Despite Trinket's insistence that Booker could not be disturbed, Frieda called on him repeatedly over the next day and a half until Daphne relented and let her wait in the parlour. Knowing she'd never leave without seeing Booker, Trinket reluctantly interrupted his work and had him come up to send her away.

"Frieda, I have a patient arriving within the hour," he said with a sigh, wiping the grease from his hands as he entered the room, Trinket close behind. "Can we make this quick?"

Rising to her feet, Frieda flashed a dazzling smile and practically floated over to him. "Darling, is that any way to greet someone who has important news?"

His muscles tensed as he inhaled sharply. "About Benedict?"

"If these numbered bodies are truly connected to him, then yes."

Booker gripped the doorframe, his eyes wide with anticipation. Trinket's spine stiffened as she eyed Frieda suspiciously. Was this just a ploy to get him to talk to her? Or was she going to tell him about what the three of them had done?

"There's been another body?" Booker asked excitedly.

Frieda was clearly enjoying his rapt attention. "Indeed."

"Did the police get it?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Found it lying in the middle of the road near the Clocktower. All the commotion outside rudely woke me up. But once I saw what was happening, I knew I had to come right down to tell you."

"Blast it all!" Booker began pacing about the parlour, tapping his tented fingers against his lips. "It'll likely be days before I can get my hands on it. And who can say if the Mice will beat me to it?"

"Something tells me they already have."

Trinket's attention snapped to Frieda, her eyes wide. Booker paused mid-step and spun on his heel to face her. "Say what?" he asked.

Frieda's dazzling smile turned wicked in seconds as she casually examined her nails. "From what I've heard, the body was sliced open. Its guts were everywhere. Even its eyeballs were dangling out of their sockets."

Her gaze flitted to Trinket and went cold before she returned her attention to Booker standing perfectly still, save for his fidgeting fingers. "What was the number?" he asked softly.

"Hmm, I can't say I recall. There was so much gossip spreading through that quaint little alehouse. You know, it may not be fine dining, but it's very enter—"

"What number, Frieda?" Booker asked again, raising his voice.

Her eyebrows lifted at his harsh tone, but she responded nonetheless. "Eight hundred and seven."

Immediately grabbing the medical book lying on the table, Booker flipped to the appropriate page. As he did, Trinket cast Frieda a disapproving glare. It didn't seem to faze the brazen woman.

Booker cursed loudly, slamming a hand on the open book. "The eye," he muttered. "It was in the eye socket. How did the Mice know?"

"Yes, that's a good question," Frieda said. She turned to Trinket and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What do you think, assistant?"

Thankfully, before Trinket had to come up with a response, the bell rang, and she excused herself to answer it. Madame Spenlow was standing on the doorstep, again sporting her cloak and hood. She tentatively met Trinket's eyes and swallowed.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Larkin?" she said, posing it more as a question than a statement.

"Of course, of course, please come in, madame," Trinket said, stepping aside to let the woman in.

When she saw Frieda standing in the parlour in all her gaudy glory, Madame Spenlow turned her head away quickly. Her cheeks went pink, and her eyes darted about the room, as though searching for an escape.

"Oh, Lord, of course," Booker mumbled, still out of sorts from the news about the body.

"Am I early? Shall I leave?" Madame Spenlow whispered, edging back towards the door.

Trinket laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her from bolting, and her heart ached when the woman flinched rather violently at her touch.

"No, no, of course not," Booker said, regaining his sense of decorum and approaching the frightened lady. "You're right on time. We just had an unexpected visitor. Please, have a seat."

Pushing past Frieda, he helped Madame Spenlow onto the settee and then grabbed his old friend's arm, dragging her into the hallway.

"Ooh, I do like it when you take charge like this," Frieda said with a smirk.

"I need you to leave, Frieda. I have business to take care of."

She sighed. "Always business with you. Well, maybe not always. In bed, for example."

Her gaze went to Trinket as she said this, a triumphant glimmer in her eyes.

"Please, if you can find out anything else about this latest corpse, I'd be greatly appreciative," Booker went on.

"Really? How appreciative?"

Reaching out, she coyly tugged at his shirt collar, managing to undo one of the buttons.

Booker stepped away and cleared his throat. "An appropriate amount of appreciation."

"Well, you're no fun. However, I may—"

"Booker, I'll see Mrs. Younger out," Trinket interrupted. "Why don't you tend to your patient?"

His shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a weak smile. "Thank you, Trinket."

She nodded and ushered Frieda outside. As soon as she closed the front door, Trinket turned on her, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

"You're a very rude servant," Frieda said, dusting off her skirts as though Trinket had pushed her to the ground. "It's a wonder he hasn't sacked you yet."

"Why would you do that?" Trinket said.

"Do what? Tell him the truth?"

"You know very well that the Mice do not have—" Trinket hesitated, glancing about the road. Anyone could be listening. Even Scales. "That they don't have you-know-what."

Fixing her cold gaze on her, Frieda lifted her lip in something between a smile and a snarl. "But Booker clearly doesn't. Which means you didn't tell him. Why ever would that be?"

Guilt nipped at Trinket's conscience, but she shooed it away, reminding herself she had every intention of telling Booker about the map. "I was waiting for the right time."

Frieda took several steps forward, looking her up and down with renewed interest. "You're full of all sorts of lies, aren't you?"

A cold dread settled in Trinket's gut. Booker's words came back to her. How he'd said there were only two people besides himself with the skills to dig up her past.

Benedict and Frieda.

"What else have you been keeping from my darling Booker?" Frieda went on.

"As you well know, Booker himself is not above lying. So what makes you think he'd be upset with me for telling a fib here and there?"

"You don't know Booker like I do. He's not the stone-hearted scientist he pretends to be. Inside, he's soft and pliable, easily wounded and betrayed."

So this wasn't as much of a secret as Trinket thought. Even Frieda could tell there was more to Booker than met the eye. Then again, they had been intimately involved. It only made sense that she would know more about him than regular acquaintances might. And she was obviously well-versed in reading people, much like Ms. Langtry.

And that's why the look Frieda was giving her right at the moment sent a jolt of fear through Trinket's veins.

"I'm not lying to Booker," Trinket said, trying her best to sound more confident than she felt as she spoke yet another untruth. "Once I'm done with you, I'm going straight in there to tell him about the body and explain everything."

Frieda's gaze did not falter as she stared at Trinket for another long moment before speaking. "I'm sure you will. Because you're a good, truthful little girl. Aren't you?"

It sounded more like a challenge than a question, but Trinket wouldn't go for the bait. "Good day, Mrs. Younger."

She turned back to the door but paused as Frieda spoke once more. "I can see why he likes you."

Slowly glancing over her shoulder, Trinket found that Frieda was still watching her. A wicked grin pulled at her lips as she popped open her parasol.

"You're quite the mystery," she continued. "And we both know Booker Larkin can't resist a mystery."

Trinket narrowed her eyes slightly, not certain where she was going with this conversation.

Frieda's smile remained but lost its playfulness as it became cold and venomous. "What you don't know," she said, her voice a low whisper, "is neither can I."

Trinket swallowed a knot in her throat as Frieda turned away and made her way back up the road. She watched until the woman was out of sight, only then daring to slip into the house. Even with the immediate danger that Frieda posed gone, Trinket's heart still pounded against her ribs.

Booker was coming out of the parlour when she returned and looked relieved to see her. "We need to ready Madame Spenlow for the procedure," he said. "You won't mind assisting?"

She shook her head, trying to force her unease away. "Of course not."

"Thank you, Trinket."

He turned to head back to their patient, but Trinket caught his arm. "Booker, about the body—"

Holding up a hand, he cut her off. "I can't think about that right now. We need to just take care of Madame Spenlow, and then we can discuss it."

Impressed by his sense of duty, she released him and watched as he returned to the parlour. He spoke gentle words to the terrified woman and then helped her up from the settee. Trinket couldn't help but notice the lady did not recoil at his touch. How difficult had it been for her to initially come to him? To allow another man to put his hands on her? Clearly he'd proven to her he was not a danger. He was a different sort of doctor. A different sort of man. Yes, he slipped up here and there—the incident with Emma came to mind—but it seemed he was getting further and further away from those selfish, cruel tendencies.

Booker was a good man who did not deserve to be lied to. And especially not by the woman he loved.

Trinket took a deep breath and followed after him as he led Madame Spenlow down to the laboratory.

As she had made clear to Frieda, though, timing was everything. She would tell him. She would tell him everything. It just had to be the right time. And with corpses and old lovers showing up all about the city, this was not the right time.

She only hoped when the right time did arrive, she'd have the courage to speak the truth.

~

It took several hours to fix Madame Spenlow's hand. Trinket assisted in what little ways she could, mostly fetching parts for Booker and re-administering the ether when their patient began to rouse. When all was complete and Madame Spenlow was recovered enough to safely return home, she paid Booker and offered them both an anxious but grateful smile.

"That seemed incredibly complicated," Trinket said as she and Booker headed back to the parlour and sat on the settee.

"It was," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "I had to be sure none of the nerves were damaged along with the prosthetic. And then I needed to be certain they reconnected properly, lest she suddenly experience odd spasms."

"What a mess."

"Yes, I do hope her husband is more careful in the future." He hesitated, glancing at her as he gave a weak smile. "For her sake as much as my own."

She returned the smile and leaned her head against her shoulder, giving his chest a gentle pat. "As do I."

There was a moment of silence, which Booker interrupted as he cleared his throat. "So, the body—"

"Wait," Trinket said as she pulled away from him.

He watched curiously as she dug into her pocket and retrieved the map piece she had found inside the dead man's eye socket. Booker's own eyes widened when he realized what it was, and she placed it in his hand with a small smile.

"The Mice didn't get it," she said.

Seeming at a loss for words, he looked from the map to her several times. Finally, he shook his head and sat forward, turning the paper over in his hands. "How?" he practically whispered.

"There was a terrible smell in Grace's apartment building, and when we saw one of the Mice leave the room directly below hers, I was certain the stench was coming from a body. Since you were busy with work, Frieda helped us break in, and I managed to locate the map piece."

He let out a short laugh and met her eyes. "Here you were so worried about me hanging for digging up a few bodies and yet you're breaking and entering? You do realize that's a more serious crime than body snatching, right?"

She furrowed her brow. "Really?"

"Lord, you're sorely undereducated in criminal matters."

Shrugging, she folded her hands in her lap. "I confess I've yet to really study that law book of yours. I find it rather tedious. Your medical book is much more interesting."

Despite the obvious concern in his eyes, Booker pulled her into a tight side hug and glanced down at the map piece. "A woman after my own heart. But why didn't you tell me about it sooner?"

"I wanted you to be able to enjoy your work while you had the chance. You seemed quite at home down there, tinkering with your gears and gadgets. And you've been so stressed out from this game. You deserved a break."

"Oh, what will I do with you?" he breathed, resting a cheek against her head.

"I swear, even before Frieda came, I had every intention of telling you. Really, I promise."

"I know. I trust you, Trinket."

That dreadful guilt again. As she watched him study the roads and buildings on the piece of paper, she wondered if the right time would ever come. Perhaps the right time was something you had to create for yourself. Waiting for it could mean waiting forever. Besides, she hated lying to him. She loved this man and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. And that meant there could be no secrets between them.

Swallowing down her anxiety, she inched closer to him. The thick scent of iron filled the air, but she refused to tear her eyes away from Booker to see what was bleeding now. She couldn't back down. She had to tell him.

Tell him and you'll lose him.

No. She wouldn't. Booker was better than that.

Even the best person couldn't forgive someone like you.

Though she did agree with the voices in her head, Trinket pressed on, fearful of losing her determination. "Booker, I thi—"

The bell ran frantically, cutting her off mid-sentence. Both frustration and relief flooded her chest as Daphne hurried down the hallway and pulled open the door. Two people stumbled inside, a young man and a young woman, and from the looks of it, the young woman was nearly unconscious.

"Is Doc Larkin here?" asked the young man, tripping over both his words and his feet.

Booker tucked the map into his waistcoat pocket and rushed to their side, Trinket close behind. When the two visitors came into view, she could not hold back a gasp.

The young Mouse and his sweetheart. The very two people whose home she had broken into.

"Please, help," the young Mouse begged. "She's dyin'. She's dyin', my sweet Therese is dyin'."