They checked on Daphne before dealing with the dead woman downstairs. By the time they entered her bedroom, Daphne was able to move her fingers and toes and greeted them with a tiny wave of her forefinger.

Trinket gave her friend a relieved smile as she sat on the edge of the mattress. "Well, at least it was nothing permanent," she said, reaching out for Daphne's hand and squeezing it gently.

"Daphne, I am so sorry," Booker said, kneeling beside the bed. "I pray you'll forgive me."

Rolling her eyes, Daphne tried to wave away his apology, though the gesture came out more like an arm flop.

"Progress, at least," Booker said hopefully.

Poor Daphne. As if it wasn't bad enough that someone in her past had taken her ability to speak; now she had lost her only other means of communication. Although, it was temporary. And she was still able to make a variety of facial expressions. Like the wrinkled-nosed grimace as she stared up at the ceiling.

"Don't be mad at Booker, Daphne," Trinket pleaded. "He didn't invite her here."

Daphne shook her head and jerked it towards the door. Booker furrowed his brow and glanced at Trinket.

"I think she's saying she's mad at Frieda?" she tried.

With an emphatic nod, Daphne let out a short huff and pinched her lips together.

"Yes, well, I'm none too pleased with her, either," Booker said, shifting a bit so he was sitting on the floor, his arm resting on the bed. "Aside from breaking into my house and drugging my friends, she also gave me absolutely no useful information."

A smile tugged at Daphne's mouth when Booker referred to her as a friend, and Trinket couldn't resist a smile of her own. "Do you mean she had no information, or she just refused to give it?" she asked Booker, trying to school her expression into something more serious.

"It's hard to tell with her. She likes to toy with people, so it's difficult to get a straight answer."

Thinking about the calling card Frieda had left, Trinket asked, "Are you going to go talk to her again tonight? At the Clocktower?"

Booker scoffed and shook his head. "Lord, no. I'm not stupid enough to visit her in a cheap rented room. I know her too well to do that."

Yes, yes he did, and that truth was still a tad unnerving. Almost as if reading her thoughts, Booker's head shot towards her, and he gave a slight wince. However, before he could speak, Trinket changed the subject. "It's just as well. We really should do something about that corpse."

Although he looked concerned, Booker nodded slowly. "Yes, we should. Not sure what, though."

"We ought to think these things through before dragging dead bodies into the house."

"Oh, what fun would life be if we did that?"

Trinket turned back to Daphne and laid a hand on her knee. "I think you should rest some more. We don't know what sort of drug she used, so we can't take any chances."

Sighing, Daphne nodded reluctantly and managed to wave her away properly.

Satisfied that their friend's condition was quickly improving, Trinket and Booker got to their feet and made their way downstairs. As they passed the parlour, Trinket couldn't help but check to be sure Frieda wasn't there.

No, no one at all. But she'd be back. No doubt she'd be back.

They returned to the laboratory, and they were welcomed by the heavy stench of rotting flesh. "We can't just walk it outside," Booker said, propping his elbows up on a nearby workbench as he stared at the body.

"No, the smell alone would attract attention," Trinket said, sitting herself at the writing desk to escape the odor.

"I could cut it into pieces and send them to the knacker."

"Pretty sure he'd realize they came from a person. Also, he's not all that happy with you at the moment."

Booker wrinkled his nose. "Right. Blast, he was such a good connection, too."

"Would your beetles be able to take care of her?"

"We'd still have the bones. And it would take far too long for them to finish off an entire human."

Drumming her fingers against the desk, Trinket swept her gaze over the room, searching for a spark of inspiration. Her eyes passed over tools and gears and a number of jars on shelves. And then they snagged on one jar in particular. A metallic jaw grinned at her through the glass, reminding her of the very first round of this wicked game. It brought to mind another jaw that had gotten caught up in this mess. The sight of it tumbling out of a burlap sack was forever burned in her memory.

"What about using a resurrectionist?" she asked, turning to Booker.

He drew his brows together. "They're usually more in the business of stealing corpses, not getting rid of them."

"Yes, and they usually steal them from local cemeteries. But Benedict was able to persuade one to bring in bodies from other towns. Why couldn't you do something similar? Besides, you're well-liked by the body snatchers in Tinkerfall."

She recalled the number of offers he'd gotten when he put out an advertisement at the Clocktower.

"Hm, it's not a bad idea," Booker said. He pushed himself away from the bench and brushed off his shirt. "And also the only one we have right now. We'll give it a try. Let's head over there and then we'll come back and stitch the body up. It'll be good practice for you."

He headed towards the stairs.

As Trinket passed the rotting woman, she eyed her with a hint of disgust and mumbled, "Oh, joy."

~

The morning had faded away hours ago, and though it was still early afternoon, the dark storm clouds made it seem like night. The rain was falling steadily now, so Trinket and Booker huddled together beneath a black umbrella as they made their way to the Clocktower. Despite their macabre errand and the inclement weather, Trinket rather enjoyed the proximity to Booker, his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near to help stave off the chill.

"If the rain can hold on for just a few more days, it might aid us in seeing our guest off safely," Booker said, stooping so he could see past the umbrella and glance up at the sky.

"Perhaps you can charm the clouds into doing your bidding," Trinket replied, flashing him a teasing grin.

He chuckled softly and straightened his posture. "I think I'd like to save my charm for more important matters. Like getting a stubborn police officer to let me inspect a few dead bodies."

"I doubt your charms will be effective on the likes of him, especially after your behavior this morning."

"Again, I'm sorry about that. I got carried away."

She patted his arm gently. "No worries, Mr. Larkin. I'm quite used to your erratic moods at this point."

"You have the patience of a saint to put up with me."

"Well, you put up with me stabbing you and your furniture."

"So it's even."

The warmth inside the Clocktower was a welcome respite from the rain. As Booker closed the umbrella and shook out the raindrops that still clung to it, Trinket glanced about the room anxiously. Would Frieda be up in her room? Or would she be down here gossiping with the servants and night flowers? Trinket wasn't all that keen on another encounter with her so soon after their first introduction.

"What do you say? Shall we stay for a nice bowl of stew to warm us up?" Booker asked as he led her to the stairs.

"Considering the work we have ahead of us, I don't think Clocktower stew is the best thing to have in my stomach."

There were already a few requests tucked beneath the steps. Some had been accepted by various resurrectionists, their marks having been made on the scraps of paper that served as advertisements for doctors in need of bodies. Booker found a free spot and added his own.

"We'll check back tonight," he said, letting out a long breath. "Hopefully we can get this thing taken care of by today or tomorrow."

Trinket raised an eyebrow. "You're confident you'll receive such a quick response?"

"Indeed I am. I've earned my reputation here."

Yes, he had. Last time, it had only taken an hour or so for him to get multiple offers. The local body snatchers were eager to assist him, even if he had gotten one of them killed recently.

"All right, now let's get out of here before Frieda senses we're here," Booker said, slipping his arm around Trinket's waist and hurrying her back towards the entrance.

Just as they reached the door, it flew open. Standing before them was—

Merrill. It was Merrill, clear as day. There was the knife, still buried in his chest. He stared at Trinket with dead eyes.

She gasped and fell back a step, her heart racing. How was he here?

Booker drew his brows together and gently gripped her shoulders to steady her. "Trinket?" he said softly. "What's wrong?"

She started to reply but was interrupted by a voice that was certainly not Merrill's. "Miss Trinket, I do apologize. I seem to startle you whenever we meet."

Turning back to the doorway, Trinket found not her brother, but Ms. Langtry. The woman was gazing at her with an easy smile. However, there was a tiny line etched between her brows that betrayed her concern.

Shadowy spots floated within Trinket's line of vision, and she gave her head a shake in an effort to dispel them. "Please, no need to apologize," she replied, her words awkward and stiff. "I'm just easily spooked."

Booker raised his eyebrows at this, but did not contradict her. "I'm sorry, Ms. Langtry. I'm afraid I've had her up at odd hours as of late," he said to the fortune-teller. "Lack of sleep is bound to make even the most resilient person a tad jumpy."

Ms. Langtry nodded her understanding as her gaze darted to Trinket. "You'd best take care, Mr. Larkin. She appears to be a worthy partner. You wouldn't want anything to happen to her. I sense that her mind, though clever and impressive, is quickly becoming more troubled and fragile."

With a snort, Booker retorted, "Your spirits tell you that?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe it's the weary look in her eyes."

Her stare was boring a hole through Trinket's skull, and for a moment, the woman's face flickered back to Merill's, twisted in pain and betrayal. Trinket's heart pounded as the song he'd taught her to ward off her hallucinations began to fill the room.

Ah, poor bird, where is thy nest? Where is thy love who knows thee best?

"What convinced you to leave your coffeehouse?" Booker asked, his voice banishing the haunted sound of her dead brother's song. "Business slow?"

Ms. Langtry gave a calm smile. "Not at all, but thank you for your concern. I had a special request to visit a customer here at the Clocktower. She's new to the city and was apparently delighted when she heard there was a resident soothsayer."

Trinket's stomach dropped, and Booker's face paled. "Ms. Langtry, I beg of you, let us put aside our differences regarding your profession," he said, his tone all humility. "Please do not let her know we were here. In fact, please, don't mention us at all. Especially if she inquires about love or relationships or anything of the sort. Please. I'll pay you whatever you'd like, just name the price."

Chuckling to herself, Ms. Langtry shook her head. "No need, Mr. Larkin. Your begging satisfies me enough. But am I to understand you fear the spirits may reveal to me a connection between the two of you? I thought you weren't a believer?"

"I believe you are a clever woman with many tricks. I thank you for your discretion."

With a nod, he pushed past the woman, opening the umbrella as he led Trinket back into the rain. Once they were a safe distance from the alehouse, Trinket let out a long breath. "Is Frieda interested in spiritualism? Does she believe it?" she asked Booker.

"Frieda is always searching for some sort of high. I doubt she believes in magical arts, but if it entertains her, she'll take it." He glanced down at her and furrowed his brow. "Was everything all right back there? You looked as though you'd seen a ghost."

She swallowed hard, but put on a teasing smile. "You believe in ghosts, Mr. Larkin?"

"You know what I mean."

Facing forward, she chewed on her lip as she recalled the frightful sight of her murdered brother. "That woman is enough to frighten anyone, what with her claims to commune with the dead."

"Do you believe she's actually capable of that?"

Ms. Langtry's eerie insights into Trinket's troubled mind and hidden secrets did send a shiver down her spine. But rather than confide in Booker about that, she merely shook her head. "No. I don't. Once a person is dead, they're dead. There's no reversing something like that. I think the only thing that can haunt us once they're gone is their memory, be it good or bad." She glanced up at him and smiled. "Everything else is just smoke and mirrors."

He returned her smile and drew her closer as they hurried back home.

Despite her confident declaration, Trinket could still hear Merrill singing in her head. Words from long ago, twisted by the hurt and betrayal in his voice, condemning her with every line.

Perhaps the dead could not haunt her, but her past certainly could.