Gin humored Booker for only one night before she slipped away and returned to the slums. Not that she hadn't enjoyed staying with him. He'd been a perfect host. He fed her, served her tea, entertained her. In fact, when she refused to sleep in one of the guestrooms, he pulled up an armchair and sat with her in the parlour. When she woke the next morning, he was still there, dozing soundly, his head resting in his hand.

But it was because he'd been such a good host that she felt the need to get back to work. He'd been so kind to her. No, not just kind. He'd saved her life. She had to repay him. And the only way she knew how to do that was to get him the information he was after. So, with renewed zeal, she threw herself into ferreting out any news about Noxbury.

She managed to avoid Ford, but Madison was another story. He found her almost as soon as she left Booker's place. "What happened to you?" he exclaimed, grabbing hold of her and gawking at her purple, swollen nose.

Freeing herself from his grasp, she waved away his concern. "Only a little run-in with a thug. Nothing to worry about."

He went pale. "It was Ford, wasn't it?"

She shrugged and turned away. "Maybe."

Madison caught her shoulder and made her face him again. "It's because you missed all those jobs. He tried to kill you."

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

The boy's lower lip trembled before he threw his arms around her and hugged her tight. "Gin, I really don't want you to die," he whispered.

Sighing, she returned his embrace. "I'm not dying, Maddie. Not yet."

After another moment, he released her and swiped at his eyes with his tattered sleeve. "So what happened?"

"Broken nose. And maybe a broken rib."

He cocked his head, his eyes running up and down her face. "It doesn't look crooked."

"Booker fixed it."

She started making her way to the station, and Madison followed after her. "You went to the doctor?"

Clearing her throat, she looked away shyly. "No, he found me. Actually, he stopped Ford from finishing me off."

"He did? Man, he really is a good doctor."

She smiled softly, fingering the metal bird stashed away in her pocket. "Yes. He is."

"So, what? You gonna work for him full-time?"
Taking a deep breath, she gazed up at the rising sun. "Maybe."

"What about Ford?"

The pain from her injured nose spread through her veins and into the rest of her body. "I'll find a way around him."

~

Worried that Booker would be mad at her for sneaking out without telling him, Gin made her way to the Clocktower that night, hoping to catch him before he went home. He dined there nearly every day, so she was confident she'd find him there. She'd apologize for running off and try to make it up to him. She had to make sure he wasn't upset with her. Losing his approval was not an option. She had to stay in his good graces, whatever it took.

"Oy, ratbag!"

She froze at the sound of Ford's slurred words, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he was there for her. But when she spun on her heel, she found that his attention was on, not her, but a gentleman coming from the Clocktower.

No, not just a gentleman. A doctor.

Booker.

"Pardon?" Booker replied, eyeing Ford suspiciously. "Do you mean me?"

"Course I mean you, you mewling quim."

Ford staggered as he took a few steps towards Booker, and Gin could smell the liquor on him all the way from where she was. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she recalled the countless beatings he'd given her over the years when in such a drunken state. Alcohol made him clumsy and stupid, but it also made him more dangerous.

"Sir, I don't even know who you are," Booker said, unfazed by Ford's antagonistic words.

Giving a sharp laugh, Ford balanced against a nearby lamppost. "Doesn't know who I am. Can you believe this dripping sneezer?"

Booker furrowed his brow and glanced about the dark and empty street. "Who are you talking to?"

"I'm talking to you, you thieving scoundrel. Think you can go around taking what rightfully belongs to other hard-working folks?"

"What did I steal from you, sir?"

"Don't try and play innocent with me. You know what you did."

Ford took another step forward, and an empty bottle of gin fell from his hand, rolling towards Booker. The doctor glanced down at it, and understanding flashed across his face. Turning back to Ford, he pasted on a tight smile.

"Listen, old chap. Maybe we can have this conversation some other time. Perhaps when you're not quite so out of sorts."

"I ain't out of sorts. I'm in all my sorts."

"I'm sure you are. But how—"

Ford reached into his coat pocket and lunged at him. It happened so fast. Booker hardly had time to stumble back two steps before Ford grabbed hold of him. Gin stood in the shadows and watched in horror as Ford buried the blade of his favorite knife into Booker's chest.

"I'll teach you to steal from me, you blooming Mary," Ford hissed as he pulled his arm back, poised to stab Booker again.

Somehow, Gin found the strength to move. Charging at Booker, she knocked him to the ground just before Ford brought his knife down on him. She scrambled to her feet as Ford nearly toppled over from the force of his swing. Without missing a beat, she tugged at his coat, pulling him further away from Booker.

"Run! It's the coppers! Come on, come on, get outta here before they haul you in again," she shouted, the panic in her voice anything but feigned.

Ford swayed on his feet, his eyes wide as he looked about, searching for the invisible pursuers.

"Don't you hear them?" she went on. "They're coming! You gotta scram! Go, go, go!"

Between her hurried speech and his inebriated state, the threat must have seemed too real to question. Clutching his weapon, he spun on his heel and darted into the shadows, running as fast as his wobbly feet could take him.

Letting out a long breath, Gin turned back to Booker. He was still on the ground, pressing a hand to his bleeding chest. Panic clenched her gut at the sight of his shirt saturated with blood. Hurrying to his side, she knelt beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly over his injured body.

"Lord, what was that all about?" he wheezed, trying to catch a glimpse of Ford disappearing around the bend.

"Booker, how can I help? What should I do?"

He brought his attention back to her and forced a smile. As pained as it was, it helped to calm her racing heart. "Would you mind helping me up?" he asked. "Not sure I can stay the bleeding and get up at the same time."

Taking his arm, she eased him onto his feet. He was a bit heavy for her small frame, but somehow they managed. Scooping up his walking stick, she positioned herself beside him and put his hand on her shoulder.

"I'll help you home," she said.

His smile became less forced, and he gave a nod. "Thank you, Gin."

A tiny part of her was afraid that Ford would see her assisting Booker, but her concern for the doctor overshadowed her fear. She just had to see Booker safely home. When she was certain he'd be all right, then she could think about Ford.

"I hate to impose upon you anymore," Booker said as they reached his front door and he fished the key out of his pocket, "but do you suppose you could stick around and help me fix this up?"

She nodded. "Of course. Whatever you need."

They entered the foyer, and he motioned to the parlour. "Have a seat there. I'll be right back," he said as headed to a door down the hall. "If I'm not back in five minutes, come downstairs and get me. I'll leave the door unlocked."

He disappeared behind the door, and though she tried to sit still on the settee, her nerves wouldn't allow it. She paced the room instead, her eyes darting back to the clock as it ticked the seconds away. The image of Ford stabbing Booker kept playing over and over in her head.

The glint of the knife.

The blood staining Booker's white dress shirt.

The terror that had flooded her veins at the thought of losing the only adult who had ever treated her with even an ounce of respect.

No, she couldn't lose him. She couldn't. He was too good. Too brilliant. Too important. Losing Booker Larkin scared her even more than the idea of dying at Ford's hands. She couldn't lose him. She loved him too much to lose him.

She came to a sudden stop and gripped the side of the fireplace, her eyes growing wide at this new revelation.

She loved Booker Larkin.

But not in the way the night flowers and Adelaide did. No, this love was different. When she looked at Booker Larkin, she didn't just see a handsome doctor with lots of money. She saw more. So much more. In fact, she saw beyond the possibilities for the present. In Booker Larkin, she saw the potential for what might be in the future. With him, she imagined a future she had never even dared to dream of before.

"All right, then," Booker said, pulling her out of her mind as he returned to the parlour, leather bag in hand.

She spun around and watched him settle onto the settee, his hand pressed to the wound in his chest. She rushed over to him, ready to assist while still sorting out the complicated feelings raging inside her.

"This will be a first for me," he said, pulling out his tools and laying them out on the table. "I've never had to stitch myself up before. But something tells me it's a skill I may need to master. Could you light that candle?"

Taking up the candlestick and matches, she got to work lighting it while he removed his coat and jacket. He hissed in pain as he peeled the blood-soaked shirt from his wounded chest, and the sheer amount of blood sent her heart into another panicked frenzy.

"Not sure what I did to that fellow," Booker said, cleaning the wound out with what smelled like alcohol.

"He's just a lousy drunk," she said, her eyes glued to the bloody gash. "No use trying to figure him out."

He ran a needle through the lighted candle before threading it. "You know him?" he asked, glancing down at his chest with a calculating gaze.

She held her breath as he stabbed the needle into his own flesh without anything to numb the pain. His wince twisted her stomach, but she forced herself to respond to his question. "I know pretty much everyone 'round here. Trust me, he's not worth another thought."

Despite the fact that he was sewing up his own skin, Booker actually managed to chuckle. "Clearly I'm lucky to have you on my side."

Watching his nimble fingers move swiftly and expertly along the wound, her mind again wandered back to those strange feelings stirring inside of her. Booker Larkin was so much more than a pretty face or a wealthy client. He was the first person, aside from Madison, who had treated her like she mattered. Like she was worth something. Not just as someone who could help him get what he wants. But as a human being. It was almost like he cared about her.

"Not too shabby, if I do say so."

Booker's voice snapped her out of her daze. He tore his eyes away from his stitched-up chest and smiled at her.

"With some practice, I'm sure I'll perfect it," he said.

Swallowing down her anxiety, she returned his smile. "Are you gonna be all right?"

Placing the needle on the table, he leaned back against the settee and let out a long breath. "It'll take more than a drunk with a butter knife to knock me out." He eyed her carefully. "How are you? You still look a little worse for wear."

The fear of nearly losing Booker had made her all but forget about her own injuries. "Nothing I can't handle."

"If I recall, I prescribed you a hearty dose of rest last night."

She shrugged. "I can rest anywhere. Besides, if I hadn't snuck away this morning, you might be bleeding in a gutter right now."

Booker's mouth quirked up into a crooked grin, and the sight of it sent a flutter of joy through her stomach. "I guess it's good you're as stubborn as I am, then."

She held his gaze for a moment longer, and a warm glow seemed to close the two of them off from the rest of the world. And that's when she made up her mind. She knew what she had to do. And she had to do it now.

"Well, if you're all set, I think I'll head on out," she said, rising to her feet and heading to the door.

"You're sure you won't stay? In my medical opinion, you could do with another night of rest in a warm house."

"I got work to do."

"This late?"

Casting a grin over her shoulder, she gave him a wink. "Don't worry. I'll be back to check in on you. Just stay alive till then."

Before he could object, she slipped out the door and made her way into the slums with one thought in mind:

Find Ford.

~

Luckily, Ford was a man of habit. After a failed robbery or a lousy card game or an unsatisfactory session with a night flower, he always went straight to his hangout and drowned his sorrows in gin and ale.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, Gin opened the door a crack and peeked inside. His back was turned to her as he sat slouched in a chair by the table, surrounded by empty bottles. He was mumbling incoherently to himself, and after emptying the bottle of ale in his hand, he growled a curse and threw it at the wall. She took that as an opportunity to slip in unnoticed.

As she made her way towards the drunken lout, she pulled out one of the many ribbons stashed her boot. It was made of a deep red silk and was nearly as wide as her arm. She'd stolen it straight off of a mannequin at the tailor's shop. It was one of her finest moments, and the ribbon was her most prized possession. But she'd found something far more valuable than pretty hairpieces.

And she would do whatever it took to protect him.

With the silent stealth of a true criminal, she knelt behind Ford and waited. After more mumbled swears, his head lolled onto his shoulder and his arms dangled limply on either side of the chair. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed his hands and pulled them behind him.

"What the bloody . . ." Ford slurred, lifting his bulbous head to try to glance over his shoulder.

With speed and skill that nearly rivaled Booker's, Gin tied the ribbon around his wrists with a tight, complicated knot. When she was sure he was secured, she rose to her feet and stationed herself in front of him.

Whether it was because of the dark or the alcohol, it seemed to take Ford a moment to recognize her. But once he did, that notorious rage flared up again. He moved to grab at her. However, the knotted ribbon held tight, and he remained struggling in the chair.

"You nasty strumpet," he spat. "You filthy little whore. You think you can just drop me like that? You think I'll just let you go? You're mine. You belong to me. You—"

Without a word, she reached into his pocket and removed his knife. It was still slick with Booker's blood. Her stomach twisted into a sick knot, and the memory of what Ford had done fueled her determination. She wouldn't let him hurt Booker again. She would end this now.

"I don't belong to anyone," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "Least of all you."

"Ungrateful, spoiled little—"

She jammed the blade into his thigh, and he let out an agonized howl.

"You and me?" she went on, keeping a firm grip on the weapon. "We're done. And if you ever, ever lay a finger on Booker Larkin again—"

Twisting the knife slowly, she pulled another cry from his pathetic, vomit-coated lips.

Still grasping the handle, she leaned in close, unmoved by the tears streaming down her former boss's cheeks. "I will not hesitate to end you. Mark. My. Words."

One last twist and she let go. He continued to curse through the tears, but she ignored him. Dusting off her hands, she adjusted her hat and headed back up the stairs, leaving behind the only semblance of a family she had ever known.

Forever.

Stepping out into the cold air of the slums, an amazing sense of relief washed over her. She felt lighter somehow. It was like she'd been carrying around this heavy burden for years and was only just realizing it now that it was gone.

She was free. Free from Ford. Free from fear. Free to choose what she wanted to do with her life.

A smile slowly spread across her face as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny mechanical crow. She knew exactly what she wanted to do with this newfound freedom. And with the rest of her life.

~

Booker answered the door the next morning, seeming almost surprised to see her on his doorstep. "Gin. What brings you here so early?"

Grinning, she leaned against the doorjamb and raised her eyebrows. "I told you I'd be back to check in on you. I hope you've been resting in a nice warm place, Doctor Larkin."

A soft laugh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. "I was about to make some tea and toast. Would you care to join me?"

She pretended to think it over before shrugging. "I guess I can spare a few minutes. Just to make sure you don't pass out from all that blood you lost."

Moving aside to let her in, Booker laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Your care and concern are more than welcome, my dear."

His warm touch made her heart swell, and she had to resist the urge to wrap her arms around his waist and never let go. This was it. This is what she'd always wanted. Someone who cared about her. Someone who treated her decently.

Someone who was worth dying for.

"Well, get used to it," she replied, keeping a nonchalant facade as she followed him into the kitchen. "I ain't going nowhere."