After taking Madame Spenlow's measurements, Booker made arrangements for her to return in two days so he could replace the broken parts. He then sequestered himself down in the laboratory to get to work creating the new pieces for her hand.

Trinket took this unexpected break as an opportunity to go out and thank Ms. Langtry properly for the assistance she'd given her. Telling Daphne she was off to run a few errands, she slipped out the door and made her way to the center. She assumed Ms. Langtry would be at her post in the coffeehouse. As she hurried down the street, she met up with a ragged and disheveled Grace coming from the direction of the suburbs.

"Late night, Grace?" Trinket asked when they were close enough to speak.

The night flower gave a rather unladylike grunt and crossed her arms over her chest as she blew an errant curl out of her eyes. "Long night, longer morning," she mumbled.

"Your head wound is looking better."

Indeed, the stitched cut was beginning to heal. The swelling had gone down significantly, and it seemed she was past the point of worrying about infection.

Grace mindlessly ran a finger over the stitching. "Yes, well, thankfully it hasn't scared away my best clients, or else I'd be without a place to sleep."

Trinket furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean my apartment has been infiltrated by the most horrendous smell I've ever known and I cannot bear to spend more time there than I must."

"What sort of smell is it?"

"Beyond words. It is the single most horrific thing I have experienced, and let me tell you, I've experienced some awful things."

"Are you on your way back there?"

"I have no choice. All my belongings—and medications—are there. But I'm hoping to head out and find another client to house me for the night. Unfortunately, the men who are willing to have me as a bed warmer tend to be on the needy side. Nothing like a man clinging to you while you're trying to sleep."

Grace went to take a step forward but tripped over her lopsided skirt and nearly tumbled to the ground. Trinket caught her and eased the night flower onto her feet. "Grace, you're not yourself."

"Yes, well, lack of sleep and too much work will do that to a person."

"Come on, let me at least help you back to your apartment."

Swatting away Trinket's hand, Grace gathered up her skirts and lifted her chin. "Unlike Booker Larkin, I am in no need of an assistant."

She continued on her way, but when she nearly stepped in front of a wagon speeding down the road, Trinket chased after her and grabbed hold of her arm. "You forget that my job is to take care of one of the most stubborn people in all of Tinkerfall," she said, guiding Grace across the busy street. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily."

Grace sneered at her. "You know, I think I actually dislike you more than cats at this point." Her shoulders relaxed as she stopped fighting against Trinket's grip. "But mushrooms still beat you in the hate department."

"Glad to hear I'm above fungi."

Even with Grace's unsteady feet, they managed to get to her apartment building without incident. As they neared the front door, Trinket wrinkled her nose at the faint scent emanating from within. It smelled like the toilet had backed up and no one had bothered to stop using it.

"My, that is rather . . . fragrant," she said as Grace tugged at the swollen door.

"You and your manners are almost as nauseating as this stink," she said, finally managing to wrench it open.

A wave of stench hit them in the face as though it were a physical entity. Quickly covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve, Trinket coughed and gagged as the horrifying scent of rotting excrement assaulted her senses.

"Lord, did something die?" she asked as Grace pulled out a lace handkerchief and pressed it to her nose.

"Now you understand why I'm willing to work overtime to get away from this. Ugh, come on, it's slightly better in my place."

They hurried up the stairs and found mild relief inside Grace's sad apartment. Still, the smell was unusually strong and potent. "Where is it coming from?" Trinket asked as Grace quickly fetched a few supplies and threw them into a small bag.

"I'm assuming from the room directly below mine, considering the stench gets worse when I'm in front of their door."

"Are you sure the tenant is alive?"

"Yes, I saw her yesterday at the coffeehouse where she works."

"Then maybe a family member? Or a pet? Something is most definitely dead down there."

After all the time she'd spent with Booker, Trinket was quite familiar with the stomach-churning odor that accompanied death. And this stench was so strong it was beginning to aggravate her mental condition. Thick drops of blood trickled down the walls and seeped through the floor, as if drawn to whatever had died in the apartment below.

"She doesn't have family," Grace said, peeking at her reflection in the mirror on the vanity and adjusting her bangs to hide her stitches. "The only other person I ever see coming in and out of the apartment is a young man I assume is her beau. Or I think it's a young man. Hard to tell late at night. This place doesn't have the best lighting."

"Could she have killed him?"

Grace let out a bark of a laugh and turned to Trinket with an amused and somewhat impressed expression. "You know, you play the role of dignified little debutant so well, but then you go and surprise me by saying things like that."

The phantom scent of iron from the blood pooling around Trinket's feet began to mix with the smell of decay, and she was forced to cover her nose again. "In a city like Tinkerfall, I feel it's a legitimate possibility."

"No, that little slip of a thing down there wouldn't have it in her. I'm surprised she even has the stomach to work at the coffeehouse. Although, perhaps she's one of the few girls there who only serves refreshments."

Having gathered all she needed, Grace pulled the door open, and another gust of death hit them.

"Oh, Lord, you've got to do something about this," Trinket said, gagging against her sleeve.

"What can I do?" Grace asked, shielding her nose with her handkerchief.

"Tell the landlord? Or the police?"

"And risk garnering the ire of my neighbors? No, thank you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look around, child. This isn't exactly first-class living. The people who live here, including myself, are not engaged in the most legal of activities. We choose such a residence to keep from being found out. Getting the authorities involved would cause nothing but trouble."

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs, and just as they moved to escape out the front, the door to the apartment in question opened. Trinket grabbed Grace's arm and pulled her off to the side, slipping into a shadowy corner where she hoped they'd go unseen.

The rotting stink was even stronger with the door open, erasing any doubt there may have been about where it originated. A skinny young man emerged, his clothing too baggy for his awkward frame and his bowler hat too small for his large head. He quickly closed the door and secured the lock, checking it twice before stashing the key in his pocket. As he turned to leave, Trinket got a glimpse of his face. There was something familiar about him. Very familiar. She'd seen him before.

"Grace, do you know him?" she whispered as the young lad slipped out the front door.

The night flower furrowed her brow, still clutching the handkerchief to her nose. "Yes, I do. Why do I know him?"

"So he's the beau?"

"I'm guessing, but that's not why I know him."

Abandoning the shadows, they hurried towards the front door and peeked outside. At first, it seemed the mysterious young man had disappeared, but then Trinket caught sight of that ill-fitting hat of his. He was waving to someone as he made his way down the street. She squinted to get a better look, and her heart skipped a beat.

It was one of the men from the cemetery. Coils.

A Mouse.

This young man was part of the Dead Mice.