Trinket rushed into the house, hoping beyond hope that Booker would be there. That somehow he'd escaped the Mice.

Frieda was sipping tea in the parlour, and as Trinket stumbled inside, she curled her lip up in a grimace. "Oh, lovely. The mad girl is back."

Heat crawled up Trinket's neck, and she gripped her skirts in an attempt to keep from attacking her. Before she could speak, the dining-room door flew open, stealing Trinket's attention away from Frieda. Daphne stood in the doorway, and when she caught sight of Trinket, she ran to her and pulled her into a nearly rib-crushing hug.

"Oh, thank goodness you're all right," Trinket wheezed. "She didn't hurt you, did she?"

Daphne loosened her grip on Trinket and shot Frieda a nasty glare. She then covered her nose and mouth with one hand, rolled back her eyes, and slumped her head against her shoulder.

Trinket rounded on Frieda. "You drugged her? Again?"

Frieda sighed. "Please, it wasn't as if I killed her. She's perfectly fine, as you can see. Been banging around pots and pans in the kitchen and making a terrible racket. So she's just as annoying and temperamental as usual. No harm done."

"Why do you think it's fine to drug everyone you meet?"

"It's better than slitting their throats. And I couldn't very well have her coming in and interrupting our little chat earlier. That would have messed up my entire plan."

"Oh, your plan to send me off to an asylum? You really thought that was a good idea?"

"I thought that with you out of the way and no longer getting Booker's trousers all tight, I might be able to remind him of how perfect a pair we are and then convince him to come home with me where he belongs."

Trinket stared at her in disbelief. "What is wrong with you? I thought you were supposed to be some sort of genius. Did you really think shipping your ex-lover's fiancée off to an asylum would win him over?"

Frieda lifted her eyebrows and set down her cup. "I'm sorry, fiancée?"

Trinket waved her away. "Never mind. It's not important."

"Oh, Lord, don't tell me you're with child."

"I said it's not important!"

"She's right," Benedict said, finally stepping into the parlour. "We have far more important matters to discuss. Such as where Booker is. Frieda, the map?"

Wrinkling her nose, Frieda pulled out two pieces of paper from her bodice. Trinket immediately recognized the larger one as Booker's collection of map pieces sewn up with surgical thread. The other was much smaller. However, as she stepped closer, she realized it fit perfectly with Booker's map.

The final piece. He'd found it.

Then why was he missing?

"Explain again, please, exactly what happened?" Benedict asked Frieda.

"Shortly after I finished disposing of my own little personal problem," she eyed Trinket pointedly, "some girl came to the door with an urgent message from Booker."

"Who was the message for?" Trinket asked.

"Why does that matter?"

"It matters. Who was it for?"

"Daphne. But since she was indisposed, I took it upon myself to read it."

Daphne narrowed her eyes and gave a low growl.

"What?" Frieda said, seeming legitimately shocked at her response. "She said it was urgent. Was I supposed to just wait until you woke up?"

Trinket snatched the papers from Frieda's hand. "You shouldn't have drugged her in the first place."

Frieda tried to grab them back, but Trinket moved further away, turning the map pieces over as she searched for the message. There, on the back, in script she knew undoubtedly to be Booker's:

Find Benedict. Tell him to run. Take Trinket somewhere far away. Don't let her come after me.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to cry while Frieda was watching. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the others. "Scales must have him," she said, desperately trying to hide the tremor in her voice. "That's why he told Benedict to run. He doesn't want the Mice to convince you to work for them."

"I will not work for them," Benedict said firmly. "I'm slightly insulted he'd even think I'd consider it."

"You've been gone for years. How was he supposed to know you wouldn't jump at the chance to create the ungodly monsters in Scales' imagination? Based on the creatures you set loose in the city, it wasn't that far-fetched a notion."

Benedict bit his lip and released a sharp breath, but did not respond.

Frieda raised an eyebrow as she looked between him and Trinket. "Or perhaps this is some big scheme to get out of a hasty engagement," she said. "People resort to all sorts of desperate measures to escape ill-fated love affairs."

Both Trinket and Daphne glared at her.

Relenting, Frieda raised her hands and mumbled, "Sorry, sorry. I had to at least try."

"So you're certain it's the Mice?" Benedict asked as he leaned against the doorframe.

Trinket nodded. "At the train station, Lem said something that suggested the Mice either knew where the most recent body was or had it in their possession."

"Who is Lem?" asked Frieda.

"The young Mouse whose ill sweetheart Booker treated in return for information on what the Mice knew about the bodies," Trinket said. "I think he must have secretly slipped Booker the number and location of the last corpse."

Her heart clenched as she thought about the partially burnt scrap of paper by the fireplace. Why did he have to be such a fool?

Daphne laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Trinket blinked away the tears threatening to spill from her eyes and smiled at her.

"All right, so do we have any idea where the Mice would have taken him?" Benedict asked.

Trinket shook her head and wrapped her arms about herself, a sudden chill running through her body. "No. As far as I know, they don't have a headquarters of any sort. I'm assuming Scales is the one who has him, but I don't even know where he lives. We could ask some of the urchins, though I'm reluctant to get them involved."

"Has anyone else been to the house while we were gone?" Benedict asked Frieda and Daphne.

They both shook their heads.

Trinket sighed and slumped against the wall. "He's still alive. I'm sure of it. Scales knows you were trying to get Booker's attention," she said to Benedict. "So he knows you two are close. He'll keep Booker alive until he has you."

Or so she hoped.

"Well, this is going nowhere," Frieda said, rising to her feet. "I'm going back down to the laboratory to see if I missed any clues."

"Wait, did you break into the laboratory?" Trinket snapped.

Brushing by her, Frieda gave a wicked smile and pulled a key from her bodice. "I stole your key before sending you off."

Trinket watched in disbelief as she headed down the hallway. How much room did she have in her décolletage?

Daphne patted Trinket on the cheek and offered a reassuring smile before running after Frieda. They both disappeared down the stairs, and Trinket let out a long breath, glad to not have to deal with the minx herself.

After a moment, she turned her eyes to Benedict, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching her carefully. With her attention on him, he became suddenly fidgety, tugging at his jacket and setting his gaze on anything but her. Did she make him nervous? She had given him quite a tongue-lashing earlier. And if he considered her a genius of the heart, perhaps he worried she might be able to pull emotions out of him the same way she had with Booker. But she wasn't sure she wanted to waste her efforts on the likes of him right now, especially when he was the one she blamed Booker's current predicament on. Although, she did share some of the blame herself. If it hadn't been for her influence, Booker wouldn't have felt the need to sacrifice himself in order to protect her.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to address Benedict, but was interrupted by a knock at the front door. She and Benedict locked eyes for only a second before they scrambled into the foyer. Throwing the door open, they found no one. There was, however, a small box sitting on the steps. A matchstick box.

As Trinket stooped down to pick it up, Benedict searched the surrounding area. "I don't see anyone, though it is a bit dark," he said. He turned back to her, his eyes going right to the box. "Does that hold any significance to you?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. But I can't imagine it's from anyone but the Mice."

Ushering her back inside, Benedict closed the door and leaned against it, his attention still on the box. "So? Are you going to open it?"

She took an unsteady breath. If this was from the Mice, she dreaded what could be in it, especially considering the gifts they'd left on their doorstep in the past. Nevertheless, with trembling fingers, she slid the box open.

Her heart stopped.

Lying snuggly between a handful of long matches was a severed finger, still bloody and warm.

A scream caught in her throat, and she stumbled into the wall, clutching the box in a vice-like grip. Her lungs constricted, and she gasped for breath as acid tears stung her eyes.

This couldn't be real.

It couldn't be.

Good Lord, say it wasn't true.

Darkness closed in on her as a deep, menacing voice whispered in her ear, telling her every awful, violent thing the Mice were most assuredly doing to Booker at that very moment. It told her in great detail the agonizing pain he was in, the mental anguish, the sadistic torture. The scent of blood filled her nose, and the shadowy world around her began to spin.

This was her fault.

It was her fault.

It was all her fault.

He was going to die.

Because of her.

Booker was going to die.

Killer, killer, killer!

All your fault, all your fau—

"Trinket!"

She gasped as someone grabbed her shoulders and gave her a rough shake. Blinking through the darkness, she found Benedict standing before her, a line etched between his eyes. The menacing voice was still listing off all the bodily harm being done to Booker, but she shook her head in an effort to will it away.

"Trinket, you need to concentrate," Benedict said. "Let me see the box."

Her eyes darted to the wall behind him. Blood poured from the ceiling, and in the distance, she could hear familiar cries of pain. She wasn't sure if it was Booker or Merrill, but every scream made her flinch and twitch.

"Trinket."

She forced herself to focus on Benedict. Her hands shook as she passed the box to him. Releasing her, he took it and undid the cover the rest of the way. The muscles in his jaw strained for a moment as he gazed at the finger, but he quickly lifted the severed digit to find a folded piece of paper underneath.

Without a word, he pulled it out and returned the finger and the box to Trinket. She waited as he read the note, every nerve in her body shuddering as the screams became louder and more agonizing. She desperately gripped the matchstick box to keep herself grounded, but she couldn't concentrate with the blood from the wall now lapping at her feet.

"You're right," Benedict said at last, still gazing at the paper. "He's with the Mice."

"What does it say?" she whispered.

"'Bring the madman and perhaps your lover won't suffer the same fate as the girl.'"

A bolt of terror pierced her heart. She slid to the floor, every inch of her body trembling. She was going to lose him. She was going to lose him, just like they'd lost Gin. And it was her fault. It was all her fault.

It's always your fault.

"No," she cried, clamping her hands over her ears, not wanting to hear it. She already knew. She already knew she was a monster who killed everyone she loved. Why did they have to keep reminding her?

"Trinket, please."

Benedict was kneeling before her, grasping her shoulders once again, seemingly unfazed by the blood pooling around him and seeping into his trousers. Trinket tried to meet his gaze, but she found it was nearly impossible for the tears clouding her vision.

"Trinket, think," he said, his voice low. "Where would Scales take him? Is there any location that holds some meaning to both him and Booker?"

Breathing in deeply, she scoured her memories for an answer. There was the Clocktower. But there'd be far too many people there. One of the basements where they'd attended a card game? She had no idea where they were, though.

Her fingers mindlessly drummed against the matchstick box. She glanced down at it, her stomach plummeting at the sight of Booker's finger lying there amongst the matches. Was it the same one he'd gently trailed down her cheek after asking her to marry him? Would he still be able to perform surgeries with a missing finger? Of course, that was assuming they got him back alive. Was he doomed to become just another corpse on an operating table?

Her trembling turned violent as these thoughts plagued her mind. A single match was jostled from the box, landing in a thick puddle of blood by her boot.

Matches.

Of course.

"The matchstick factory," she said once she'd caught her breath.

Benedict furrowed his brow. "Matchstick factory?"

She nodded fervently, holding up the box. "Scales had a sister who worked at the matchstick factory. He ran the place into the ground after joining the Mice, apparently out of vengeance over her death."

"So he'd choose the place where she worked to do business? Rather morbid, isn't it?"

"Says the man who cuts up dead bodies. Scales is an emotional man, whether he wants to admit it or not. I'm certain that's where they are."

"Well then, we'd best be off."

He rose to his feet and offered her his hands. Setting the box aside, she took them and pulled herself up. "Shouldn't we tell Daphne and Frieda?" she asked.

Shaking his head, Benedict opened the front door. "The more people there are, the greater the chance for something to go wrong. Besides, no one knows Booker as well as you and I do. We can manage this on our own."

There wasn't time to argue. Hopefully Daphne would understand. Closing her eyes, Trinket took a deep breath and followed Benedict outside, shutting the door behind her.