"Looks like his tools and supplies are gone."

Trinket turned to Booker who was searching through the drawers of the workbenches in Benedict's laboratory. She approached, laying a hand on his shoulder and gazing down at the empty compartment he had opened.

"Everything else looks exactly the same, though," she said, glancing about the rest of the room. "Neat and orderly, each piece in its place. Well, except the cat."

Booker slammed the drawer shut. "The cat?"

"Yes, there was a stuffed cat on the writing desk with a mismatched limb. It's gone."

Giving a sharp laugh, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the workbench. "Blasted, flea-bitten beast. He leaves me behind and takes the cat instead. Every bloody time. I really do hate that thing."

Trinket gently grasped his hand. "Well, it's dead now, so I suppose it got what was coming to it."

"And yet he still chose her over me."

"Booker, you know that's not true."

Sighing, he took another look at the laboratory, his eyes filled with both awe and sadness. "So this is where he did it all. Created mutant animals, experimental corpses, delusional vampires. I mean, it's a far cry from the closet in the orphanage, but it's still impressive that he managed so well in such a small, primitive workplace. He really is beyond my caliber of genius."

Genius was one way of putting it. Madness was another.

"I only wish he'd said goodbye first," Booker mumbled.

Her heart ached at the almost childlike dejection in his expression as he gazed at the operating table before them. She tightened her grip on his hand and offered a sympathetic smile.

Shifting slightly, he let out another sigh. "I suppose that just means I truly disappointed him. Couldn't keep his interest for even a week."

Burning indignation ignited inside of Trinket. "No, that's not it. Believe me, I had quite a revealing conversation with him when he fetched me from the asylum. If anything, he felt he wasn't worthy of your attention and devotion. You're his best friend, Booker. His only friend, as he claims. And he thinks you're amazing. Trust me."

"Yes, but maybe in that week spent together, he realized how wrong he'd been. Seeing me broken and bruised, getting a closer look at my inferior inventions."

"Stop this. It's not true. I watched you two. He was in awe of your accomplishments. Don't you remember? He admitted to using your work with mechanics to make the fangs. There is absolutely no way he left because you disappointed him."

It was true. In the week Benedict had stayed at the house with them, taking care of Booker's injuries and catching up with him, she'd seen the respect he had for his friend. But there'd been something more as well. A deep and complicated sadness every time he looked at Booker. Even so, Trinket was certain it wasn't due to Booker's abilities or how he had changed. No, this sadness, this grief, seemed an inward one. Something else was bothering him, and she couldn't figure out what. She only hoped it hadn't been because of her presence. If he left out of jealousy over her relationship with Booker, the guilt would eat at her forever.

"It makes no difference," Booker said at last, pushing himself away from the bench and wincing as he limped forward, the knife wound in his leg still healing. "Whatever his reasons, he's gone. That's all there is to it."

"Maybe he'll be back. After all, he did leave a lot behind."

"He left a lot behind last time, too."

"And he returned."

Booker shrugged. "I suppose. Anyhow," he turned to her and smiled, "we'd best get going. Wouldn't want to be late, would we?"

Despite her concern for Booker and the sudden disappearance of Benedict, a large grin spread over Trinket's face. She squeezed his hand tightly. "No, we wouldn't."

They headed back up the stairs and out the door that had been kept propped open with Booker's walking stick. As they turned into the street, Booker took one last look at the alley and the dilapidated building beside it.

"I still can't believe he was under our noses all this time," he said. "That night with the Wolf. We were so close. He must have found it quite amusing."

"I don't understand why he didn't just end the ridiculous game then and there."

"Well, that wouldn't have been much fun, would it? Besides," he smiled at her again, "who can say we would've ended up like this without so many dead bodies bringing us together?"

Laughing, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and they made their way out of the slums. "I've said it several times, but I'll say it again: I think there's something terribly wrong with us, Mr. Larkin."

As they strolled past the shops and crowds, Trinket took in a deep breath. There was a distinct sense of relief and peace permeating the city. News about Scales' demise had spread rather quickly, and it wasn't long before the Dead Mice disbanded. Some of the members left Tinkerfall, fearful that a killer was taking out the gang. Others remained, continuing their illegal activities on their own, though their crimes were far less insidious than they'd been with Viper or Scales acting as their leader.

There were all sorts of rumors floating around about what had happened. Talk of the Spittel Lads returning or unrest within the gang coming to a head. But the most widely spread and believed of all the stories was that Booker was the man who had killed the notorious Mouse. And upon seeing the sorry shape Tinkerfall's beloved doctor was in, the rumors were marked as facts in a matter of hours.

It had worried Trinket at first, thinking the police would come after him, but they were unusually quiet on the subject. Perhaps they were just as relieved to have the gang gone as the rest of the city was. Or maybe Jewkes had had a hand in protecting Booker. Whatever the case, Trinket wondered what the denizens of Tinkerfall would have thought if it was revealed to them that the true hero of the story was a tongueless woman with aquariums attached to her neck.

"I'm sorry he left," Trinket said, glancing up at a silent Booker. "I know you were hoping he'd come with us today. We could wait until he returns."

He shook his head. "We could be waiting another five years. Besides, this isn't about him. It's about us." His eyes widened as he looked down at her, his expression suddenly filled with worry. "Unless you'd like to wait. If you want to have a more proper ceremony or wait for my face to be a little less repugnant, we certainly can."

She laughed and brushed her fingers against his bruised cheek. The marks were fading, but some of the cuts still looked rather painful. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not marrying you for your looks, isn't it?"

Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. "We could wait, though. If you wanted to have your brother here, I'd understand. We could send a—"

"No."

He furrowed his brow at her sharp, immediate response, and she winced, realizing how heartless she'd sounded. Attempting to soften her tone, she went on. "I'm just not ready to see him yet. I may not have killed him, but I did hurt him. I worry he might resent me, and I don't think I can handle that at the moment."

"If he cares about you—and from what you've told me about him, he does—he won't resent you. I mean, you stabbed me, and I ended up head over heels in love with you."

Trinket shook her head and playfully slapped his arm as he chuckled. "That's because you're a macabre and demented mad scientist." Her smile faded away, and she continued, "Besides, I worry if we contact him before we're married, my parents might try to get involved and have me sent back to Elysium. While I fear Merrill may harbor hard feelings over what I did, I have no question that my parents do. I can't risk them finding out I escaped the asylum."

Putting his arm around her shoulders, Booker pulled her closer. "They'll have to get through me first. And I suspect Daphne as well, and we've all seen how dangerous she can be."

Her smile returned. "Once things have settled a bit, I can think about contacting Merrill. Maybe by then I'll have the courage to face him. And my parents."

"We'll do whatever you want. And in only a few minutes, you'll have the reassurance that, should your parents or any crazy redheads try to send you back to Elysium, they'll have absolutely no power to do so. As your husband, I'll personally threaten every person who attempts to take you against your will. I'll even sew eyeballs into their arms if I must."

"Always the gallant hero."

"Only for you, my dear."

~

The registry office was located near the train station, straddling the line between the city center and the suburbs. From the fine decor and pristine condition of the building, it was obviously making a show of which part of the city it truly belonged to.

It was a simple ceremony. An exchange of vows, the signing of papers—with Trinket using her real name, which was both unnerving and freeing—and a stiff mention of well-wishes from the official, a short, squat man with a thinning mustache who had clearly heard either the rumors about her and Booker's former relationship as maid and employer or the ones about Trinket's mental instability.

And then it was done. They walked out of the office, hand in hand, as husband and wife.

"It's a lovely ring," Trinket said, looking down at the silver band on her left ring finger.

"And temporary, remember," Booker added, taking her hand and laying a kiss against her knuckles. "I'm going to make one far more fitting for someone as remarkable as my wife."

A delightful tingle spread through her body at hearing him call her that. "What has me slightly perplexed, though, is this." She lifted his hand clutched tightly in hers, motioning to the ring on his own finger. "I didn't think men wore wedding bands."

"I want everyone to be aware that I am most happily taken," he replied with a grin.

A smile spread over her face, and she leaned into him. "So, what now? Back to the house?"

He hesitated, and she glanced up at him to find that his eyes had become a little darker. Worried there was something he was keeping from her, she gripped his jacket and straightened up.

"Booker? Is everything all right?" she asked.

"I was actually hoping we could make one more stop before heading home. Would that be all right?"

Her anxiety faded a bit, but she was still wary. "Of course. Whatever you need."

They turned onto Angel Road, and for a moment, she wondered if he was headed to the police station. Had the police requested he give a statement? Had they found evidence of his involvement in Scales' death? Or was he just going there to harass Jewkes with news of their marriage? But they continued on past the station, and she realized as the rusted, wrought-iron fence came into view where it was they were going.

Booker stopped at the gate, staring out at the rows of headstones. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down anxiously. Trinket gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Do you want me to show you where she is?" she asked softly.

He nodded wordlessly, his eyes fixed on the distant graves. Pulling the gate open, she tugged him inside and led him through the cemetery. She hadn't been by to visit Gin's grave since she'd been buried. With all the chaos, she'd barely had time to grieve. But even worse, Booker hadn't been able to mourn his friend's passing. It had been in her mind to ask him to go with her. And as macabre as it seemed to do so on their wedding day, it also felt right. Gin had been such an important person in their lives. It only made sense she should be a part of this day.

Somehow,Trinket knew the path by heart, even though that night had been a blur of emotions. Her feet led the way, and soon they were standing before the headstone. The gravekeeper had kept his word and erected a mortsafe, which had a crimson ribbon tied about one of the bars, shaped into a clumsy bow. Had one of the urchins put it there? Probably Madison. He'd known Gin better than any of them.

The mortsafe was so small compared to the others around it, a reminder of the child who lay beneath. Fresh tears pricked at Trinket's eyes as she recalled the feeling of Gin's limp body in her arms and the pain of knowing she would never see her friend again.

"Larkin," Booker said as he read the headstone.

"I didn't think you would mind," Trinket replied. "She was part of the family,after all."

He gave a sad smile. "Yes. Yes, she was."

Kneeling down, he took something out of his pocket. It was small and appeared to be made of metal. As he reached through the bars of the mortsafe to lay the object on the ground, Trinket caught a better glimpse of its shape.

The crow.

So that's what he'd been working on downstairs for the past few weeks. All those tiny gears and pieces of metal he kept scooping into his writing desk drawer. He'd been rebuilding Gin's mechanical crow.

Her heart ached as Booker gazed down at the grave, the miniature crow perched atop it like a personal guardian watching over the young urchin. Placing a hand on the headstone, he let out a sigh and gave a weak smile.

"Thank you, Gin," he said softly. "For everything."

After another moment, he lifted himself back up and turned to Trinket. She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, and he pulled her towards himself and held her tight. The tears flowed all the more so as she buried her face in his chest.

"And thank you, Trinket," he whispered against her hair.

~

Once they were able to collect themselves, they finally made their way back home. As devastating as it was to revisit Gin's death, it was somewhat cathartic as well, particularly for Booker. He seemed lighter, less haunted. He was even able to mention Gin without that pained expression on his face.

"She would have been thrilled," he said. "About us. Although, I don't think she ever thought I'd marry."

"And your maid at that."

"Yes, she did voice skepticism when I suggested as much."

Trinket raised an eyebrow. "Am I to believe a maid that came before me was able to win your heart?"

He chuckled softly and laid a kiss on her head. "A theoretical maid who could brew a proper cup of tea and not make my life more difficult. I doubt she thought such a person existed, especially since she seemed to despise every servant I hired."

"When I first met her, I thought she hated me."

"To be fair, I'd had some rather bad experiences with maids. She was likely worried you were going to try to rob me or murder me."

"She was close."

"Stealing a man's heart isn't nearly as bad as stealing his walking stick."

As they drew closer to the house, they found a woman standing outside. Though she was turned away from them, it was hard to miss that flaming copper hair done up in two buns atop her head.

"Oh, Lord, what is she doing here?" Booker mumbled.

When they were near enough to catch her attention, Frieda turned to them with a dazzling smile. "Good morning, my darling," she cooed.

"Frieda, I made it very clear you are no longer welcome here," Booker said, tightening his hold on Trinket.

"Oh, please, you were angry when you said that."

"I'm still angry."

Rolling her eyes, Frieda heaved a sigh. "Fine, fine, I'll apologize again. I'm very sorry for sending your fiancée—"

"My wife."

Frieda raised an eyebrow. "As I assumed. I apologize for trying to have her committed to an asylum. And as a token of my penitence, I bring you a wedding gift."

She held out a small box to Trinket who exchanged a look with Booker before accepting it. "Thank you?" Trinket said uncertainly.

Beaming at them both, Frieda clasped her hands before her dark red skirt. "Well, now that I've made my peace with you both, I should be returning home."

"Oh, so soon?" Booker said sarcastically.

"Don't you worry. I'll be back once I'm sure my servants haven't run the estate into the ground. I'll write, though. Be sure you respond this time, Booker, darling. I'd hate to resort to drastic measures."

"If you break into my house or drug my friends again, I'll have you arrested."

"Ooh, I do love when you get rough and authoritative, but maybe we should tone it down in front of your wife."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Goodbye, Frieda."

She patted his cheek. "Until next time, love." Turning to Trinket, she winked and popped open her parasol. "Have fun tonight."

As she swaggered off down the road, Booker gave Trinket an apologetic frown. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"No, no, it's fine. I just worry what might be in this box," Trinket said, gazing at the package with more than a little suspicion.

Though she wasn't certain it was a good idea, she opened it and found a small note laid on top of a layer of tissue paper. It was written in pretty, curly script and read:

I'm not giving up quite yet. Until my darling Booker comes to his senses, be sure to keep him entertained. I hope this will contribute to his pleasure on your honeymoon.

Her stomach sank as she handed the card to Booker and peeked beneath the papers. When she caught sight of the tiny, lacey scrap of lingerie within, she let out a short gasp and threw the cover back on.

Booker laughed, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "It's a step in the right direction with her," he said.

"She's the one who belongs in an asylum if she thinks this is an appropriate gift."

"What, you're not going to try it on? Not even tonight?"

"Booker Larkin, I will slap that grin right off your face. Don't think I won't."

He continued to laugh as he unlocked the door. They slipped into the house where Daphne greeted them in the foyer. With a big grin, she hugged them both and planted kisses on their cheeks.

"I take it this is her way of congratulating us?" Booker asked Trinket when Daphne finally released them.

Daphne waved them into the parlour, and as they stepped inside, they found set before them a beautiful spread of eggs and bread and fruit and tiny cakes. And, of course, crumpets and strawberry jam.

"Daphne, you did all this for us?" Trinket asked, unable to believe the sheer amount of food.

She nodded enthusiastically, still sporting a bright, cheerful smile.

"So this is why you couldn't come with us this morning," Booker said.

Waving them over to the settee, Daphne disappeared through the dining-room door.

Taking a seat, Booker offered Trinket a crumpet. "Mrs. Larkin."

She smiled and accepted it, breaking it in half and handing one piece to him. "Mr. Larkin."

Leaning forward, he kissed her before taking a bite of the pastry. "I have to say, I never thought much of marriage. Always seemed like a lot of hassle. But so far, I'm quite enjoying it."

"Face it, Mr. Larkin. You've become soft and domestic."

Glancing at the table, Booker furrowed his brow. "What's this?"

Sitting amidst the plates of food was yet another package, this one wrapped in plain brown paper. It had both his name and hers written on it in neat block letters across the top.

"Another wedding gift?" Trinket said as Booker pulled it into his lap and carefully removed the paper.

It was a book. But not just any book. It was Booker's old medical book. The one Benedict had given him. Booker took a sharp breath and slowly opened the front cover. There was a folded-up note and a key inside. As Booker read the note, Trinket picked up the key. It was small and made of brass. Something about it reminded her of the one Booker had given her to the laboratory.

"It's from him," Booker said, still staring at the paper.

He handed it to Trinket. It was filled with the same neat handwriting that was on the package.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Larkin.

I apologize for the trouble I have caused you both. I realize now my game was reckless and selfish, and I regret the pain you were forced to endure.

Trinket, I thank you for helping me to see how my actions affect others. Your genius with hearts has had a true and profound effect on me. I pray you'll take good care of our mad scientist as his wise and loving wife.

And Booker, my old friend. I beg forgiveness for leaving without saying goodbye. After nearly seeing you die due to my negligence, I realized I need to reevaluate my priorities. It's my hope that when we meet again, I will be worthy of being called your friend and rival. Until then, please watch over my laboratory. I'd like to pick up where we left off when I return, this time with a little more care and kindness.

My best wishes to you both. I could not imagine a better couple.

Yours truly and madly,

B. H.

Returning the note to Booker, Trinket glanced up at him, trying to read his emotions. "He'll be back. I'm sure of it," she said softly.

He smiled, and it warmed her heart to find, not pain or disappointment behind it, but rather hope. "I'm sure of it, too," he said. "And by then, perhaps we'll both have grown up a bit more."

Trinket rested her head against his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief.

Daphne returned with a tray of tea. As she set it down on the table, the front bell went off. Scrunching up her face, she motioned for them to stay put and hurried into the hallway.

"I think we could use a break anyhow," Booker said, leaning back and putting an arm around Trinket's shoulders. "After all the death and vampires and organs, it might be nice to bask in a little marital bliss."

"I don't know. It's hard to imagine our lives without some sort of chaos in it."

"Are you saying you'll actually miss all the blood and guts?"

"Doctor?"

They turned their attention to the voice coming from the doorway. There was a young man standing there, clutching his hand as blood streamed from his severed index finger. Daphne came up from behind him, shrugging helplessly.

"Please, Doctor," the young man said, his voice trembling with panic. "I hear you can fix this."

Glancing down at Trinket, Booker lifted his eyebrows pleadingly. She smiled and let out a sigh. "I'll go ready the ether," she said, rising to her feet.

Booker followed after her. Taking her hand, he pulled her back and kissed her hard. "I am so in love with you," he whispered as they parted. Turning to the bleeding young man, he said, "Come along, my dear sir. My partner and I will have you good as new in no time."