“In the eyes of the law and the church, everything’s already right and tight. But it’s not right in your eyes, and that’s what matters to me. I want you to know that I married you because I chose to, that our wedding was something we chose together because we wanted it.”

“We don’t have a vicar here.” She sounded uncertain but not opposed to the idea.

“I talked Fletcher around to filling that role.”

Gemma lifted an eyebrow. “You were aiming for irony, were you?”

“Convenience, actually. Had to be him or Stone, and Stone’s off making arrangements for a double funeral.” He kissed her hand quickly, tenderly. “Will you marry me, Gemma? Again?”

“Could I change into my other dress first? It’s nicer than this one.”

Relief wrapped around his heart; she was accepting his proposal. “Of course.”

She leapt from the table and hurried into the bedroom, the flowers still in her hand.

“She’s a right’un, Doc,” Fletcher said. “Sharp as shards and brave as arrows.”

“And, by some miracle, she loves me,” Barnabus added.

“It’s a miracle the women we love don’t think we’re all a heap of rubbish.”

Barnabus looked at his friend. “Thank you again for all you’ve done for us and all you’ll be doing the day of the burial.”

“It’ll be the most incredible feat the DPS has managed to date, and those few of us who know won’t ever be able to tell a soul.” He shook his head. “We’ve managed some incredible things, ain’t we?”

“We have at that. I’ll miss being part of it.”

Fletcher slapped a hand on his shoulder. “And we’ll miss having you.”

“Any chance you’d tell me the identity of the Dread Master before I pike off?” Barnabus asked. “I’ve whittled my guesses down to two, and I’ll wonder the rest of my life which was correct.”

“Afraid not, Doc. You’ll simply have to decide for yourself which guess is correct and then live your life assuming you’re right.”

“Can’t blame me for asking.”

“You’re certainly not the first.”

Barnabus rose and crossed to a small, tin mirror on the mantelpiece. He smoothed his hair and mustache. It was about all he could do to neaten his appearance. Gemma would have to simply take him as he was.

The bride herself stepped into the room. She’d changed into a dark-gray gown, not overly fine and not boasting a single bit of lace or any unneeded ruffles. But she looked lovely.

It wasn’t a dress he’d seen before. The Dread Master must have arranged for her to have it, likely on account of her having run from Finsbury entirely empty-handed. Their mysterious head had also provided Barnabus with clothes to replace the bloodstained ones he’d arrived in.