It was like the world around her ceased to exist. Everything went still and then slowly faded away, being replaced by a life she'd left behind.

A life of finery and manners.

A life of distance and cold affection.

A life of lies and hidden struggles.

The life of Katherine Seymour.

Her life. The life she'd destroyed when she murdered her own brother in the kitchen of their lovely, well-furnished home. The life she thought she'd never get back. The life she no longer wanted.

The life that refused to let her go.

"—Seymour?"

Frieda's saccharine voice pulled her back to reality. Slowly, the world started up again. The grandfather clock ticked by the seconds while the fire behind her crackled and gave off a warmth that couldn't seem to chase away the chill in her veins. And there was Frieda, still standing by the settee, that wicked grin plastered on her face.

"I'm sorry. Did I say something to upset you?" Frieda asked, fluttering her long lashes and placing a hand on her chest in feigned concern.

Taking a deep breath, Trinket clenched her fists and met the woman's eyes. "What do you want from me, Frieda?"

Tilting her head to the side, Frieda seemed to consider the question. "What do I want? Well, I want Booker. However, he seems quite enamored of you for some odd reason, so I had to take the roundabout way."

She moved towards her, and Trinket instinctively fell back a step. Frieda laughed at her reaction, a lovely, throaty laugh that threw Trinket into a panic.

"I knew you couldn't be as innocent as you appeared," Frieda went on. "I knew there had to be more to you than met the eye. And after discovering you lied to Booker about that body in the apartment, I was certain there must be more you're hiding from him. So I did a little sleuthing of my own. Very interesting life you've lived, Miss Seymour. You've accomplished quite a bit for someone of only eighteen years, haven't you?"

Trinket swallowed down the knot in her throat. Her pulse pounded in her ears. As loud as it was, it did nothing to drown out the voices telling her to run, to hide, to stab Frieda in the neck.

Frieda raised her eyebrows and leaned against the wall by the doorway. "Didn't Booker tell you how very clever I am?"

"He told me you're a psychopath," Trinket spat.

"Did he, now?"

"Perhaps not those exact words. But based on his description of your wicked and manipulative behavior, I came to that conclusion myself."

"Well, it does take a madwoman to know one, doesn't it, Miss Seymour?"

"Booker knows about my time spent in Elysium. You won't be revealing anything new."

"But does he know about your brother? Does he know about Merrill Seymour?"

A tremor ran through Trinket's body at the mention of his name, and once again, she was catapulted into the past.

Into the dark kitchen.

The kettle screaming.

The monstrous beast stalking her in the shadows.

The panic that gripped her as she took up a knife and attacked.

The heart-wrenching cry of the only person who'd ever tried to help her.

The only person until Booker, that is.

Gasping for breath, she returned to the present. Trinket searched for Frieda, terrified to take her eyes off the unpredictable woman. She was by the fireplace now, only steps away and still wearing that horrible smile.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Frieda said. "You haven't told him why you were sent off to a madhouse, have you?"

The trembling wouldn't stop, and Trinket clutched her skirts to hide it from the observant woman standing before her. "I haven't found the opportunity to do so."

"Really? Between all the flirting and kissing and tupping and floods of bliss, you didn't have a chance to tell him about stabbing your brother with a kitchen knife? I mean, I realize Booker is quite a handful in bed, but honestly, you do have to come up for breath at some point. Couldn't have slipped that bit in there?"

Too horrified to be embarrassed, Trinket gritted her teeth and refused to respond.

"You know, he's an odd sort," Frieda went on. "He may have even found your misdeeds rather arousing. Could have added a little zest to the bedroom."

"I have every intention of telling Booker when the time is right," Trinket said. "But first I have to find him, so if you'll excuse me—"

She turned to leave, but Frieda was quick. Slipping in between her and the doorway, she flashed another venomous smirk and drummed her fingers against the doorframe.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" she said.

"Frieda, you don't understand, Booker could be in danger."

"Yes, yes he is. He's in grave danger of marrying a complete and utter maniac who very well may stab him to death in his sleep."

"He's well aware of what I'm capable of. I stabbed him shortly after he hired me."

Waving away Trinket's explanation, Frieda motioned to the tea still sitting on the table. "Let's sit down and discuss the best way to handle this little situation."

Trinket gave a sharp laugh and shook her head. "If you think I'm going to drink anything you offer me, you're not nearly as clever as Booker thinks you are."

Letting out a sentimental sigh, Frieda clasped her hands over her chest. "Isn't that sweet? Even after all these years, he remembers how very talented I am."

"He also knows how unhinged you are."

Frieda shrugged. "There's a fine line separating madness and genius. I like to think I'm an expert in straddling that line. Amongst other things. Come, now, let's just sit down and talk about our predicament."

"I am not sitting down with you."

"Or stand, whatever you'd like. I'm accustomed to all sorts of positions."

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Trinket turned and made to storm over to the dining-room door, but Frieda grabbed her arm. Pulling her back roughly, she pinned Trinket against herself.

"Now, now, is that any way to treat a guest?" she hissed into her ear as she placed a damp handkerchief over Trinket's nose, filling her senses with a horrifically sweet smell.

In one last ditch effort to escape, Trinket flipped open her poison ring and stabbed the needle into Frieda's wrist. The woman let out a high-pitched shriek and ripped the ring off of Trinket's finger before she could deploy the serum. Tossing it across the room, Frieda let off a string of curses that rivaled even Booker's repertoire. Trinket tried to break out of her grasp, but Frieda tightened her grip, pressing the handkerchief more firmly against Trinket's nose.

"Of course he'd arm you," she wheezed. "Who wouldn't arm a violent asylum escapee? Brilliant fool."

It was the last thing Trinket heard before the drug took effect. The world began to swim, the past and present blending into one horrific nightmare.

Merrill's screams and Frieda's sneer.

The scent of blood permeated the air as it poured from both her brother's chest and down the walls of Booker's eccentric parlour.

Painful electricity streamed through her bones alongside the gentle sparks that Booker's touch elicited.

Agonizing guilt that haunted her past, present, and future.

And then blackness.

~

Trinket's head was heavy and filled with fog as she struggled to open her eyes. Her surroundings were a blurry swirl of chaos, as though she'd been spinning wildly in circles. Like she and her brother used to do in the garden when they were children.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath and opened them once more. Her vision was beginning to steady. She was being carried down a hallway in the arms of a stranger. Her boots were gone. Had someone taken them off? Had it been Frieda? She squinted against the low light cast by the candles locked away in lanterns set high out of reach.

Wait, that seemed familiar.

The hands that cradled her against a rather large girth were cold yet sweaty, a stark contrast to the thick, feverish air around her. Feverish and suffocating, smelling suspiciously of too many unwashed bodies crammed inside an ill-kept building.

A prison disguised as an asylum.

Paralyzing fear took over as her eyes darted about, searching for some sign that this was all in her head, a cruel, dreadful nightmare induced by her sick and twisted mind.

She squeezed her eyes shut again, willing the vision away. But all that did was make the scene more terrifying as visions of ghostly girls appeared before her, staring with their lifeless eyes, not even flinching as the stranger who carried her walked right through them.

Cracks and pops echoed through the hall as her hair stood on end at the memory of the Jar waiting for her somewhere in this terrible building.

And then Tory.

Tory was standing only feet away, right beside one of the many doors lining the bleeding walls. With a wild smile, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "I told you, no one ever escapes Elysium."

Her dead friend's familiar voice was too much for Trinket to bear.

Screaming and kicking at the stranger whose arms she was in, she tried to fight her way out. But he was strong, as were most of the orderlies in Elysium, and he twisted her wrists behind her back as he called for help. Despite his strength, she continued to struggle against him, snapping her teeth and trying with all her might to break free. More hands grabbed at her, cold, harsh hands, digging their nails into her skin as they urged her forward, forcing her towards the open door.

Tory watched the scene, laughing maniacally as she stood by and did nothing.

The strong stench of urine and sweat and tears filled the dark room before Trinket, memories of the long year she'd spent in just such a place.

No.

No.

No.

This couldn't be real.

"You can't, you can't, there's been a mistake," she gasped, twisting her body away from the haunted room, desperately clawing at the doorjamb to keep from being pushed inside. "Please, there's been a mistake, please, please, please!"

The last "please" came out as an animalistic howl. The orderlies shoved her inside, tossing her onto the stained mattress laid out on the floor of the tiny cell of a room.

"Shut yer mouth, you little bangtail," one of the men hissed.

"Please, please, this is a mistake!" she cried, scrambling to her knees and rushing back towards them.

The door slammed shut in her face, and as she rattled the doorknob, she heard the unmistakable sound of the lock being turned into place. She sat there in disbelief as the footsteps outside got farther and farther away.

"No," she whispered, her breaths turning shallow as she looked about the pitch-dark, windowless room. "No. No, no, no, no, no."

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

This is where you belong.

Where you've always belonged.

She covered her ears and inched away from the door, as though she could somehow escape from the voices. "No."

You're a murderer.

"No."

A killer.

"No."

And now you're all alone.

A sob burst from her lips as she collapsed onto the thin, worn-out mattress, pulling her knees up to her chest.

She was alone.

Alone and trapped.

In Elysium.

"Ah . . . poor bird . . ." she wheezed between sobs. "Take . . . thy . . ."

A bone-chilling scream escaped her lungs, and the voices began to cackle. Blood seeped through the floor and lapped at her feet as she gave up on the song and curled up into a tight ball on the filthy, tiny mattress.