Trinket managed to stay awake for a good two hours before the excitement of the day finally caught up to her. When she woke, she found one of the pages of the book she'd fallen asleep on plastered to her cheek. Gently removing it as she sat up, she discovered Booker's jacket draped over her like a blanket. She smiled as she pulled it closer and turned her eyes to its owner. The day had apparently taken a toll on him, too. Despite the many cups of tea he'd downed as he searched through his library for some insight into this game, he was now passed out atop a book filled with images of dissected frogs.

Rising to her feet, Trinket gently touched his shoulder and knelt beside him. "Booker," she whispered.

Nothing but the rustle of book pages stirred by his easy breathing.

"Booker," she said a little more loudly, shaking him slightly.

He groaned as he shifted in his chair and hid his face behind his arms.

A smile pulling at her lips, she took his arm and put it around her shoulders. She stood up slowly, trying to ease him onto his feet. But he was more weight than she could bear, and she practically fell into his lap.

"Is it morning?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he opened his bleary eyes.

"Not quite," Trinket said, getting back on her feet and trying again to lift him out of his chair. "Come on, you need to go to bed."

"But I haven't figured it out yet," he mumbled.

He didn't resist as she slipped her arm around his waist and led him into the hallway. "Yes, but you can't expect to solve the entire mystery in one night. You have to be fresh and ready for tomorrow in case another body shows up."

She opened the door to his bedroom and helped him inside. He practically collapsed onto the bed as she hung his jacket over the chair by the writing desk. When she turned back to him, he was sprawled out on top of the covers, an arm draped over his eyes. She gave a soft smile and made her way to leave when he called out to her.

"What if I'm not smart enough to figure it out?"

She glanced over her shoulder, and even with his face half-covered, she could picture the worried look in his eyes, a deep line etched between his brows. Returning to the bed, she sat beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. He finally removed his arm to meet her gaze, and sure enough, that same nostalgic sadness was there.

"That's impossible, Mr. Larkin," she replied. "You're the most brilliant person I've ever met."

"I'm nothing compared to Benedict. I'm going to disappoint him. He'll realize what a waste of time I've been. And he'll move on. Forever."

Were those tears welling up in his eyes?

"Booker, that's ridiculous. He's your friend," Trinket said.

"And my rival. Such lousy competition I've turned out to be."

Trinket clenched her jaw. What kind of friend would put someone he cared about through so much anguish? Did Benedict not realize how distraught Booker was over this game?

"I just want to prove to him I'm worthy of his admiration," Booker went on. "But maybe he'll never admire me. Maybe there's nothing to admire."

"That's enough."

He flinched at her words, and even she was shocked by how sharp they'd come out. Softening her expression, she again began running her fingers through his hair.

"I admire you, Booker," she said. "And if Benedict can't see how amazing you are, frankly, I don't believe he's the genius you claim he is."

A smile spread over his face. "You're too good for me, Trinket."

Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "No, I'm not. But you're very sweet to say so."

He reached up and gently caressed her cheek with his thumb. "Will you stay with me?" he asked.

"I think that would be highly inappropriate, Mr. Larkin."

"I know, I know," he sighed. "I just hate it."

"Hate what?"

"Sleeping here. All alone. In a big, empty bed. It reminds me of when Benedict left."

Her brow furrowed as she considered the distant look in his eyes. "At the orphanage?"

He nodded. "There weren't enough beds for everyone, so we all had to share. Benedict and I bunked together for seven years, and there wasn't a night that went by where we didn't discuss science and medicine and our own experiments. When he left, everything felt so empty and dull. And going to bed with no one beside me . . ."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a trembling breath. Trinket's heart clenched when he opened them again to reveal a glimmer of tears on his lashes.

"I think that's why I let Frieda in," he continued. "It wasn't the same sort of companionship, but at least it meant I wasn't alone. Over the years, I've tried to convince myself a solitary existence is the best option. But it's clear loneliness does not sit well with me. I was not made to be alone."

Trinket stared at him for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh and rising to her feet. Booker watched her as she made her way around the bed and climbed up beside him. Her heart fluttered when he sat up with a mixed look of relief and delight. She adjusted her skirts and turned to face him.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep," she said. "And not a moment longer."

He smiled and moved a little closer, taking her hand in his and squeezing it tight. "Thank you, Trinket."

She kissed his brow and leaned her head against his.

~

It was much more of a struggle to stick to her word than she'd expected. Booker fell asleep not even an hour after she agreed to stay. His warm breath against her neck as he dozed sent a flush through her entire body. She became very aware of the precariousness of her situation, being alone in bed with him, and yet she found it nearly impossible to force her limbs to move and carry her to her own room across the hall. All she wanted to do was stay beside him, to climb beneath the covers and wrap him up in her arms so he would know he'd never be alone again.

But the lingering fear and mocking voices helped spur her into action. She gently moved Booker's head from her shoulder and to one of the pillows and eased herself off the bed. Pulling a quilt over him, she placed a kiss on his cheek and then tiptoed to her bedroom where she changed into her nightgown and combed out her hair.

Her heart was still aflutter and showed no signs of settling down. As she crawled into bed, she thought about what Booker had said right before the incident with the Mice. He considered them a family. An unconventional family, but a family all the same. Would he someday want to make things more official? If so, perhaps the tantalizing frustration that came with every intimate moment between them wouldn't have to last forever.

Letting out a strangled breath, she forced her eyes closed, hoping sleep would steady her heartbeat.

If she had to wait forever, she might burst into a thousand pieces.

~

Morning came too quickly, and as Trinket rose and went about getting dressed, her mind was still lingering on the previous night. On the way Booker's breath had felt against her skin. And how perfectly his body fit into hers—

Something brushed against her legs, and she let out a yelp. Turning away from the mirror, she found a large black cat sitting behind her. It met her gaze with bright yellow eyes and gave a high-pitched meow. Trinket furrowed her brow, resenting the imaginary beast for disrupting her daydream.

"Probably for the best, though, isn't it?" she said to the feline. "It's bad enough I spent even an hour in his bed. I certainly shouldn't be replaying the night in my head."

The cat's only response was another meow.

"You know, the least you obnoxious things could do is offer me some advice and insight," Trinket said as she turned back to the mirror to finish pinning up her braid. "But then I'd be as delusional as Tory. And I suppose that would be no good."

Sighing, she checked over her reflection one last time and then glanced at the cat. It was watching her with rapt attention, its long tail twitching as if it were a being all of its own. Something about the creature stirred a memory. Hadn't Tory mentioned seeing a cat wherever she was when Benedict operated on her?

"A stuffed cat," she mumbled to herself.

The imaginary feline behind her growled when she said this, but she ignored it. She wondered if this information could help Booker at all. Biting her lip, she tried to remember if he had ever spoken of a cat from the orphanage. He'd alluded to cats and frogs, but she had assumed that was just in reference to the animals they'd dissected.

Again, the cat meowed at her, and she shot it a cross look. "Can't you see I'm trying to think?"

Another demanding cry, as if the animal expected something from her. Shaking her head, Trinket moved to leave, but the cat darted in front of her. It sat by the door for a moment and then rolled onto its back.

And exposed its open belly, which revealed every organ in its body.

Holding back a scream, Trinket closed her eyes and fumbled for the doorknob. Once it was in her grasp, she pulled the door open and bolted for the stairs, practically tripping down them with her eyes still squeezed shut.

"Lord, Trinket, what are you doing?"

Strong, gentle hands caught her. She dared to open one eye. Booker was looking her up and down, and when it was clear nothing was physically wrong with her, he glanced about the room.

"Is something pestering you?" he asked.

A high-pitched meow seized Trinket's attention. She looked over her shoulder and found that the cat had followed her down the stairs, dragging its intestines along the floor.

She squeezed her eyes shut again and buried her face in Booker's chest, breathing in his scent as she tried to grasp at something real and tangible. "Booker, can we go for a walk?"

His arms went around her, holding her close. "Of course. Whatever you need."

As he led her to the door, the cat continued to meow, its cries interrupted by the wet splattering of its organs hitting the floor. She kept her eyes closed even as she and Booker stepped outside, and it was only once they were surrounded by the shouts of shopkeepers and the rumble of coaches rolling over the dirt road that she attempted to open them. A quick survey of the area revealed the cat had vanished.

Letting out a relieved breath, she slumped against Booker, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. "Thank you," she said.

"Is it gone now?" he asked as they passed by a woman selling wilted daisies.

She nodded.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

What was there to talk about? Did she really want to describe to him how a disemboweled cat had just chased her out of her home? Why were her visions becoming so gruesome? First the dove, now this cat. And it wasn't as if she'd never seen an animal's insides before. Lord, she'd seen numerous humans sliced open and gutted. Was that where this vision had come from? Was acting as Booker's assistant making her hallucinations worse? She couldn't let that be true.

"No, it was nothing," she said at last.

"Are you sure? You seemed rather terrified."

She shook her head. "I'm tired. That's all. I needed fresh air."

Though his brow wrinkled slightly, Booker gave a nod and faced forward. "Thank you for being so obliging last night. And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

Oh, he hadn't made her uncomfortable. At least, not in an unpleasant way.

"I guess sometimes I don't realize my own sentimentality," he continued. He flashed her a rueful smile. "Another failure as Benedict's rival."

The mention of his old friend reminded Trinket of what she'd been mulling over before the nightmarish cat had scared her away. "Booker, you mentioned something about cats with regard to your work with Benedict, didn't you?"

He pursed his lips together. "Did I? Well, yes, cats were involved in some of our projects. Well, one project. And one cat. Nuada."

There was an undeniable resentment in the way he said the name, and Trinket couldn't keep a confused but amused smile from her face. "Nuada?"

"Yes, it was a groundbreaking success for us. We sewed a dog leg onto a cat that was missing a limb. It survived and was Benedict's prized possession. Took it with him when he left."

"A pet cat?"

"I guess you could call it that. Why? Are you interested in getting one for the house?"

The image of the black cat flashed in her head, and for fear of the blasted thing showing up again, she banished it quickly. "No. I just happened to think of something Tory told me. About where Benedict took her after the asylum."

Booker turned to her, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "And?"

"She didn't remember much, but she did recall a stuffed cat."

"A stuffed cat?"

"Yes. She didn't mention anything about a dog leg, but she said everything was a bit of a blur."

"Hmm." Booker faced the road again. "Well, it would make sense. There's no telling how old Nuada was, and living on the street and losing a leg is certain to have done a number on her health, so I can only imagine she'd be dead by now. And she was Benedict's first success. Of course he would want to preserve her."

"Or maybe he kept it because it reminded him of you."

He turned to her again, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Me?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "Of you and the time you both spent exploring science and medicine. I mean, he's going to all this work to reunite with you; surely he thinks fondly of those years. Like you do."

Booker seemed to consider this, and a smile slowly spread over his face. His eyes darted to her, and he shook his head. "You're just trying to make me feel better after my pathetic display last night."

"No. Well, yes, but I genuinely think it's the truth. No one would waste their time on someone they didn't care about, no matter how logical and unsentimental they are."

She didn't add that she wasn't so sure Benedict's interest in him was a good thing. Nor did she voice her concerns that reuniting with the twisted man could very well undo all the progress Booker had made in mending his cold-hearted ways. The joy in Booker's expression over the idea that his friend still thought about him was too sweet to ruin. So Trinket left it at that and simply enjoyed his warmth as he pulled her closer.

"Did I mention how much I love you, Trinket?" he said, planting a kiss on her head.

Before she could recover from the heart palpitations those words triggered, someone called out to them. Turning their attention forward, they found Jewkes approaching. Booker's muscles went taut with excitement while Trinket's stomach twisted with a mix of dread and anticipation.

"Can I help you, Constable?" Booker asked.

The officer stopped in front of them and dipped his head politely towards Trinket. "Morning, Miss Trinket," he said in his scratchy voice.

She offered a smile. "Good morning, Constable."

He returned his attention to Booker. "I think I have something that could be of interest to you, Larkin."

"You have two bodies that are of great interest to me, Constable."

"Yes, well, at the moment, I have no jurisdiction over those bodies."

"Come on, Jewkes. If you'd let me open them up real quick, I might be able to shed some light on the case. Consider it a favor for your favorite doctor."

Jewkes rolled his eyes and shook his head, but finally let out a defeated sigh. "I'll see what I can do, but I highly doubt I'll be able to sneak you in this time. The higher-ups are pretty set on disposing of them."

Booker scoffed. "Dispose of them? Are you serious? They're evidence. How can they dispose of them?"

"They're afraid of the trouble that could get stirred up should they try to investigate further."

"Have there been threats?" Trinket asked. Was Benedict trying to keep the police from ruining his game?

Jewkes hesitated. "No, no direct threats. But the bodies have a common feature that's rather damning."

"You mean the numbers?" Booker asked.

The officer shook his head. "Aside from the numbers."

"Come on, now, don't leave me in suspense, Jewkes."

Taking a deep breath, Jewkes glanced about the road before saying in a low voice, "Both bodies are missing fingers."

Missing fingers. Images of Mr. Wotton's missing finger and Ms. Langtry's mechanical replacements flashed through Trinket's mind. The Dead Mice. Their trademark.

"You're certain your highly competent men didn't break them off while moving the bodies?" Booker asked.

"Unlikely," Jewkes responded. "But because of this, no one is too keen on digging deeper. I reckon they're gonna end up tossing the bodies into a communal grave and hope no more show up."

"But what about the numbers? Don't they think there's something more there?"

"I'm sure there is, but the missing fingers are enough to put the case to rest in the eyes of my superiors. Sorry, Larkin. I can't do much for you here."

The disappointment was clear on Booker's face.

"Constable, didn't you say you had something that might interest us?" Trinket asked.

The officer held up a finger. "Right. Thank you, Miss Trinket." He pulled out a parcel wrapped in newspaper. "This was nailed to the station door sometime last night."

Booker stopped sulking, his eyes fixed on the object in Jewkes' hand.

"Most've the men think it's some prank or whatnot," Jewkes said, eyeing the bundle with disgust. "But I had an inkling it might be for you."

Barely breathing, Booker took the parcel from the officer. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he unwrapped it. Trinket watched carefully as he revealed what she already knew was hidden beneath the paper.

A dead frog.