Read Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 for Free Online Page A

black silk robe and a pullover cap peered out.
    "Hiya,” the man said, with a broad, friendly smile.
    The bulges were easy to see under the pullover, two symmetrical, thumb-sized lumps, too smooth to be tumors.
    "I'm Scott Bouillard, your neighbor,” Scott said. He pointed up the hill.
    "Yes! Haven't met, though I've heard about you. You're a doctor, right?"
    "A plastic surgeon."
    "A plastic surgeon! I'm honored.” He put out his hand. “My name is Cary Ginder. I'm sorry I never introduced myself. I'd invite you in, only I'm in the middle of something now, and ....."
    "I don't mean to bother you. I just wondered—my little girl saw you and scared herself—is that under-the-skin jewelry on your forehead?"
    Cary brushed the cap back. Uncovered, they looked huge.
    "They're beauties,” Scott said. “Can I touch them?"
    "My pleasure."
    Scott palpated the skin-covered horns and felt an irregular hardness underneath.
    "It's not jewelry,” Cary said. “It's real bone. Transplanted from my hip. That way they'll keep growing."
    "I've read about that,” Scott said. He reached up and lightly pinched the skin above one horn. “You'll need some extra skin grafted in soon. You've reached the elastic limit of what you've got."
    "That's a worry,” Cary said. “Why don't you come on in and tell me more."
    They walked through a hallway decorated with oil paintings that resembled scenes out of Hieronymus Bosch, except that the monstrous creatures wore politician's faces.
    Cary took a sharp breath and held his hand to his side. “Can't skin keep on expanding? Like when you get fat?"
    "Yes, but those horns are pointy,” Scott said. “They put pressure on your skin and compromise the circulation. I'd recommend taking a graft off your stomach."
    "Would you do that for me?” Cary gestured to a Danish style teak and leather armchair.
    Scott sat and eyed the rest of the furniture. It must have cost a small fortune in the eighties, but now it seemed drab and colorless. “Usually the original surgeon is responsible for revisions."
    "But I'm the original surgeon,” Cary said.
    My goodness, Scott thought, he's doing self-surgery.
    Cary winced slightly.
    "What's wrong?” Scott asked.
    "Another operation. A little tender, that's all."
    "Maybe I should look at it,” Scott said. He heard squeaking from the kitchen and smelled something unpleasant.
    Cary shook his head. “It's not ready to show. A work of art in progress, you know. But soon."
    When Scott stood up to leave, he glanced over a short partition and on the table in the breakfast nook he saw taped and folded parcels of blue surgical paper, a tray full of electronic parts, and a small cage with mice in it. Back outside on the street again, he imagined carving away at his own stomach and felt a surprising sense of relief: relief not only from Caitlin's illness but also from the endless round of boob jobs and tummy tucks and operations on burn victims who still looked monstrous after he worked on them and wished themselves dead rather than rescued.
    Maybe he'd come back another day to graft some skin over Cary's horns. Compared to his usual work, it sounded downright jolly.
    * * * *
    Thankfully, there were no ambulances outside Michael and Jennifer's house. Reverend Michael came to the door, his bright red hair tousled above wire frame glasses. He was an intelligent man, even if he was a religious bigot. Scott took his usual place in the kitchen, on an uncomfortable white chair made of twisted rectangular metal bars and a hard woven seat.
    "I talked with him,” Scott said.
    Jennifer's eyes glistened.
    "It's bone grafts in the skull,” Scott said. “It's something of a fad these days. But here's what's bizarre: he operates on himself ."
    "Oh God, what a sick man,” Jennifer said.
    "Sick all right,” Michael said. “Not to be uncompassionate or anything, but he's not someone you want around your kids."
    "I don't know,” Scott said. “He seemed harmless enough."
    Michael was