Trinket could still feel the blood on her hands as she stumbled through the front door. Wiping her palms against her skirt over and over again, she desperately tried to force the image of the murdered dove out of her memory. Why did her mind insist on haunting her with such morbid visions? Was this her punishment for killing someone who'd done nothing but love her?

It's what you deserve.

Killer.

Killer.

Killer.

Letting out a frustrated growl, she stormed down the hallway and went straight to the scullery sink where she scoured her hands under the running water. She had to get it off. That feeling. That dirty, sticky sensation of being branded for life. She'd get it off if it was the last thing she did.

She would move on.

She would forget.

She'd be happy, blast it all!

Someone caught her hands and tore them out from under the scalding water coming from the faucet. Trinket gasped as she was tugged away from the sink, nearly tripping over her own feet. The same hands that had grabbed hold of her kept her upright, and once she could focus again, she realized they belonged to Daphne. She was staring at her so incredulously that Trinket half-expected a tongue-lashing. Well, minus the tongue.

"Oh, Daphne, I'm so sorry," she whispered, looking down at her palms. Now they really were covered in blood, though this time her own. "I don't know what came over me."

Releasing a sigh, Daphne took Trinket's wrist and pulled her into the kitchen where she had her sit at the table while she fetched her homemade balm. As Daphne went about wetting a rag, Trinket gazed down at her hands. They were raw and red, with shallow cuts that must have been made by her nails. What had she been thinking? Why had she allowed herself to react like that?

Daphne sat down beside her, taking her injured hands and gently tending to the cuts. "Daphne, I am so sorry," Trinket repeated.

Shaking her head, Daphne waved her apology away and she stooped over her hands. All the same, there was a line of worry between her eyes.

"I had a rather bad hallucination while I was out," Trinket explained. "Apparently its effects are lingering."

Daphne stole a glimpse at her as she dabbed a small amount of balm onto the cuts. Those warm, brown eyes of hers were filled with such concern it made Trinket want to throw herself into the woman's arms and tell her everything. But she couldn't. She couldn't tell anyone. That would reveal too much. Too much that she wanted to forget.

"Please don't tell Booker," Trinket pleaded, grasping Daphne's hands and ignoring the stinging pain in her palms. "It will only make him worry, and at the moment, he has more than enough to be concerned about."

Daphne freed one of her hands and laid it on Trinket's cheek, shaking her head slowly. She bit her lip as her eyes darted to the kitchen doorway. Leaning forward, she gave Trinket a very pointed look. Though she couldn't say exactly what message Daphne was trying to convey, Trinket could certainly guess.

"I usually do tell him," she said, stretching the truth a little. "But in this instance, it won't make a difference. Please, Daphne. I'm asking you as a friend."

Daphne's eyes wandered back and forth, and Trinket worried the stubborn woman was going to refuse. But finally, she gave another sigh and nodded reluctantly.

Trinket let out a long breath. "Thank you. Truly, you have no idea how much I appreciate your prudence."

Quirking her mouth into a sad smile, Daphne patted Trinket's knee and rose from her chair to tend to the stew on the stove. Glancing at her hands once more, Trinket banished the vision of the murdered dove and forced herself onto her feet.

"I know I might be a tad more useless than usual," she said to Daphne, "but perhaps I can set the table. I promise not to bleed on the tablecloth."

Daphne gave a crooked grin and nodded towards the dining-room door. Relieved to have something with which to occupy her troubled mind, Trinket headed into the pantry to retrieve the bowls.

"Booker's been so distracted lately that there's a chance he may not even notice my hands," she said as she went to the dresser to gather some silverware.

Raising her eyebrows skeptically, Daphne gave a halfhearted shrug and returned her attention to the stew.

~

"Good Lord, Trinket, what happened to your hands?" Booker exclaimed, grabbing her wrist as she sat beside him in the dining room.

So much for not noticing.

"It's nothing, just a few scratches," she insisted, trying to pull free from his grasp.

But he held on tight, bringing her palm closer to his face as he examined every cut and bruise. "It looks like the skin has been rubbed raw. How did this happen?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Trinket noticed Daphne's anxious expression, but she refused to meet her gaze for fear Booker would be able to piece it all together. "It was merely an accident in the scullery. When I was doing the dishes," she said casually. "I got a little aggressive scouring one of the pans. It's fine, really. Daphne took care of it with her balm."

Booker glanced over at Daphne who offered him a reassuring smile and nod. "Did you also pour boiling water over them?" he asked Trinket, turning his attention back to her hands as he gently ran his fingers over them.

She finally succeeded in escaping his grasp. "You need hot water to get rid of stubborn grease," she said, placing her wounded hands in her lap and out of sight. "I'm afraid you've chosen a girl who will never have pretty lady hands, Mr. Larkin. Both Elysium and my work as a maid have made sure of that."

Planting a kiss on her cheek, Booker smiled and replied, "I'm certainly not interested in you for your hands, my dear."

As he turned to his stew, Trinket caught Daphne's eye and tried to convey her thanks. Daphne simply smiled and started in on her meal.

"I'm very keen on seeing what Ms. Langtry comes up with," Booker said, drawing Trinket's attention away from her food.

"Um, actually, she talked to me earlier," Trinket said.

Booker glanced up at her, furrowing his brow. "Really? And?"

"She says it's not a number code. But she does believe it's a code of sorts. Something more personal."

Steepling his fingers together, Booker concentrated on a random spot on the wall across from him. "Blast. I was hoping she'd have something more than that." His eyes focused, and he turned to her again, seeming more confused than earlier. "Why did she come to you with this information?"

Trinket fiddled with her spoon. She hadn't wanted to tell Booker about Scales; it would only work him up. But he wasn't a child. He didn't need her to shield him from everything that would upset him. Besides, this was something he needed to know.

"She didn't come to me," she said, glancing up at him nervously. "She asked me to meet her at the Clocktower."

His eyebrows went up, and he leaned his elbows against the table. "The Clocktower?"

She nodded. "Yes. Apparently a client met with her after we did, and she thought we might be interested."

Booker's face fell, clearly figuring out who the client was without any hints. "Seriously? He went to her?"

"And threatened her if she didn't give him the information she found before handing it off to you."

"Then do we know if what she said was true? Maybe she was trying to throw Scales off."

"I'm pretty sure she was telling the truth."

"She's a fake fortune-teller. We can't be certain."

"I thought they were all fake, Mr. Larkin."

He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the bowls and silverware. Daphne shot him a dirty look as she steadied her wine glass.

"I thought we had something," he mumbled, leaning his head against his hand.

Trinket wrapped her fingers around his fist. "Booker, stop it. We've made progress. We now know it's not an address or a number code. There are plenty of other options."

"Such as?"

She frowned and looked to Daphne who simply shrugged and took a sip of wine. "Well, maybe . . . perhaps they stand for . . ." Trinket let out a frustrated sigh. "Oh, I don't know. But maybe we just haven't gotten all the pieces yet. We may need to have a little patience."

Booker relaxed and finally unclenched his fist, allowing Trinket to lace her fingers with his. "You're right. I'm sorry." He turned to Daphne and dipped his head contritely. "Truly, Daphne. I'm sorry."

Offering a small smile, she nodded. They resumed their meal in silence, but after a moment or two, Booker set down his spoon and faced Trinket, his expression still perplexed.

"Why did she call for you and not me?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? You're asking that after your reaction to hearing what she told me?"

"Right, right, that makes sense. Well, maybe she's not such a fake fortune-teller if she could predict that."

"Booker, you can be rather explosive at times. It doesn't take supernatural talent to know that."

She flashed him a teasing grin, and he grimaced playfully before taking her hand and placing a kiss on it.

~

After dinner, Booker suggested the three of them go out for an evening stroll. Trinket knew exactly what he was doing. Just like with the experimental corpses, he wanted to comb the streets for new bodies so he could look at them before the police arrived. And if he wanted all three of them there, chances were he planned on bringing any corpses he found back to the laboratory.

"I know that look," Booker said to Trinket as they all headed out towards the center.

"What look?" she asked, adjusting the collar of Daphne's specially made shoulder cape to be sure her portiums were out of sight.

"That look that says you think I'm up to no good."

Trinket took his arm and released a long breath. "I'm your assistant, Mr. Larkin. I know you're up to no good. You want to check the city center for new bodies, and you want me and Daphne to help you drag them back home."

Daphne leaned forward to glare at Booker from across Trinket.

Holding his hands up innocently, Booker feigned insult. "You wound me! I merely wish to enjoy a breath of fresh air with two fetching ladies."

Reaching around Trinket, Daphne smacked him on the back of the head. He let out a whine, rubbing the spot defensively.

Trinket laughed and put an arm around Daphne. "There's no fooling the likes of her, Mr. Larkin."

"I have to start hiring less clever help," Booker grumbled.

"Oh, please. What would you do without us?"

Booker grinned and wrapped his arm around Trinket. "Very true. I'd be lost without my little makeshift family."

Trinket's cheeks flushed. "Family?"

Before Booker could elaborate, a shout ripped through the night. They turned around just in time to avoid being knocked over by two quarreling men. Booker grabbed hold of Trinket, dragging her closer to his side, while Daphne backed away towards a nearby shop. The two men were on the ground now, cursing and throwing punch after punch.

"Booker, shouldn't we stop them?" Trinket asked, flinching as one of the men knocked a tooth out of his opponent's mouth.

"This isn't really our problem," Booker replied.

However, even as they were speaking, Daphne pulled off her boot and started beating the two men with it while attempting to kick them apart. Booker and Trinket exchanged a surprised glance and then turned back to the furious maid. Her attack seemed to shock the men enough that they ceased their fighting, allowing Daphne the opportunity to grab them by their collars and separate them.

"What the—" one of them started.

One nasty look from Daphne froze his tongue, and he reeled back so far his chin disappeared into his jacket, making him look like a scared turtle. His companion swallowed hard and averted his gaze so as to be spared Daphne's withering glare.

"The woman is full of surprises," Booker muttered.

"Oy! What are you meaters getting on about?"

Booker and Trinket turned and inhaled sharply as a face was put to the obnoxious, slurring voice calling out from behind them. An ugly face that belonged to a bald man with a snake tattoo winding about his ear.

Viper.