Booker winced as the blade of the knife sliced through his arm. He pressed his hand against it and managed to stumble back before the drunk could slash him again. The lout knocked himself over with the force of his swing, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, followed by a low moan.
"Sorry, my good sir," Booker said, pasting on a crooked smile. "I've enjoyed our conversation immensely, but I'm afraid I have patients to see."
The inebriated man tried to raise himself up but collapsed back to the ground. He rolled onto his side and lifted his eyes to Booker. "You sold me out, Larkin. You liquored me up and you sold me out."
"Sold you out? You make me sound like a common criminal, sir. What I do is barter with information. I bought you a few rounds of ale, which you paid for in secrets. And I then used said secrets to obtain what I needed. It's no different from currency."
"You're a rat."
Leaning forward, Booker smiled and shook his head. "I'm a doctor."
"A quack."
"A scientist."
Again, the man tried to clamber to his feet, but the copious amounts of liquor in his system came rushing back up, and he fell to his hands and knees and retched in the middle of the dark street. The projection wasn't all that impressive, but the volume was nothing to sneer at.
"I'd like to help you, my friend," Booker said over the sound of the man's heaving, "but I have other matters to attend to. Good night!"
Turning on his heel, he made his way back home. He stole a glance at the gash in his arm and found his fingers were sticky with blood. The brute may have been inebriated, but his strength was exceptional. Blood poured steadily from the deep cut, leaving a trail on the road as he hurried through the city center.
"Blasted moron," he hissed, tightening his grip on the wound.
"What happened to you?"
He turned to the familiar voice and found Gin standing in the shadows, her ever-present bowler hat tipped at an angle on her head. She looked him up and down, scrutinizing him carefully. When her gaze caught on his blood-covered arm, her sharp, amber eyes went wide.
"Ran into a little trouble," Booker said.
She approached him, her attention still on his arm. "That looks like more than a little."
"I'm glad you're here, actually. Mind lending me a hand?" He tore his soiled sleeve away, twisting the fabric into a thick cord and handing it to the urchin. "Could you tie that for me? Right above the cut. As tight as you can."
The little girl looped the material around his arm and pulled it hard. She stuck her tongue out in her effort, giving it her all and displaying more strength than one would expect from her slight appearance.
When it was clear it was as tight as it was going to get, he nodded. "Good, now make a knot. Keep it tight."
Gin did as he said and stepped back with a heavy sigh. "How'd this happen?"
The blood flow had slowed slightly, but he knew he needed to get home soon to stitch the wound up. "A minor miscommunication is all. Nothing to fret over."
"Miscommunication? What, was the knife supposed to land in your throat?"
"Well, he was drunk, so maybe."
He continued on home, and Gin fell into step beside him. "Were you messing with the Mice?" she asked.
Scoffing, he shook his head. "Even I know better than that. No, I was trading information, and someone took offense to that."
"What sort of information?"
"Just some delicate details about the gentleman's private affairs. It turns out he left a wife behind in Noxbury when he fled here to Tinkerfall in order to partake in the scandalous activities our fair city offers. His wife was more than willing to give up what information I needed in exchange for the tidbits I gave her. And it seems she told her husband's father who is now cutting him out of the inheritance. Somehow he blames me for that."
Gin snickered. "It is kinda your fault."
"I am not responsible for his inability to hold his liquor and tongue."
He fished the house key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. "I hope the information you got was worth it," Gin said, following him inside.
His lips twisted into a frown as he headed down to the laboratory. "All information is valuable."
This was a belief he stood by. Regardless, the information he'd gathered had not helped him get any closer to his goal. The drunk man's wife had been a neighbor to a very odd doctor who disappeared only months ago. While she fed Booker plenty of gossip and speculations about what had become of the mad doctor and his young protégé, all of it led to dead ends.
Grabbing his medical kit from the desk in the corner, he headed back up the stairs. Still, as a scientist, he knew that even apparent failures weren't truly a waste of time. At the very least, they showed him what was most assuredly not right, which would bring him one step closer to the truth.
"I hope you might stick around," he called to Gin as he resurfaced. "Just in case I need assistance stitching this up. I can walk you through it."
Gin was standing in the parlour, her mouth agape as she gazed about the room. "Booker, what the heck happened here?"
He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"
She waved at the room. "This place is a mess!"
Booker took a glance at the parlour himself. It was indeed a little worse for wear. There were stacks of dirty plates on the low table by the settee, as well as piles of books and newspapers. Some of the dishes even had bits of moldy food that he did not remember making. There were teacups on the mantel above the fireplace, all empty but stained by the strong black tea he drank on a regular basis. In addition to the kitchenware, there were several torn dress shirts tossed onto the floor and settee, most covered with machine oil and blood. Gears and small rivets were scattered across the floor, and he winced when he noticed a stray finger peeking out from beneath the settee.
"I suppose it is a tad worn," he said, using the toe of his shoe to push the finger out of sight.
"A tad? This place is a disaster! And that's coming from someone who lives on the street."
"I'm a busy man, I don't have time for tidying up," Booker said as he sat on the settee and opened his bag. "It's not like I have guests. Only patients, and they're usually too delirious from pain to notice the state of my house."
Gin sat beside him and watched as he lit a candle and ran the pointed end of a needle through the flame. "But you paid a lot of money to make your house look nice. Do you really want its inside to match the outside?"
He cleaned his wound out with some alcohol and then threaded the needle. "As I said, I'm a busy man. I have more pressing matters than cleaning. Such as this. Would you mind squeezing the sides together?"
The urchin pinched the cut together, and Booker pushed the needle through his own skin, hissing at the pain. But he gritted his teeth and finished the stitch, moving on to the next and the next until the gash was patched up, albeit somewhat sloppily.
"Tie that for me, will you?" he asked Gin, handing her the needle and thread.
She did so, and he fished out the scissors to finish it off. He examined his work and thought it was rather impressive for having done it mostly by himself. His talent with stitches was something to be admired when he was working on patients. Mr. Patterson always commented on his sutures, and Booker knew his proficiency was from all the practice he'd had being Benedict's partner in their bizarre experiments. Still, when it came to this sort of work, he couldn't deny that a good assistant would be helpful. Only six months here and he had already been attacked twice. Surely there would be more wounds in the near future.
"I guess it might not hurt to hire a maid," he said as he tore his eyes away from the stitches and focused on Gin. "I could certainly afford one. I'm just not sure I want someone milling about the house. My privacy is sacred to me. What if she tries to go into the laboratory?"
"You lock it, don't you? Just tell her she's not allowed down there."
He laughed. "Yes, tell my maid I don't want her polishing my jars filled with organs and severed limbs. Or organizing my mechanical hands and feet."
"People already know what kind of work you do, Booker."
"They think they know, but they have no proof."
"There are folks with your handiwork on their bodies walking around the city. Pretty sure they know first-hand."
"Yes, but I saved their lives and their livelihood. They wouldn't dare betray me. And I've put enough fear into them that even if their gratitude wasn't sufficient, their terror would be."
"I'm sure other doctors don't let their maids go into their workspace. You know, normal doctors."
Glancing about the room again, Booker considered the idea. He had initially thought that keeping up with the basic cleaning wouldn't be so difficult. But between patients and his search for Benedict, the task had gotten away from him.
"All right," he said at last. "You're right. I'll hire a maid. Unless you'd be interested in doing the work?"
Gin raised an eyebrow. "For a mess like this? You couldn't afford me."
~
In only a week, Booker had found a maid: Philomena Murcher. She was an older woman, likely pushing sixty. Her hair was greying and her skin was wrinkling, but Philomena was not a frail little grandmother. She had a sturdy build and was hiding some impressive muscles under her prim and proper attire. With a stern expression permanently etched on her face, Booker got the feeling she was constantly judging him. Or maybe she was just judging the state of his house.
When she got her first look at the parlour, her eyes went wide, and she turned to him with one eyebrow raised. "You've lived here how long?" she asked.
Booker shrank under her scrutinizing gaze. "Ah, six months? I think?"
Her eyes somehow grew wider, and she turned back to the mess. "Well, I suppose you hired me just in time then, Mr. Larkin. Shall I get to work right away?"
"Ah, sure, or you could bring your things to your room and settle in first."
"There will be time for that later," she said, setting her one small bag aside. "I cannot sleep in a filthy house. Where are your cleaning supplies?"
Scratching his chin, he gazed about the hallway. "That is an excellent question. Not sure where I last saw them. Or if I bought them at all."
Philomena pressed her lips together. "I see. Then I suppose I must first make a trip to the general store."
"Ah, yes, yes, of course. Let me give you some money for the expenses."
He dug into his pocket and retrieved a handful of coins. "I'll be sure to bring back the change," Philomena said as she stashed the money in her sash.
"No need. Consider it an advance for your hard work."
"I'm an honest, God-fearing woman, Mr. Larkin. You will be receiving your change."
With one last stern look, Philomena turned and left. As soon as the door closed, Booker let out a long breath. Leaning against the stair railing, he ran a hand through his hair. Was this really a good idea? Was a filthy house actually that big of a problem? Was having a judgemental maid worth a clean living space? But he put his worries out of mind. It was only the woman's first day. Perhaps the mess in the parlour had thrown her off. Maybe once things were tidier, she would settle down.
Still, he retreated downstairs so that he would be out of sight when she returned. He busied himself with a custom leg for a patient, but his thoughts wandered as his gaze strayed to his injured arm. What a disappointment that lead had been. Granted, he now knew that Benedict had indeed been in Noxbury very recently. But it didn't help him get any closer to finding him.
His hands paused, hovering over the limb of metal and gears as his eyes flickered to his desk. Putting the project aside, he sat down at the desk and took out a worn medical book. He opened it to a random page and smiled as he scanned the handwritten notes and calculations in the margins. The distinction between his own harried script and Benedict's neat, controlled lettering was clear. Memories of poring over the pages with his friend while the rest of the orphanage slept played through his head.
What would Benedict think of him now? Would he be impressed by the new skills he had acquired? Would he finally view him as more than just an assistant? Would he see him as a worthy rival? A worthy and equal partner, even?
Squeezing his hand into a fist, Booker swallowed down a knot in his throat. Soon. He'd find him soon. And he would awe him with his brilliance.
~
Booker jolted awake when he heard a loud bang upstairs. Shaking his head, he looked about the laboratory in a bit of a daze. When had he dozed off? He'd been pulling quite a few all-nighters as of late, and they seemed to be taking their toll. He needed to find a way to reduce the amount of sleep necessary to function. Perhaps a concoction of some sort? A mixture of various drugs and herbs to keep him alert and sharp?
Another bang pulled him from his thoughts. Rising from his chair, he hurried up the stairs and rushed into the hallway. "Ms. Murcher? Are you all right?" he asked as he peeked into the parlour.
His mouth fell open. Was this the same room he had been in only—he glanced at the clock. Three hours ago? The clothing, the dishes, the gears. They were all gone. The room had been dusted and polished and scrubbed so that it nearly shined. And the furniture had been rearranged. The settee had been moved to face the window with a street view, as had the table, and Philomena was now adjusting the armchair to join them.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Larkin," she said as she wiped her hands on her apron.
Still gawking at the cleanliness of his house, Booker somehow managed to mumble, "How?"
"Just some good old-fashioned elbow grease and an abundance of polish."
He paced over to the fireplace and ran a finger over the mantel. "Remarkable," he said, astounded by the lack of dust.
"I also made some tea. It's waiting in the dining room."
Philomena hustled through the dining-room door.
"Tea?" Booker repeated, following after her.
The dining room, too, had been thoroughly cleaned. At least, he thought so. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stepped foot in this part of the house. A teapot and teacup on a silver tray had been set atop the table. Philomena pulled out a chair for him.
"Thank you, Ms. Murcher," he said as he took his seat. "This is absolutely splendid. I can't believe you managed all of this in such a short period of time."
"All it takes is honest, hard work."
He took a sip of the tea and frowned against the cup as the weak, watery mixture hit his tongue. He was accustomed to making his own tea, and considering his late nights, he tended to brew it very strong. This was mostly murky water.
"Milk or sugar, Mr. Larkin?" Philomena asked, gesturing to the tray.
He despised sugar in his tea and couldn't imagine watering it down anymore so with milk. But as he caught the woman's stern, scrutinizing gaze, he flashed a smile and shook his head. "No, this is absolutely perfect, Ms. Murcher," he said, taking another agonizing sip.
~
Philomena was the perfect maid. She kept the house sparkling clean, she cooked mouthwatering meals, and she kept out of the laboratory. However, her judgemental manner made Booker uneasy, and he found that he was spending more and more time downstairs just to get away from her critical eye. Fearing the look of disapproval he would receive should she become privy to his unusual surgeries, he'd taken to sneaking his patients into the laboratory and sometimes even arranging to meet them at the Clocktower. It was like living with Mr. Patterson again, except Mr. Patterson never made him feel quite so disapproved of. Booker wasn't much of a religious man, but one withering stare from Philomena convinced him that he was destined for a future filled with hellfire.
Still, the house had never looked better. And she kept him well-fed. Philomena made two hearty meals a day, supplemented by afternoon scones and muffins and plenty of weak tea. While Booker usually didn't have a large appetite, he felt obliged to make an appearance in the dining room each time she called. After several weeks of this, he was beginning to fear he would outgrow his trousers.
"Everything looks so clean," Gin said one day when she stopped by to deliver payment from a recent patient.
"Yes, and I suppose that's all that counts," Booker grumbled as he tucked the money into his pocket.
Gin furrowed her brow. "Something wrong with her?"
Sighing, he collapsed onto the settee and shrugged. "She does exactly what a maid should. She cooks, she cleans, she's polite, she's orderly."
"But you don't like her."
"More that she doesn't like me."
With a crooked grin, Gin leaned against the arm of the settee. "Thought you'd be used to folks not liking you, Booker. How many times have you been stabbed now?"
"It's different with her. It's like she's judging me. Like she thinks I'm a sinner or something."
"Well, you're definitely not a saint."
"Mr. Larkin, your tea is ready," Philomena said as she entered the parlour. Her eyes went straight to Gin, a line forming between her brows. "I was not aware you had a guest."
"Ah, yes, this is a friend of mine, Gin," Booker said.
"Shouldn't you be in school, young lady?" Philomena asked the urchin.
Gin laughed. "Good one."
The maid raised an eyebrow. "At work, then?"
"Actually, now that you mention it, I do have some work to get to," Gin said as she rose to her feet. "It's prime picking down in the market. Nice weather attracts fancy couples with pockets full of goods. Talk to you later, Booker."
The urchin hurried out the door, leaving Booker alone with Philomena who was pursing her lips at him in a most disapproving manner. Clearing his throat, he got up and inched towards the hallway.
"Thank you greatly for the tea," he said as she followed him with her critical gaze. "But I'm afraid I am absolutely swamped with work. So if you'll just, ah, excuse me."
He reached the laboratory door and quickly slipped inside, escaping from the intimidating older woman. As soon as he was safely downstairs, he let out a heavy sigh.
"If only she weren't so good at cleaning," he mumbled as he pulled out some gears and tools and started tinkering.
~
As exhausting as it was to have Philomena judging his every move, Booker felt he couldn't dismiss her. The work she did was stupendous, and she was respectful of his privacy. She was everything a maid should be. So the months wore on as he put up with her holier-than-thou attitude and drank her weak and watery tea in a clean and tidy house.
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," he mumbled as brewed himself a proper cup of tea in the kitchen.
The only time he could enjoy tea was late at night after Philomena had gone to bed. Even then, he was careful not to make a sound for fear of rousing her. As the kettle began to spew out steam, he quickly tossed a rag over it and pulled it off the stove to keep it from whistling.
"What good is a clean house if I can't even enjoy being in it?" he said, pouring the water over the leaves.
Before he could return the kettle to the burner, the bell at the front door went off. Wincing at the sound, he rushed to answer it, hoping Philomena hadn't been woken.
A man was standing on the doorstep. He appeared to be at least in his thirties, with greying hair and stubble on his face. There was something very familiar about him, but Booker couldn't quite place it.
"You a doctor?" the man asked in a gruff, scratchy voice.
"I am," Booker replied.
"A discreet doctor?"
Booker narrowed his eyes. "You need discretion?"
A young woman appeared from behind him, clutching her stomach. She looked up at the gruff man who put his arm around her lovingly and turned back to Booker. His eyes were filled with panic.
"I need to find a way to nip a little issue in the bud," he said.
Furrowing his brow, Booker flitted his gaze between the couple. "Issue?"
The gruff man laid his hand against the woman's belly. "A growing issue."
Understanding dawned on Booker, and he stepped aside for them to enter. "Of course. Come right inside, please."
He led them to the parlour and had them sit before he went to fetch a pen and paper. As he hurried down to the laboratory, he tried to place the man in his mind. The woman who was with him wore no ring, so she couldn't be a wife. And if he was looking for discretion, he was probably married, perhaps even in a position that could garner some bad press should his secret get out. But he wasn't dressed well enough to be a higher-up, nor did Booker recognize him as a shopkeeper.
Still going over all of this in his head, Booker returned to the parlour and sat himself in the armchair. "Well, can you help us?" the man asked.
Booker began scribbling a name and address onto the paper. "Me? No, I don't dabble in birth and such."
The man heaved an exasperated sigh, and the woman whimpered. "Then I'm wasting my time," he said, rising to his feet and pulling her along with him.
Booker held up a hand to stop him. "I cannot help you, but I know of someone who can."
Lowering himself back down, the man eyed him suspiciously. "He discreet?"
"Most doctors who perform abortions are discreet, so yes. I've written down the town and his name. If you tempt him with a bit of coin, I'm sure he'll make you a priority."
Relief spread over the man's face as he reached out to take the paper, but Booker snatched it back. The gruff man's lip lifted in a snarl. "I'm guessing you want payment?" he asked.
Booker gave a condescending smile. "Something like that."
Letting out a sharp laugh, the gruff man shook his head. "I knew you were trouble the moment you stepped into this city, Larkin. What's your price?"
The way he barked Booker's name caused a memory to stir. Back to a few months ago, shortly after he arrived in Tinkerfall and somehow managed to find himself in the middle of a rather violent brawl. The police officer who had broken up the fight said his name in just the same disdainful and irritated manner. Now Booker knew exactly who this man was.
"My price is a little different for you, Constable Jewkes," he said as he crossed one leg over the other.
The man started. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, you didn't think I recognized you? Please, I may be new to Tinkerfall, but surely you could tell right from the start that I wasn't your average troublemaker."
Jewkes narrowed his eyes at him. "Your price, Larkin."
"As I said, my price for you will be a little different from that of my typical patients."
"I don't have much money, Larkin. I'm a copper, not a baron."
"Money is not what I have in mind, Constable. I'm after something far more valuable."
"That being?"
"Opportunity."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "Opportunity? Opportunity for what?"
Booker leaned forward. "As a man of science and curiosity, there are times my investigations and research lead me into dangerous and often restricted territories."
"So you want me to keep you from being arrested?"
"Well, that would be nice, too, but I'm more interested in your ability to get me information or get me into places and situations that we normal folk are barred from. You know, murder scenes, evidence, locked buildings. Things like that."
Jewkes clenched his jaw and fists. "I'm a man of the law. I'm not looking to do anything illegal."
Booker's eyes wandered to the quiet woman sitting beside the officer. "Seems to me you already are."
The woman paled and shrank back. Jewkes took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze before turning his sharp gaze to Booker. "Fine. Tell me what you want."
"Oh, nothing at the moment. But down the road, I'm certain I'll have favors to be called in."
"And exactly how long will these favors last?"
"I don't know. How long do you want your marriage to last?"
Jewkes' face fell, and he took a deep breath before nodding slowly. "Fine. I'll help you where I can."
"Excellent." Booker handed him the paper, which he accepted almost grudgingly. "Jewkes, I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
The officer scoffed and glared at him. "You're a piece of work, Larkin."
Flashing a self-satisfied smile, Booker rose to his feet. "Well, you and your pretty miss might want to head out sooner rather than later. I hear if you wait for too long, these parasites can grow into quite the problem."
Jewkes stuffed the paper into his pocket and pulled himself and his lady companion up. "If this fellow turns out to be a quack, the deal's off," he said to Booker as they made their way to the door.
"I do not associate with quacks, my good sir. Madmen and criminals, yes. But never quacks."
The officer's eye twitched as he gave a reluctant nod. "I thank you for your assistance," he said through clenched teeth.
"Anytime, Constable. Safe travels."
With one final grin, Booker closed the door on the pair and let out a pleased sigh. He returned to the kitchen where he leaned against the table and sipped his tea, savoring the strong taste and thinking of all the ways he could use his newfound connection.
~
Booker descended the stairs the next morning, still in high spirits over attaining such a valuable resource the night before. This would certainly help in his research and might even keep him from being arrested. Yes, this was a wonderful new development.
He was pulled from his gleeful thoughts when he found Philomena standing by the front door, luggage in hand and her dark blue bonnet atop her head.
"Is all well, Ms. Murcher?" he asked as he reached the final step.
"No, Mr. Larkin, all is not well," Philomena responded.
Seeing that fire-and-brimstone look in her eyes, he steeled himself for what lecture may be coming. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to remedy what ails you?"
"I'd not be coming to the likes of you if I was in need of a doctor."
He drew back at her sharp tone. "I'm sorry, I—"
"I quit, Mr. Larkin."
He blinked a few times, caught off-guard by her sudden declaration. "Quit?"
"Yes. I can no longer work in such immoral conditions."
Leaning against the railing, he shook his head and repeated, "Immoral?"
"I let your ungodly surgeries slide, although I think it's an abomination to be combining flesh and machine as if you think you're fit to play God."
"I don't think—"
"And I turned a blind eye to your dealings with criminals and night flowers, wretched though they may be. I consoled myself with the fact that at the very least you didn't seem to engage in their sinful activities. Or at least not at home."
Heat rose in his cheeks. "Let me assure you, I—"
"But after last night, there's no way I can stand idly by and be part of your godless ways."
Booker closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. "I'm sorry, last night?"
"I heard your little discussion with that adulterous couple, Mr. Larkin. And I cannot in good conscience stay in the employment of a man who would encourage such illegal and immoral activities as killing an unborn child."
"I wouldn't say I was encouraging it, exactly—"
"And if that wasn't bad enough, employing blackmail certainly sealed the deal. I'm sorry, Mr. Larkin. Normally I would give at least a week's notice, but I feel that in these circumstances, it's best that I take my leave now."
Opening his mouth to speak once more, he was silenced by a raised hand and an averted gaze.
"I do not wish to discuss the matter further, Mr. Larkin. Again, I apologize for the sudden departure, but I feel you've left me no choice."
Giving a curt nod, Philomena gripped her luggage and turned to the door. Booker was speechless as he watched her straighten her bonnet and step outside. She stopped for a moment and cast a glance over her shoulder. He tensed under her judgemental gaze.
"May God have mercy on your soul, Mr. Larkin."
With that ominous farewell, she made her way into the street and disappeared around the corner.
Booker closed the door and slumped against it with a somewhat relieved sigh. "I think he just did," he mumbled.