There were still roaches clinging to Trinket's skirts when she returned home. She absentmindedly brushed them away and hung up her shawl on the coat rack as she played back her conversation with Scales, berating herself for how stupid she'd been to talk to him in such a brazen manner. When she lived with her family, she hadn't even dared to stand up to her mother, and she wasn't nearly as terrifying as Scales. How had she become such a risk-taker?

"Ah, good, you're home."

Pulling herself from her frazzled thoughts, she found Booker peeking out from the parlour, a cheerful smile lighting up his face. The sight of him warmed her heart and chased away the chill that had settled in her bones.

"How did the fact-finding mission go?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

One of the roaches had made its way onto her shoulder and was now tickling her cheek with its wispy antennae. "She didn't see much, but what she did observe seems to point to Benedict as the one who left the frog," she replied, clutching her skirts to resist brushing away the imaginary insect.

Booker's smile grew. He looped his arm around her waist and led her into the parlour where a platter of toast, crumpets, cheese, and fruit awaited, along with tea for two. Her appetite was minuscule after the incident with Scales, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

She settled onto the settee and straightened her skirts as an excuse to shake out the roaches that were still there.

"So, what did our favorite criminal shopkeeper see?" Booker asked as he sat beside her, handing her a cup filled with what smelled like ginger and peach tea.

"When she heard someone at the front door, she peered outside and saw a tall figure, most definitely male. However, by the time she got downstairs, he was gone."

As she sipped her tea, Booker scratched his chin and stared off at the fireplace in thought. "Yes, Benedict was rather tall, even as a youth."

"And 'tall' is one of the characteristics noted by those who've seen him. Both Daphne and Tory mentioned it."

"Good point. I wonder if others have caught a glimpse of this 'tall stranger' leaving bodies throughout the city. Perhaps we should ask around."

"Do you think he himself was leaving the bodies?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would he have done the legwork? Or would he have paid someone else to do it, to stay out of sight?"

"Ah, that's a possibility."

"At the very least, he'd need help. It took nearly three of us to drag that squirrel woman home."

"True. Maybe he's found a partner to aid him in his experiments."

A shadow fell over his expression, and Trinket acted quickly. "I highly doubt that's the case. Benedict probably hired someone from the slums to do the heavy lifting."

Booker nodded firmly, as if trying to convince himself. "Yes, that would make sense." He turned back to her, that easy smile gracing his face once again as he put an arm around her shoulders. "How was Emma? As prickly as she was last night?"

Taking another sip of tea, Trinket raised her eyebrows. "She was less than pleased to see me."

"But you won her over with your charm?"

She laughed. "I think it was more my humiliation."

"What do you mean?"

Setting the teacup and saucer down, she turned to face him. "Are you aware half the city is gossiping about us?"

An amused grin tugged at his lips. "The city's been gossiping about me since I first stepped foot here. It was only natural that my ever-present companion would also become the subject of such talk."

"Yes, but they assume our relationship has taken on a very carnal nature."

Though his grin remained, it seemed a little less amused. He looked away and picked up his teacup, taking a long sip from it. "I suppose I can see why they might think that, what with me not having the most upstanding reputation."

"But surely they've seen how uncomfortable you get when the subject of intimate relations comes up. Like the way you're squirming right now."

At her observation, he ceased his fidgeting, only to begin tapping his fingers against the cup in his hands. "I can put on quite the facade, as you know. People are none the wiser. Well, maybe Grace is."

Shaking her head, Trinket sat back on the settee and stared up at the ceiling. "I had Mrs. Portch congratulating me on our relationship at the tea shop and telling me how I shouldn't let what other people think bother me. I believe the words 'devour' and 'scrumptious' were used."

Booker choked on his tea and quickly pulled out his handkerchief as he coughed and spluttered. Trinket drew great satisfaction from his discomfort, considering what she'd had to deal with at the tea shop.

"I have to wonder if the old woman isn't trying to live vicariously through me," she added. "Maybe I was wrong in thinking she sees you as a son. Perhaps she has a taste for younger men."

"Bite your tongue," Booker said when he could speak again. "Argh, now that's going to be in my head every time I see her."

He shuddered and stuck out his tongue, eliciting more laughter from Trinket.

With a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, he peered over at her and said, "You really are far more wicked than people realize."

Wicked, wicked, wicked, wicked!

Her heart sank. Oh, he had no idea how wicked she truly was. But she couldn't let him know that. At least not yet.

Keeping a smile on her face, she traced the bruise still lingering on the pale skin around his right eye where Tory had hit him. "All humor aside, I do think your exemplary reputation is at stake, Mr. Larkin."

Her fingers slid from his fading black eye and into his dark hair.

"For you, my dear, I'd gladly sacrifice whatever might be left of my reputation," he replied.

The intensity in his gaze threw her for a moment, and as her fingertips brushed the nape of his neck, she couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to what Mrs. Portch had said. Did Booker really look at her like this, even when she didn't notice? If so, she could understand how the rumors about them had started.

Being devoured by him might not be so bad . . .

Wait, what?

Smiling, Booker took up his cup again and asked, "Anything else interesting happen, aside from digging up information on frogs and being harassed by old women?"

Scales' face flashed in her mind. His threats. His promises.

"No, I hurried away rather quickly for fear of being accosted by others looking to wish me well on our relationship."

"A wise decision."

Her heart still beating rapidly from thoughts of being "devoured," Trinket picked up her empty teacup and rose to her feet. "Anyhow, I should get to work. I made Daphne promise she would at least leave the dishes for me, and I fear if I tarry any longer, she may have the whole house scrubbed before I can lift a finger."

She hurried into the hallway before Booker could offer to help. The roaches were still clinging to her skirts, but her mind was too occupied to care. Between Scales' threats and Booker's enticing existence, her emotions were in a tumult of panic and desire.

Maybe a little cleaning would clear her head.

~

Three days passed without incident, which left Booker practically climbing the walls. When he wasn't in the laboratory taking notes or tinkering, he was following Trinket about the house, bouncing idea after idea off of her until she was nearly ready to push him down the stairs.

"Booker, you are going to drive yourself mad if you don't settle down," she said as he followed her through the upstairs hallway after having harassed her with theories about the connection between the frogs and the numbered corpse while she changed the linens.

"It wouldn't be a long trip, honestly," he responded.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face him, balancing the basket of dirty sheets on her hip. "Take it from someone who knows: full-on madness is not something to toy with. Asylums aren't fun places, Mr. Larkin."

"But what could be the connection? Outwardly, they have nothing in common. If I were able to open up the body, maybe there'd be some clue there. But alas, the police are being stubborn as usual."

"You actually approached them on the matter?"

"Of course. What else am I going to do, sit here and be useless?"

"Sitting might be a nice change. Sleeping would be good, too."

The front bell went off, and they both jumped at the sudden interruption. Trinket nearly dropped the laundry down the stairs in her surprise. Fortunately, Booker grabbed hold of both her and the basket before any damage could be done.

"Maybe it's a patient," Trinket mumbled as she stooped down to pick up a stray stocking. "At least that would keep you out of my hair for a spell."

"Ah, but you forget that you are my assistant and thus necessary in any medical procedures I may perform."

"I have chores to complete."

"Assistant before maid."

"Mr. Larkin?"

They glanced down to find Madison standing in the foyer as Daphne closed the door behind him. The urchin boy's hands were stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as he watched Daphne return to the kitchen.

"Madison, my boy, what brings you here?" Booker asked, trotting down the steps.

"Well, sir," Madison said, lowering his eyes, as if he were nervous to meet Booker's gaze, "I thought you might like to know that another body's been found."

Trinket was headed down the stairs, but she froze when the words came out of the boy's mouth. Booker's shoulders tensed for a moment, and then he spun around to face her, his eyes lit up with almost childlike glee.

"This is even better than a patient," he said, rushing back up the steps.

"What are we doing?" Trinket asked as he caught her hand and led her the rest of the way down.

"Seriously? You're asking me that?"

"Booker, I have laundry to do."

He took the basket from her and tossed it into the parlour, missing the settee and causing the contents to spill onto the floor. "I'll wear dirty dress shirts if I must. No one will bat an eye if I walk about in bloodstained clothes."

Staring open-mouthed at the shirts and bedsheets and towels now littering the parlour, Trinket couldn't find the words to object as Booker pulled her out the door, Madison following close behind. However, while he locked up, she did manage to muster up a disapproving glare. Alas, he was too preoccupied with this new body to even notice.

"Lead the way, my boy," he said to Madison.

The urchin nodded and scurried off towards the center. Tucking Trinket's hand into the crook of his arm, Booker raced after him.

"Booker, you could've at least let me set the laundry aside instead of throwing it everywhere. Daphne will think we were robbed or kidnapped," Trinket said as she tried to keep up with his hurried pace.

"She's a smart woman. I'm sure she'll put the pieces together," Booker replied. "Madison, were the police there when you saw it?"

Looking back over his shoulder, the boy shook his head. "There was only a small crowd when I left."

"Good, maybe we'll get there before the bobbies do."

Madison led them all the way through the city center, and for a moment, Trinket wondered if perhaps the body had been left in the suburbs. But then they turned onto Devonshire Road and were met by a large crowd surrounding the Tinker's shop. There were horrified whispers as folks stood on their toes and craned their necks to get a better look.

Without a word, Booker pushed his way to the front, dragging Trinket along with him. Bursting through the sea of people, they nearly tripped over the stiff body lying on the Tinker's doorstep. He was an old Eastern man who seemed to be smiling even in death. Trinket had never seen such a content corpse before. But she couldn't focus on his gentle expression for long, as her attention was quickly drawn to the number carved into his wrinkled forehead.

690.

Booker tensed beside her and moved to get a closer look when someone stepped in front of him. "Move along, move along," shouted the police officer, waving the crowd away. "Nothing to see, go about your business."

Cursing under his breath, Booker looked like he was about to argue with the man. Trinket placed a gentle hand over his mouth, not up for another squabble with the authorities. Thankfully, he didn't try to shake her off, and she managed to pull him away from the scene as more officers arrived.

"Buncha bloody animals," muttered one young constable. "You'd think they were at the circus the way they gawk."

"You haven't lived here long enough, Stebbins," said an older officer. "There've been so many strange happenings as of late, it's becoming something like a game to these people. A sorta 'who can guess the next horror scene that'll grace our dirty streets' thing. You'll get used to it in a few weeks."

A game. He had no clue how right he was.

"Booker," Trinket said when they'd gotten far enough from the police that she trusted him to speak, "we need—"

"Code," he interrupted.

She furrowed her brow at his sudden declaration.

Turning to her, he explained himself. "Those numbers mean something, and I have to find out what. Come on, I know just who to talk to."