"Constable, what happened?" Trinket gasped, instinctively reaching her hand out to him.

He winced as her fingers brushed against his bruised skin, but he forced a smile and gently gripped her wrist. "Nothing to worry yourself about," he said, lowering her arm.

"Booker didn't—"

"No, no, Larkin had no part in it. I . . ."

The officer trailed off, his eyes wandering away as he cleared his throat. Trinket waited for him to continue, furrowing her brow with concern. Who could've done this? Had it been a Mouse? Or had he caused a problem at the station trying to get the bodies to her and Booker?

"Constable?" she asked softly when he still didn't speak.

Heaving a sigh, he turned back to her and hunched up his shoulders as he dug his hands into his pockets. "It was my wife."

That was not what she'd been expecting. She blinked a few times, taking in his response. "Your wife?"

"Yeah, she's a lot tougher than she looks."

"What happened? Why did she—oh!"

His mistress. Had she found out?

After another sigh, Jewkes pulled out a cigarette. "It's not what you think," he said as he clumsily tried to light it. "She didn't find me out. I told her."

Trinket's eyes went wide. "You told her?"

Having lit the cigarette, he shook out the match and took a drag. "I did. Told Rhea it was over a week or so ago, gave her what I could to keep her on her feet. Took me a little longer to work up the nerve to tell my wife, though. And when I did . . . well . . ."

He gestured to his eye, and Trinket winced in sympathy.

"Can't blame her, though," he went on, letting out a stream of smoke. "Can't blame her for kicking me out, either."

"She kicked you out?"

"Quite literally, in fact." He rubbed his lower back.

"Do you need a place to stay?"

He shook his head. "I'm staying in a room down on Cordella. It's no luxurious suite, but it's close to work."

"Oh, Jewkes, I'm so—"

Holding up a hand, he cut her off. "Don't say it, Miss Trinket. I don't deserve any sympathy. Like I said, can't blame her for it. I'm the one who strayed. I'm the one who broke our marriage vows." He released a sigh, tapping the cigarette and sending a tiny flurry of ash into the air. "I do love her. Guess I loved Rhea, too, but my wife's the one I gave my word to. I hope she'll forgive me. Someday. Can't expect her to, though. What I really worry about is my daughter. I pray I haven't ruined everything between me and her. Because if there's someone I love more than life, it's her."

The tender feeling in his voice tugged at Trinket's heart. "What made you tell her, though? It wasn't to get out from under Booker's thumb, was it?"

He scowled. "No, Larkin had nothing to do with it. And I don't want him knowing anything about this, either."

The firm stare he gave her took her by surprise, and she nodded her understanding.

His expression relaxed as his eyes turned soft. "I just realized how wrong it all was. Someone made me think."

The gentle smile he flashed made her stomach twist with guilt. It was her? She was the reason his marriage had fallen apart?

"Keeping secrets from the ones you love is a recipe for disaster," he continued. "Wish I'd figured that out a while ago."

The guilt ate at her all the more so. He was right, of course. And she knew it. But it was one thing to know he was right. It was another to do something about it.

Do something!

"Anyhow," he flicked the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of his boot, "I didn't come here to burden you with my domestic affairs. I wanted to let you and Larkin know that those bodies we've been keeping at the station are scheduled for disposal tomorrow night."

Pushing aside the distressing thoughts about her own secrets, Trinket focused on this information. "Tomorrow night?"

He nodded. "I'd say nine or ten. So if someone were to come around during the witching hour, I'm sure they'd find the grave settled and unguarded."

"Unguarded?"

"Well, maybe one guard. But he may be a tad distraught over his recent marital problems and wouldn't notice a few bodies gone missing."

Trinket laughed softly and let out a breath. "Can I offer you a cup of tea, Constable?"

"Very kind of you, Miss Trinket, but I think I need something a little bit stronger." He turned to leave but glanced back nervously. "Again, please, I ask that you not—"

"Don't worry, Constable. Mr. Larkin doesn't need to know your personal business."

He shrugged. "I reckon he'll find out soon enough. I'd just rather delay that humiliation."

"You underestimate him, sir. He has more of a heart than you think."

"And I believe that's very much thanks to you."

She smiled gently. "He always had a heart. He just needed someone to remind him."

Tipping his hat, Jewkes went back the way he'd come, and as he disappeared down the road, Trinket turned to Madison with a sigh.

"That copper sure does like you," Madison said as they headed up the stairs.

"That's because he doesn't know me that well."

"Gin liked you, too, so he can't be too far off."

A wave of sadness hit her, and it took a moment to regain her breath. "Thank you, Madison. Really, I do appreciate it."

"Take care of yourself, Miss Trinket. I'd hate for something to happen to you. It'd break too many people's hearts."

The little boy handed back her bag and tipped his hat before scampering off. Trinket watched him go. For a brief moment, in her mind, it was Gin running down the road, her messy braid bouncing behind her as she held down her bowler to keep it from flying off her head. A sharp pain seized Trinket's chest, but she forced herself to turn away and slip into the house.

After dropping off the cleaning supplies in the scullery, she hurried down to the laboratory, relieved to find Booker back home and unaccompanied. He was sitting at his writing desk, stooped over a pile of gears and screws. Whatever he was working on was beginning to take shape. It was small but didn't appear to be a hand or a foot or even a finger.

"Booker?" she said softly.

He jumped, fumbling with the tiny tool in his hand, but managing to catch it before it rolled off the desk. Glancing up, he gave a quick smile before carefully scooping his project into the drawer.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said as he rose to his feet.

"No, no, no interruption. Just trying to keep myself occupied. Sometimes all this research and whatnot gets to me. Need to take a break, work on something different."

She nodded slowly, not completely convinced this project was only a distraction. However, it didn't appear dangerous or illegal, so she let it go. "Jewkes was just here."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Come to get me back for my behavior the other day?"

"No, he was here to inform us that the police are relinquishing the bodies."

Booker's eyes lit up, and he gripped the edge of the desk. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. He advised us to come during the witching hour, as he put it. It sounds as though he'll be the one watching the cemetery."

"You know, I hate to admit it, but Jewkes isn't all that bad."

"My, I did not expect those words to come out of your mouth."

"Just don't tell him I said that."

She resisted rolling her eyes at how stubborn these two men could be. "So are you going to employ the help of the Twins? Or another resurrectionist?"

He leaned against the writing desk, crossing one leg over the other. "As much as we could certainly use their expertise, I think it'd be better to keep things small and simple."

"Do you have the necessary tools to dig them up?"

With a devilish grin, he paced over to the corner of the room behind the desk and pulled out two shovels. "As if you need to ask?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she furrowed her brow and approached him. "Why do you have two? Or did you buy one for me after I became your assistant for an occasion like this?"

"No, as adorable as that would be, I had two long before you. Always good to have a backup in case one breaks."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Has that happened to you before?"

Leaning the shovels back against the wall, he replied, "You'd be surprised by the ridiculous mishaps I've experienced. Anyhow, I should probably ask before I assume. Are you all right to accompany me on this task? Because if not, I can certainly hire a resurrectionist."

While the idea of digging up rotting bodies did not exactly appeal to her, she felt an obligation to be there for Booker. "No, of course I'll come. I'm your assistant, after all."

A wide grin broke over his face, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Excellent. Why don't we discuss it over dinner tonight?"

"The Clocktower?"

He winced. "Actually, considering the alehouse's most recent guest, I was thinking we could spend more of our evenings here."

"No arguments from me. You know how I feel about their food."

Draping his arm around her shoulders, he led her back to the stairs. "And I forgive you for that. Now, I think the Twins will be by soon, so let's go check to be sure our noseless friend is ready for her trip."

~

The following evening, Trinket and Booker had an early dinner and then retired downstairs to get ready for their late-night errand. Although Booker seemed confident things would go well, Trinket couldn't shake the dread weighing on her chest.

"How are we going to drag three dead bodies back here?" she asked as Booker went through his medical bag. "And then get rid of them?"

He tossed several tools onto the workbench he was standing over. "I can always borrow a small cart."

"You mean steal?"

"Precisely. Or, depending on the situation, we may be able to open them up right there."

Trinket grimaced at the thought of doing an autopsy in the middle of the cemetery. "Do you think the Mice will be there?"

"Maybe, though I'm not sure how they'd know the bodies are being buried tonight."

"What if they've been watching the station? What if they get there before us?"

Taking out the needles and thread from his bag, he replaced them with a large bone saw. "Then we'll just have to get there earlier. Why are you so worried?"

Her thoughts wandered back to a distraught Scales sitting in that alley in St. Spittel. If he was not in his right mind, there was no telling how unpredictable he and his men could be. "I think my reaction is rather reasonable, considering what we're about to do is quite illegal and dangerous."

He gave her a gentle smile and kissed her forehead. "My dear, most of what we do is illegal and dangerous. But if you don't want to do this, I can find someone else to help. Really, there's no pressure. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

She fidgeted with one of the scalpels he'd removed from his bag. "No, I want to help. I just worry we haven't had enough time to prepare for all the different possibilities."

Turning to one of the shelves filled with jars of herbs and drugs, he replied, "If we wait until we've considered every potential thing that could go wrong, we'll never get anything done." His hand hovered over an empty spot on the shelf, and he tilted his head to the side. "That's odd. I could've sworn I had more ether here."

Trinket put down the scalpel and joined him. "I didn't move it. And I doubt Daphne's been down here. Are you sure you put it back there?"

He folded his arms over his chest, his eyes wandering up and down the shelves. "I'm certain of it. My workspace may seem a mess, but it's more of a chaotic organization. I know it was here."

"I have no idea where it could've gone."

He continued to examine the shelf when suddenly his face fell. "She didn't."

Without explanation, he stormed up the stairs.

"Booker?" Trinket called out, chasing after him.

She found him in the hallway, kneeling before the laboratory door as he peered into the lock and tested the knob. After a moment, he spat out a string of curses and rose to his feet. Trinket followed him to the coat rack as he threw on his coat.

"Booker, what's wrong?" she asked, worried he was about to get himself into some sort of trouble.

"I should have expected this from her," he growled, pulling open the door and hurrying out into the street.

She ran after him, hardly able to keep up with his quick pace. "Would you please slow down and explain yourself?" she panted, catching his arm and forcing him to stop.

"Missing ether? A lock that's been subtly tampered with?" he said, the annoyance in his eyes taking her by surprise. "It's one thing to break into my house. But my laboratory? Now she's crossed a line."

That was all the explanation she was apparently going to get. Though, from those few words, she could wager a guess as to where he was headed. And indeed, they soon arrived at the Clocktower. Pushing through the crowd of inebriated patrons, Booker forced his way towards the stairs. Not even missing a step, he hurried up to the second floor and stormed down the hall, Trinket practically tripping over her feet to keep hold of him.

They stopped at a door with a number so faded she couldn't make it out. Without hesitation, Booker pounded on it, the sound echoing down the long, dark corridor. There was a rustle of papers and a muffled voice, but no answer.

Booker knocked again, this time so hard Trinket worried the cheap wood might splinter. "Frieda, open up. I know you're in there."

In mere seconds, the door flew open, and Frieda stood before them in a rather revealing nightgown made of the finest silk Trinket had ever seen. The flirtatious smile she sported quickly faded when she saw that Booker was not alone.

"Oh. You brought the blonde," she said, not even bothering to hide the disappointment in her voice. She heaved a dainty sigh. "I suppose she can join us if it's the only way I'm going to coerce you into bed. But this can't be a regular thing, darling."

"Who do you think you are breaking into my laboratory?" Booker hissed, pushing her back into the room and storming inside, Trinket right behind him.

Frieda didn't even bat an eye as he slammed the door shut. "How do you know it was me?" she asked innocently.

"No one else can pick a lock like that, Frieda. And no one else would break in just to steal a bottle of ether."

Throwing her hands into the air, she paced back to the bed, which was littered with books and papers and empty bottles. "All right, you caught me. I was bored, so I decided to do some experimenting and needed a little ether."

Booker let out a long breath. He leaned against the wall and ran a hand down his face. "And you couldn't go buy some for yourself? I know you can't be low on funds with a dead husband worth—how much money did he have?"

Frieda perched on the edge of the mattress and shrugged. "Enough."

"You have absolutely no sense of personal—are those my beakers?"

He marched over to the bed and scooped up several glass containers filled with a variety of powders and liquids.

Frieda flirted her eyes. "I forgot to bring mine with me. I didn't think I'd need to entertain myself while here. Silly me, I assumed my old bedmate might want to spend some quality time with me. How was I to know you'd be so boring?"

"Frieda, you can't keep breaking into my house. And you really can't be stealing my things." He stopped as he caught sight of something else on the bed. Placing the beakers down, he snatched up what looked like a piece of clothing and stared at her incredulously. "Is this one of my nightshirts?"

Oh, it certainly was. The only reason Trinket knew was because he somehow managed to get oil and grease on his sleepwear, and no matter how hard she and Daphne tried, they couldn't scrub the stains out.

Fluttering her fingers against her lips, Frieda gave an obnoxiously feigned look of timidity. "What? It's lonely in this little room at night. I just wanted some familiarity."

It seemed the nightshirt was the last straw. "What could make you think this was anywhere near acceptable?" Booker exclaimed. "And when did you have time to do all this? You've only been in the city, what, two days? And you've already stolen this much out of my house?"

Frieda giggled like a little girl, seeming quite amused by Booker's rage. "Imagine what I could do if I was really trying."

"What else did you steal? Oh Lord, is that my razor?"

"I wanted to see what you'd look like with a bit of scruff. My guess is absolutely tantalizing."

Grabbing for the stolen article, Booker knocked over one of Frieda's open books, and it landed only inches from Trinket's feet. She stooped down to pick it up. It was on the subject of herbs and natural medicines. Apparently, despite the coy act she put on, Frieda really was the brilliant girl Booker remembered her to be. Smoothing out the crumpled page, Trinket's eye caught on a familiar number.

799.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she quickly scanned the page. But it was nothing useful; just information on some plant that, when mixed with the right herbs, could send a person into fits of laughter. There was no mention of the number. Furrowing her brow, she read on to the next page when another number jumped out at her, though not as familiar as the first.

800.

And then it dawned on her. She turned back to the previous page. Yes, that's what it had been. A page number. Nothing special. Every book had them.

But as her hopes began to deflate, Ms. Langtry's words echoed in her mind.

"I'd wager the code to this message is more personal."

The code. It was something personal. Something personal between Booker and Benedict.

"The numbers," she gasped, her head snapping up just as Booker was trying to wrestle his nightshirt out of Frieda's hands.

The two paused their quarreling to turn to her. Booker looked confused while Frieda just seemed annoyed by the interruption. "The numbers?" Booker repeated, a line forming between his eyes.

Closing the book, Trinket gave a crooked smile. "I know what the numbers mean."