his heel, he saw that Ferne had fainted again and was now half on the settee and half on the floor.

He heaved a sigh. "Lord, that's it," he said as he went to go help his patient. "I'm done with maids. Done!"

~

Gin couldn't stop laughing after Booker related to her the events that had transpired the previous night.

"Oh, yes, laugh it up," he mumbled as they sat at a table in the Clocktower.

"I can just hear the vomit squishing in your shoes as you dragged that lug down to your laboratory," she said between peals of laughter.

Booker took a piece of bread from the cheese platter he had ordered for them and rolled his eyes. "It was hardly so humorous when it was actually happening."

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Gin released a satisfied sigh and helped herself to a slice of cheese. "So what happened to the guy?"

"Dead. Too much blood loss. Couldn't even get him conscious enough to find out what happened."

"Dang. Was it cuz it took so long to get him downstairs?"

He shook his head. "No. Based on the trail of blood leading to my door, I think he was doomed before reaching the house."

"So you're not blaming Ferne?"

"No, but I dismissed her nonetheless. I can't go on with someone who's unable to handle a little blood."

Gin laughed. "A little?"

"Trust me, it didn't take a large amount to render her useless."

"So that's it? You're just gonna let your house fall apart?

"No," he said as he chewed a mouthful of stale bread. "I'll clean when I need to."

Cocking an eyebrow, she gave him a doubtful look.

"I will!" he insisted. "And I'll try not to leave fingers and other body parts lying around in the parlour. And I'll pay someone to wash the blood out of my shirts. And mend the bullet holes in my jackets."

Gin laughed softly and shook her head as she stuffed another piece of cheese into her mouth.

"It's better than having these ridiculous maids underfoot," he continued. "I've yet to find a capable servant."

"I think it might be you, Booker."

"Whatever the reason, clearly maids and I do not make a good combination, so why bother trying?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair to show his determination in his decision. Gin did not even try to hide her grin. "Everyone already thinks you're touched in the head, so I guess a dirty house won't make much of a difference," she said. "But I'm betting you're gonna get tired of cleaning real fast."

Leaning forward, he pointed an emphatic finger at her. "Ferne was my last maid. Mark my words."

Though still smiling, Gin shrugged and popped some more cheese in her mouth. "If you say so."