The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Eighteen

 Trinket rushed Emma inside, locking the door and then helping her into the parlour. Emma thanked her as she sat on the settee, her eyes trained on the floor. As Trinket tried to make her comfortable, she couldn't keep her gaze from straying to the girl's finger and the unnatural position it was in.

"Mr. Larkin," Emma muttered. "I need his help."

"I'm sorry, he's not at home right now."

Emma moved to face her and winced as she jostled her finger. "When . . . when will he be back?"

"I don't know." Desperate to ease the girl's pain, Trinket grasped at whatever options there were. "I could go find him. Or send someone out to find him. Or—"

Emma shook her head and closed her eyes, steadying her breaths. "No. No, it's fine. I can . . . wait."

There was a long silence as Emma concentrated on her breathing and Trinket stood by uselessly. Finally, Trinket kneeled by the table, afraid to sit on the settee for fear she would upset Emma's hand and cause her more pain.

"Emma, what happened?" she asked softly.

Again, Emma shook her head. "Nothing. Just an accident. At the shop."

"You make tea. What sort of accident could lead to this?" She motioned at her broken finger.

As Emma looked down at her damaged hand, her pale face turned a shade of green, and she quickly closed her eyes. "It was just an accident. Nothing to worry about."

Her finger being horizontal seemed like something to worry about. Trinket was about to object when she noticed a strange smoke drifting down the hallway. Thinking it another hallucination, she nearly ignored it. But then she remembered the kettle. Bolting from the room, she ran into the kitchen to find it completely immersed in steam from the overboiled water still on the stove.

"Thank goodness it wasn't soup," she mumbled to herself as she grabbed a rag and removed the kettle from the heat.

She tried to fan away some of the steam, but she was worried about leaving Emma alone for too long for fear she should faint from the pain. Just as she was about to return to the parlour, she heard the front door open and close.

"Trinket?"

Tossing the rag onto the table, she rushed into the hallway to find Booker removing his coat and hat. He caught sight of her and heaved a heavy sigh.

"No sign of him," he said as she raced towards him. "I wonder if he slipped out—why is there smoke everywhere?"

"You have a patient," she said, nearly colliding with him in her haste to bring him to Emma.

"A patient? Who—"

He knit his eyebrows together when he saw Emma sitting on the settee, cradling her hand. Then he noticed her finger, and he turned to Trinket questioningly. Without explanation, she took his arm and led him into the parlour.

Emma glanced up at them and rose to her feet. "Mr. Larkin, I need—"

"Yes, yes, I can see," Booker said, his eyes locked on her hand. "Please, sit down. Trinket, my bag."

Before he could even sit down to examine the injury, Trinket was stumbling down the stairs to the laboratory. Having fetched the bag a number of times, it took her mere seconds to retrieve it and run back to the parlour. Emma was biting her lip while Booker gently touched her wrist.

"As I'm sure you have guessed, it's broken," he said as Trinket laid the bag down on the table. He glanced up at Emma. "How did this happen?"

"An accident," Emma replied, a tremor in her voice.