"Trinket."

She woke with a start, blinking against the low light coming from the dying fire in the parlour. Booker was leaning over her, his lips hovering by her ear after having whispered her name. Lifting herself up, she found she was on the settee, Booker sitting beside her. She must have fallen asleep while waiting for him to return from the Clocktower.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, rubbing at her nose.

"Late. Sorry, I lost track of the hour."

"Catching up with Frieda?"

"Actually," he adjusted his legs a bit and put an arm around her, "I never got to Frieda. The Twins were just receiving my acceptance of their offer when I arrived, so we talked right then and there to nail down the details."

A shameful rush of relief flooded through Trinket at knowing he had not been up all night with his former flame. "So it's all taken care of?"

"It is indeed. They'll be here tomorrow morning to fetch the rug."

She drew her brows together. "Rug?"

Booker flashed her a playful grin. "Oh, you didn't hear? My clumsy maid spilled tea all over my parlour rug. I'm sure it's salvageable, but it's not worth my time. So some junk dealers have agreed to take it off my hands."

"Junk dealers? Is there such a thing?"

"Oh, yes. Although they don't usually make house calls. And our junk dealers aren't the genuine article."

"I'm guessing we're giving them more than a spoiled rug?"

He played with the ends of her braid. "Clever as always."

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she let out a long breath. "You're in a good mood."

"Yes, I am."

"I expected you to be a tad broodier after that encounter with Scales."

"Well, thankfully, I have a lovely, beautiful, brilliant assistant who knows exactly how to lift my spirits." He drew her closer and rested his chin on her head. "You were right. Scales is miles behind us. And he doesn't have the same connection to Benedict that I do. We'll find him first. We'll most definitely find him first."

"And to be honest, Booker, I don't think Benedict wants to be found by anyone but you."

Admitting that made her chest ache, but it was what she truly believed.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he replied. "But if I can prove to him that I'm more valuable than Scales, we'll win this game."

Trinket closed her eyes, almost wishing Benedict would choose Scales over Booker so the man she loved would be freed from his maniacal influence. But that was a selfish desire. Not only would it hurt Booker, it would ruin the city.

"I suppose we should prep the rug, then?" she asked, reluctantly moving away from Booker's warm embrace.

He groaned softly, seeming just as unwilling to let her leave his arms. "Yes, that would probably be best. Less shuffling around to do in the morning."

They rose from the settee and surveyed the large carpet beneath their feet. "Such a shame to get rid of it," Trinket said. "It's uniquely beautiful. And matches the decor perfectly."

"I can always buy another," Booker said, stooping over to grab one side of the table that was in front of the settee. "Help me with this, will you?"

She took the other end, and together they lifted it up and brought it into the hallway. It was far heavier than she realized, and by the time they set it by the stairs, she was already short of breath.

"How will we open the door?" she asked as Booker dusted off his hands.

"We'll move it back before the morning. Come on, let's go fetch our guest."

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she followed him down to the laboratory. The poor dead woman was still there, waiting for someone to lay her to rest so she could rot in peace. Unfortunately, the natural process of decay had no sympathy for her; it seemed that even more of her skin had flaked off. Trinket leaned over and fixed the woman's dress to allow her some sort of decency.

"I should have thought to sew this up," she mumbled as she did her best to keep the bodice closed.

Booker gave a crooked smile. "I have some thread if you'd like to do it now."

She cast him a scowl. "You're teasing me."

"No, I actually think it's very sweet you're so worried about a dead woman's modesty. Although, I believe she's past the stage where it matters."

Trinket left the dress as it was. "Fine, fine. I suppose she'll be wrapped up in a rug anyhow."

Booker stationed himself by the woman's head, slipping his hands under her arms. "Very good point. Ready?"

She grabbed hold of the legs. They heaved her off the table and slowly made their way up the stairs. Trinket silently prayed with each step that the woman wouldn't lose an arm or a leg or worse—her head.

"I think we're getting her out just in time," Booker said, gagging as he spoke. "She's really starting to smell."

"Well, what do you expect when you bring dead bodies into your home?"

After what felt like an eternity, they were back in the main part of the house. Stopping for a moment to catch their breath, they leaned the corpse against the wall. Trinket's arms ached, and she loathed the idea of lifting the woman again, even if it was a short trip to the parlour.

"No wonder you were able to carry me home after I fainted," she panted. "If you do heavy lifting like this on a regular basis, you're bound to build up some strength."

"You're not that heavy, my dear. And carrying you was a much more pleasant experience."

"I'm sure I smelled just as ripe, considering I hadn't had a proper bath in months."

"True, but you weren't rotting away in my arms. Bleeding to death, maybe, but you were a far cry from this stiff."

Letting out a heavy breath, Trinket wandered over to the parlour entrance and examined the carpet. "So we drop her on one end and roll her up?"

"That was the plan. What, something wrong with it?"

"It seems a bit too simple. The last time we had to dispose of a corpse, it ended with you being held at the station."

"Are you complaining about the simplicity?"

She turned back to him and smiled. "No, of course not. Just surprised. Anyhow, we'd best finish this up before we lose our motivation."

Again, they heaved the dead woman up and this time carried her into the parlour where they eased her onto the end of the rug closest to the fireplace. They knelt before her and arranged the edge of the carpet over her body.

"I'm so sorry, madame," Trinket whispered as she covered the woman's deathly pale yet still rather pretty face.

"Are you talking to the corpse?" Booker asked, another teasing smile tugging at his lips.

"Someone here has to show respect for the deceased, and it surely isn't going to be you."

"Oh Lord, are you going to condemn me to hellfire like my first maid?"

"Be quiet and start rolling."

In impressive synchronicity, they began rolling up the heavy rug, bringing the body with it. It took just as much strength as it had to drag the corpse upstairs, and when they finally reached the settee, they were both huffing and puffing.

"This will teach me to spill tea on your lovely rugs," Trinket said as she fell back onto the floor, gasping for breath.

Booker gave a wheezing chuckle and laid down beside her. "Yes, it's not as though I haven't ruined numerous rugs and pieces of furniture with machine oil and blood."

"But I'm your maid. I should be keeping your house clean, not making a mess."

"You are far more than a maid, my dear. And far more than an assistant. Sometimes I swear you're my guardian angel with the way you keep me alive. But I don't really believe in those sorts of things."

"And what do you believe in, Mr. Larkin?"

He released a long breath. "I believe that I've never been quite this exhausted. In fact, I might just fall asleep here on the floor."

"I'd be tempted to join you if I didn't have flakes of skin stuck under my nails. Come on, we're in need of washing."

She sat up with a groan, her muscles screaming as she rose to her feet and held her hands out to Booker.

"If you insist," he said as he took them and pulled himself up.

Leaning against each other, they headed to the scullery where they scoured their hands and arms. When they were as clean as they could get, Trinket put on the kettle and made them each a cup of tea.

"It seems morbid to sit on the settee with a corpse as a footstool," she said as they brought the tea into the parlour.

"You and your propriety," Booker muttered, steering her away from the dead body.

"You have a very warped idea of what's normal, Mr. Larkin."

They sat by the fireplace, and though the hard floor wasn't exactly an ideal place to rest, it was better than standing. Trinket's muscles sighed in relief. She took a sip of hot tea and let out a satisfied sigh herself, laying her head on Booker's shoulder.

"I find the definition of 'normal' varies from person to person," he said, sipping at his own cup. "I mean, think of it. What's normal for a street urchin is not what's normal for an upper-class housewife. Our life is normal for us. Or it is for me, at least. I've really never known anything other than this sort of living."

The sound of Booker's familiar voice combined with the warm tea in her hands was slowly coaxing Trinket's eyes closed. "You make it sound so simple," she mumbled.

"Make what sound so simple?"

"Being different from everyone else. You make it sound like it's a good thing."

"I think it is. Why would you want to be like the rest of the world when you could be extraordinary?"

"Because sometimes what makes us different from the rest of the world is exactly what causes them to hate and fear us."

"Your mental condition is not what makes you extraordinary. It's your compassion, your wit, your sharp mind. It's everything you are despite your illness."

"I doubt others could see past the hallucinations and violent outbursts."

She felt him lean in towards her. "Then they're all fools. You, my dearest, are the most extraordinary person I have ever met."

A smile tugged at her lips as he planted a kiss between her eyes. "And you, my charming mad scientist, are the most frustratingly brilliant person I have ever met," she said.

He laughed softly and pulled her closer. There was a long silence, and despite her aching body and the hard, cold floor, something about being in Booker's arms put her completely at ease. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, his warm breath against her cheek, the protective way he held her. It was enough to lull her into a peaceful sleep.

~

"Trinket."

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up instinctively. "Yes, what, I'm up, I'm up."

Booker chuckled and handed her a cup. "Good morning, sunshine."

Accepting it, she frowned up at him. "Morning?"

She peered over at the windows by the settee and found early morning light streaming through the closed curtains.

"We fell asleep on the parlour floor?" she said, suddenly noticing the strange crick in her neck.

Booker sat beside her and grinned. "Carting about corpses wears a body out. No wonder the Gravekeeper is so crotchety."

Trinket sipped at her tea as she tried to blink away the sleep lingering in her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Four or so?"

"How long have you been up?"

"An hour, give or take?"

"Why?"

He chuckled and leaned back. "Woke up with the need to do some research."

"Research? In the middle of the night?"

"You're surprised?"

She considered this for a moment. "No, I suppose I'm not. What sort of research?"

With an annoyed frown, he pulled from his pocket the map segment they'd found inside the corpse. "This is driving me crazy. I'm sure there must be some correlation between the numbers and the map, but I can't for the life of me figure it out. I even pulled out my old city record books."

"How do you have old city record books?"

He was gazing down at the map piece as he replied, "Blackmail and such. It was a while ago, so I can't recall the specific method."

Of course. How many officials and authorities had he bullied into accommodating him?

She peered over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the map. There were no street names, only sections of road and undefined blocks of what she assumed were buildings. The other pieces had to be in the bodies at the police station. And who knew how many more there'd be? Was Booker really going to drag every corpse into his laboratory and search through them? She dreaded the thought of lugging more bodies up and down those stairs.

And then another, much darker thought arose in her mind, one she'd considered during her episode with the demon hands: how could she figure out Benedict's location before Booker did so she could keep the madman from corrupting the man she loved?

Her cheeks burned with shame, and she forced her eyes away from the piece of paper. "Will those junk dealers be here soon?" she asked.

Sighing, Booker returned the map segment to his pocket. "Yes, I suppose they will. We'd better make sure everything's set for them."

Finishing up her tea, Trinket quickly headed into the scullery to wash up and straighten her hair. As she made her way back down the hallway, a staccato knock sounded at the door. She rushed to answer it, nearly forgetting about the table they'd pushed out of the parlour the night before.

"Booker, a little help?" she called out as she tried to open the door unsuccessfully.

Coming from the parlour, he cursed under his breath and helped her pry it open a crack. "Sorry, just tidying up from last night," he said to the visitors outside. "We'll be but a moment."

He pulled his head back inside and shut the door, and they attempted to push the table out of the way. However, it was wedged awkwardly in the corner, so there was no way to actually push it. Instead, they resorted to pulling it on one side with some difficulty.

"My first maid was ancient," Booker wheezed as he nearly lost his footing. "How did she manage to move this thing on her own?"

Someone cleared their throat, and the sound took them by such surprise that they lost their grip on the table and tumbled to the ground. As Trinket rubbed her hip, she found Daphne on the stairs holding her hands out in question as she surveyed the scene.

"Oh, good. Daphne, could you give us a hand?" Booker asked, hauling himself onto his feet.

She stared at him for a moment before turning to Trinket and raising an eyebrow.

"We'll explain later, I promise," she said, smiling at her pleadingly.

Heaving a sigh, Daphne rolled up her sleeves and came down to help.

Between the three of them, they were able to move the table back to its place in front of the settee. Taking a deep breath and straightening his jacket, Booker answered the door and flashed a tired smile.

"Apologies. We were doing some redecorating," he said to the young woman standing on the steps.

Her lips curled up into a conniving grin as she held the lapels of her patched coat. "Then I reckon we came just in time."

She signaled to someone outside and then sauntered into the house. A young man who seemed about the young woman's age followed closely behind, and Trinket drew her brows together in confusion as she took them both in. These had to be the Twins, but they didn't look all that alike. Granted, there was a subtle, underlying similarity to their appearances that suggested some sort of blood relation. They had the same tawny hair, the young woman's being longer than that of her partner. And there was a similar structure to their faces, almost oval, every corner and line smooth and soft, giving them a rather friendly appearance.

"In the parlour?" asked the young woman, making her way inside before even receiving a response.

"Yes, we have it all rolled up for you," Booker said. He stood in the doorway and watched the Twins circle the rug and appraise it in silence.

Daphne, who was perched on the back of the settee, caught Trinket's eye and gave her a deadpan look. Trinket shrugged and turned her attention to the Twins. She leaned against the doorjamb, trying to figure out their relationship. Probably siblings. Or maybe cousins. As they moved about the room, she noticed a long scar across the young man's throat. It looked old, though it was still bright red, standing out from his olive complexion.

"They're not actually twins," Booker whispered, suddenly much closer to her than he'd been a moment ago. "Just brother and sister. But they're always together, practically joined at the hip, so people started calling them the Twins and it stuck."

The siblings crouched down at either end of the corpse, getting a good grip on the rug and testing its weight before lifting it up. As they did, the young man's scar flexed with the muscles in his neck, making it stand out all the more so.

"What happened to him?" Trinket asked, fingering her own neck as she watched them.

"Someone slit his throat open," Booker said. "I don't know all the details. His sister showed up with him at my door one night, begging me to save him."

Trinket's eyes darted to Booker, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "You saved him?" she asked.

"Most of him. Lost a lot of blood. And a good chunk of his vocal cords. But really, I think what kept him alive was his sister screaming at him that he wasn't allowed to die."

As Trinket returned her attention to the siblings, her heart squeezed at the thought of such a close bond between a brother and sister. She remembered how that felt. At one time, she and Merrill had been much the same. Back when he was the most important person in her world. When he would've done anything for her.

Even sacrifice his own life.

A sudden flashback seized her consciousness, and she found herself standing in a dark kitchen, all alone. There was a strange scratching noise in the background, like a chair being dragged across the floor.

Then a snarl.

And a jaw snapping closed.

As quickly as it had come, it was gone, and she was back in the parlour with Booker. He pulled her aside to allow the Twins to carry the body into the foyer. She took a deep breath to steady herself, her heart pounding as hard as it had been that fateful night.

"I thank you," Booker said as he followed the Twins out the door, Trinket staying at his side to keep herself grounded. "I didn't know what I'd do with that blasted rug."

"Glad to be of service, sir," the young woman said with a grunt as she and her brother tossed the body into the back of a small cart with impressive strength. "And what about the new rug?"

A line formed between Booker's eyes. "New rug?"

While her brother made certain the body was secure, the young woman jumped to the ground and flashed Booker a smile. "Yep. Picked it up early this morning. Found it sitting outside the chemist's shop."

Narrowing his eyes, Booker glanced at the cart where there was, in fact, a second rug. "I don't recall asking for another rug," he said slowly.

"Well, I guess it's your lucky day." The young woman raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared behind her bangs. "Your very lucky day, Mr. Larkin."

It must have clicked in Booker's mind at the same time as it did Trinket's.

A body.

His muscles tensed in anticipation, and though he gave a calm and dignified nod, he gripped Trinket's hand tightly. "Very well. You can bring it right in, then."

The young woman grinned. "Aye aye, sir."

As efficiently as they had brought the first one out, the Twins lugged the new "rug" into the parlour and set it down carefully. Daphne, still sitting on the back of the settee, eyed it suspiciously before turning an accusatory gaze on Booker.

He didn't even notice. His attention was fixed on the rug. It took Trinket squeezing his arm to remind him about the Twins.

"Ah, right," he said, snapping back to reality. "Thank you for your assistance. Truly, you've been a great help."

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small purse packed tight with coins. The young woman flashed a crooked smile as he handed it to her. She tossed it to her brother who caught it expertly with one hand.

"Always happy to do business with you, Mr. Larkin," she said, stuffing her hands into her pockets and winking at Booker. "And if that rug don't work out, feel free to call upon our services again. We'll be glad to toss it out for you."

With a lopsided bow, she turned back to the door and headed outside where her brother was already pulling the cart down the road. She glanced over her shoulder and offered a short salute before joining him.

Booker closed the door so quickly that it slammed shut, rattling the coat rack and several mirrors. He hurried into the parlour, his eyes glued to the rolled-up rug the Twins had left behind. It was old and musty, nowhere near as beautiful as the one that'd been sent off with the dead woman. The Twins had done an excellent job concealing the true treasure that lay within its frayed folds.

"Help me unroll it?" Booker asked as he licked his lips excitedly.

He and Trinket knelt down and pushed the carpet along the parlour floor. It was heavier than it should have been, which only seemed to encourage Booker to unroll it faster. It didn't take long for them to reach the end.

The force with which they'd been pushing caused the body hidden inside to roll all the way over to the settee. It was another woman, based on the long, dark curls cascading down her back. She'd landed with her face on the floor. Daphne grimaced and pulled her knees up to her chest as Booker and Trinket hurried to the corpse's side.

Booker gently took hold of her shoulder and eased her onto her back so her face was in plain view. Trinket bit her lip, torn between morbid excitement and selfish dread at the sight of a new number.

799.