The room was still.

Booker swallowed hard. "What letter?" he asked Frieda, his voice cracking.

With her fingers curled around Trinket's wrist, Frieda hummed and glanced up at the ceiling. "Let's see. I think it was about three years ago? I sent it shortly before you left. I waited and waited for a response, but nothing ever came. I suppose the postmaster must have lost it, right?"

Swallowing again, Booker averted his eyes.

"And now I can see why you never wrote to me," Frieda went on. "Busy boy, no? I'm assuming that woman with the aquariums on her neck is one of your little experiments? Have you given up on metal and clockwork?"

"Frieda, what are you doing here?" Booker asked.

Pressing the wet umbrella to her chest and sniffing in an absurdly contrived manner, she replied, "My dear Mr. Younger passed two weeks ago."

Booker eyed her ensemble. "Then shouldn't you still be in mourning?"

Her sniveling ceased instantly as she waved away the thought. "Black really doesn't suit me. Anyhow, with my old, decrepit husband out of the picture and all his fortune in my possession, I found myself with the freedom to do whatever I pleased. And who pleases me more than Booker Larkin?"

Her red lips curled into a pleasant but chilling grin. Trinket tried to break free from the woman's grip, but Frieda twisted her arm, sending a shooting pain up her shoulder. Trinket let out a cry, and Booker finally snapped out of his daze. He grabbed Frieda by the wrist and pulled her off of Trinket.

"Please don't tell me you killed your husband to get his fortune," he said to Frieda, putting a protective arm around Trinket.

Frieda's calculating gaze darted between the two of them, but she quickly pasted on an easy smile. "Mr. Younger was very, very old, even when I married him. No one would question it if he suddenly died out of the blue shortly after drinking tea that had no trace of any sort of deadly mixture disguised as sugar. And they wouldn't dare suspect his charming, beautiful, devastated wife of foul play. Really, Booker, you're so paranoid."

"What did you do to Daphne?"

"The aquarium woman? Oh, nothing too serious. She got all defensive when I picked the lock and slipped inside." Frieda pulled a damp rag from her pocket. "I needed her to calm down, so I simply gave her a little whiff of this and—"

Booker grabbed the rag and examined it carefully. There was a strong odor wafting off of it. Just standing near it was making Trinket's head swim.

"Careful, darling," Frieda said, a playful smile still on her lips. "That's a powerful blend there."

He glanced up at her. "I'm assuming it's one of yours?"

She straightened her posture, seeming proud of the accusation. "Of course. Quick-acting anaesthetic, much faster than ether. Doesn't last quite as long, but it does have the nice side-effect of making a person's limbs feel like lead, so at the very least it keeps them incapacitated for a spell."

Trinket bristled at the casual manner in which the woman spoke of knocking out poor Daphne. But before she could spit back a retort, Booker took her hand and steered her towards the foyer.

"Stay here, Frieda," he said over his shoulder. "And try not to get into anything."

"I make no promises," Frieda replied, fluttering her fingers after him.

Daphne was still on the floor, unconscious and unmoving, but now that the panic had subsided, Trinket could see she was indeed breathing. Amazingly, the portiums were without even a scuff or a crack. Booker's craftsmanship was certainly not shoddy.

"Will she be all right?" Trinket asked as she and Booker knelt before their friend.

"She's tough. I'm sure it won't keep her down for too long. Come on, let's get her upstairs."

Together, they lifted Daphne to her feet, her arms draped around their shoulders, and carried her slowly up to her room. They set her down on the bed, and as Trinket arranged the pillows to be certain she was comfortable, Booker paced the room, tapping his lips with his fingertips.

"Did she actually kill her husband?" Trinket asked, kneeling by the bed and gently taking hold of Daphne's limp hand.

Booker let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "There's no telling. I mean, I wouldn't put it past her. But she's also a fantastic liar, so she could just be trying to get a rise out of us."

"Why is she here? Is she working with Benedict?"

He ceased his frantic pacing and turned to face her. "I need to talk to her."

Trinket rose to her feet. "Should I come with you?"

He hesitated, drumming his fingers on his thigh as his eyes darted about the room. "Honestly, as much as I'd like you there for support, I think I'd get the most information out of her on my own. Also, I'm quite certain she can already tell we're in a relationship, and I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to do something horrible to you."

"In front of you?"

"She's very good at what she does. And very convincing."

An uneasy sensation seized Trinket's stomach as she thought about Booker being alone with such a conniving person, even if he had known her for years. "Booker, I don't know that this is a good idea," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing down at Daphne.

Booker pressed his hands together and rested them on his lips as he stared vacantly across the room. After a moment, he nodded and turned back to her. "All right, here's what we do. We'll go fetch some smelling salts from the laboratory. You'll come up here and do what you can to revive Daphne while I talk to Frieda. Once Daphne's awake and well, you can come join us and rescue me if need be. Actually, the need may be very real at that point. Does that work?"

The plan still made Trinket nervous, but she nodded in agreement all the same. Letting out a long breath, Booker motioned for her to follow him, and they headed back down the stairs. As they passed the parlour, Trinket spied Frieda lounging on the settee, lazily fiddling with her umbrella.

"Booker, darling, are you really going to make an old friend wait around like this?" Frieda asked.

"I'll be right with you, Frieda," Booker replied as he and Trinket slipped through the laboratory door.

As Booker went to retrieve the smelling salts, Trinket gazed at the mutilated corpse on the operating table. The resemblance to Frieda was uncanny. Although, upon closer inspection, the dead woman wasn't anywhere near as beautiful as Booker's old friend. What a shame the two hadn't been one and the same.

Tearing her eyes away from the body, Trinket furrowed her brow and placed a hand on her chest. How could she think such a terrible thing? She didn't even know Frieda. Well, not really. She knew what Booker had told her. And she knew she was a woman who didn't think twice about breaking into people's houses and poisoning innocent maids.

"Here we are," Booker said, handing her a tiny bottle of smelling salts.

She stared down at it, turning it over in her hands while Booker headed over to the sink to wash away what remained of the viscera from earlier. "Do you think Frieda will help us? With the game and all?" Trinket asked.

Booker turned to her as he dried his hands and shrugged. "She was always eager to assist us when we were children. For a price, of course."

Trinket clenched her jaw, wondering what the cunning woman might request in return for her cooperation. Though it was their first time meeting, Trinket was pretty sure she could wager a guess.

"Do what you can for Daphne," Booker said as he put an arm around her shoulders and led her up the stairs. "I'll try to get information out of Frieda."

"Be careful, Booker," Trinket said as they reached the hallway.

He laid a kiss on her head and gave her hand a squeeze before locking the door. "Don't worry, my dear. I'm no stranger to her methods."

They parted ways, and as Trinket ascended the stairs, she couldn't help but watch as Booker entered the parlour. The way Frieda's lips curled as he sat next to her made something bitter bubble up deep inside Trinket's chest. But she ignored it and focused on helping her unconscious friend.

Upon entering Daphne's room, she knelt beside the bed once more and uncapped the smelling salts, waving the tiny bottle under Daphne's nose. It took longer than she would have expected. With a sudden jerk, Daphne inhaled sharply. Her eyes shot open. She gazed up at the ceiling, a panicked expression twisted her face as her breathing became more erratic.

"No, no, Daphne, Daphne," Trinket said, perching herself on the side of the bed and taking the woman's hand in her own.

Daphne's eyes settled on Trinket and widened before darting to her unmoving arms and then back to Trinket.

"You're fine," Trinket reassured her, gently stroking the back of her hand. "It's just an effect from the drugs."

Raising an eyebrow, Daphne squinted for a moment, as if trying to remember what had happened. Then it seemed to all come back to her. Her jaw tensed, and she flared her nostrils. She violently motioned to the door with her head, clearly frustrated with being unable to use her typical gestures to express her feelings.

"Yes, I know, but she's someone Booker knows."

Daphne snorted and rolled her eyes.

Leaning forward, Trinket brushed back the woman's thick curls. "Will you be all right staying here until you recover? I left Booker alone with her and—"

Nodding towards the door again, Daphne gave a half-hearted smile.

Trinket placed a kiss on Daphne's hand and gave it a soft pat. "Thank you, Daphne. I'll be back. Try to rest."

Daphne shrugged her shoulders and let out a breath as she closed her eyes.

It felt wrong to leave her friend in such a state, but at least she was safe in her room. Booker, on the other hand, was on his own with that diabolical woman. What would prevent her from drugging him and dragging him away? Although, she was a rather petite thing, so it was doubtful she'd be able to do it on her own. Unless Benedict really was working with her.

Trinket shook her head as she made her way down the stairs. This was ridiculous. While she didn't personally know Benedict, she was certain he wouldn't stoop to something so simple. And why would he need to retrieve Booker by force, anyhow? Booker was eager to reunite with him. It would take no arm-twisting to get him to agree to a meeting.

She paused at the foot of the stairs and peeked over the railing. Booker and Frieda were still in the parlour, sitting side by side on the settee. Booker's back was turned to her, but Frieda was in full view. There was hardly any space between them, and as Frieda spoke, her voice too low to hear, she rested a hand on Booker's knee. He removed it, but this only seemed to encourage her more. Leaning in closer, she played with the buttons on his shirt. He heaved a heavy sigh and pushed her away.

Despite the anxious knots in her stomach, Trinket headed into the parlour to rescue Booker. As soon as she entered, he jumped to his feet, his face filled with relief at the sight of her.

"Trinket," he said, backing away from the settee and standing awkwardly beside her. "How is Daphne faring?"

He nearly tripped over his own feet as he approached, his eyes darting nervously between her and Frieda. Furrowing her brow slightly, Trinket folded her hands over her skirt and nodded solemnly. "She's awake, though unable to move her arms or legs. She's also rather irate about the situation."

"I'm sensing burnt crumpets in my future," Booker mumbled.

"I told you she'd be fine," Frieda said as she rose to her feet with far more grace than Booker had. "You truly think I would preface our reunion by killing your maid?"

"I never know what to expect from you."

She flashed that wicked, charming grin of hers and took several steps towards Booker who immediately stumbled back. "And that's what makes me ever so much fun," she said, practically purring the words. But then her eyes flickered to Trinket, and that lovely smile disappeared. "And a force to be reckoned with."

Trinket pulled her shoulders back and held the woman's gaze. Though Frieda was shorter than she was, she still managed to look down on Trinket. She was a tiny little creature, looking far younger than she must have been considering she'd grown up with Booker. But after all the time Trinket had spent with Booker and within her own twisted mind, she knew how deceiving appearances could be. Frieda Younger was not someone to underestimate.

"Ah, anyhow," Booker interrupted, pulling Trinket closer in an obvious attempt to put distance between her and Frieda, "we have a body downstairs to deal with, so I'm afraid we haven't much time for conversation."

Glancing back at Booker, Frieda smiled coyly. "Nothing changes, does it?" She heaved a sigh and dug into her purse, fishing out a calling card. "I'll be back tomorrow. But in case you wake in the middle of the night just craving my company, I'll leave this with you."

She closed in on him until his back was up against the wall. Tucking the card into his belt, she grinned devilishly. Without even touching him, Trinket knew Booker's every muscle was coiled tighter than a spring. His fists were clenched, and as he swallowed, his Adam's apple noticeably bobbed up and down.

"I'm staying at a charming little alehouse," Frieda continued. "The rooms are a bit small, but there's enough room in the bed for two."

Trinket slipped in beside Booker, curling her arms around his ]protectively. "I think Booker will be quite preoccupied tonight," she said, eyeing Frieda pointedly. "But we'll be sure to have tea ready for your visit tomorrow. Do you have a preference for flavor?"

Frieda stared at her for a long moment before swinging her umbrella up over her shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "Cognac."

Booker gave a small groan as Frieda sauntered into the foyer. Trinket followed after her with Booker still attached to her arm, watching as the brazen woman stepped out the door and opened the umbrella with enviable grace. Glancing back, Frieda smiled one last time and fluttered her fingers at them.

"Until then," she said.

She made her way into the street at an annoyingly slow pace. Trinket slammed the door shut and made certain it was securely locked. Although, with Frieda's apparent lock-picking skills, she wasn't sure what good it would do. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face Booker who was leaning on the stair railing, seeming winded.

"So that's Frieda," Trinket said, crossing her arms over her chest as she pressed her back against the door.

Booker nodded slowly. "Yes. That's Frieda."

There was an uncomfortable silence as they each stared off in opposite directions. Trinket's mind was reeling as she pictured Booker with that cunning yet beautiful woman. Kissing her, caressing her, their bodies entwined as—

She gave her head a quick shake, desperately trying to calm her heart and keep a blush from rising in her cheeks. What did it matter what Booker had done with Frieda in the past? It was the past, done and over with. It didn't affect their present.

Except it did. Because Frieda was here and clearly not finished with Booker. But Trinket knew there was no threat of Booker running off with the woman, at least not if his reaction to her attention was any indicator. No, Benedict was more of a threat to his devotion than Frieda.

But Frieda could still be a very real threat to Trinket's well-being. Possibly even her life.

"So Booker," Trinket said at last, desperate to distract herself from Frieda's visit. "What are we going to do with that body?"