The next time Trinket roused, it was the front bell that pulled her from a deep and relatively peaceful sleep. It woke Booker, too, and as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he smiled up at her. She was still lying in his arms, and now that her state of mind had settled a bit more, her stomach fluttered at the scandalous position in which they found themselves.

"Good morning," Booker said, his voice slightly scratchy in a way that made her heart race. "Are you feeling better?"

Her own voice wouldn't work, so she simply nodded in response.

He let out a heavy sigh and reached up to stroke her hair. "Good. I was so worried."

The feel of his fingers brushing against her scalp was both comforting and maddening. She closed her eyes, soaking in his touch, his smell, the warmth of his body pressed against hers-

The bell rang again, more frantically this time. Trinket opened her eyes and met Booker's gaze. He gave a reluctant smile and nodded towards the doorway. "Should probably answer that. Could be someone bleeding to death on the doorstep."

"Right, of course," she said, moving so he could sit up.

Rising to his feet with a small groan, he offered his hand and helped her up as well. He slipped his arm around her waist, and they headed into the foyer where the bell was ringing for a third time. Upon opening the door, they found Vernice standing before them. She glanced about nervously, her dark hair scattered over her eyes and partially obscuring the long scar on her face.

"Vernice? Is all well?" Booker asked. "It's awful early for a friendly visit."

"I wanted to get here before people started milling about," the girl said. She again glanced at her surroundings before leaning in and whispering, "I think I have something that may be of interest to you."

Booker's eyes widened, his grip on Trinket's waist tightening. "A corpse?" he breathed.

The girl nodded. "And I'd like if you got rid of it before Granny wakes up and sees it lying by the front door."

Swallowing down his excitement, he nodded. "Of course, of course. We'll be right there."

He beckoned her inside and into the parlour before racing upstairs. Trinket glanced at Vernice and then followed after him. She caught up just as he was about to slip into his room. He stopped short and turned to face her, brushing back her hair as he took hold of her hand.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, his gaze wandering up and down her person, as if searching for a sign she was unwell. "If you're still . . . ah . . . you know . . . I could go alone. Or I can stay here with you."

The reluctance in his voice was obvious. Trinket smiled and patted his cheek. "I'd never ask you to miss the chance to catch a corpse. I'm fine. Let me change, and I'll help you drag it home."

A bright smile broke over his face, and he kissed her head. "I fall in love with you more every day."

He turned back to his room and disappeared inside. Trinket made her way into her own bedroom, though she was hesitant to enter alone. She could feel those ghostly claws wrapping around her ankle and the abject terror as she tried to kill what wasn't alive to begin with. The memory was so vivid she nearly expected to see the monster hiding beneath her bed.

But upon slipping inside, all she found was a room in shambles. The pillows were everywhere but where they should be-one by the window, one by the door, even one atop the wardrobe. Her blankets were tangled into a twisted mess, hanging from the mattress that still had the hairpins stabbed into it. And there were matches scattered across the floor. How much worse would things look if Booker hadn't interrupted her when he did?

Sighing, she pushed such thoughts aside and quickly pulled out her work dress. She donned it and laced up her boots with impressive speed. Her hair was too knotted to comb out or even braid, so she gave up any pretense of looking presentable. She paused at the door and eyed the hairpins in her bed. Would she really need them? After all, the body was already dead. What harm could it do? But someone had chased them all the way home last night. There was no telling what might happen from here to Vernice's apartment.

Biting her lip, Trinket pulled the pins from the mattress and tucked them into her pocket.

As she returned to the hallway, she found Booker partially dressed, and quite poorly at that. He'd misbuttoned his untucked shirt, having missed a few entirely. His jacket was draped unevenly over his arm, one of the sleeves dragging on the floor as he clumsily buckled a belt around his trousers.

"Mr. Larkin, are you really going to go out in public looking like that?" she asked, fixing his buttons.

"What do corpses and crooks care about my appearance?" he muttered, finally winning the battle with his belt.

She chuckled and ran her fingers through his hair, still disheveled from their night on the settee. "What a pair we make."

He pressed his lips to hers, catching her off guard. "No truer words have been spoken," he said when they parted. "Now, come on. We have a dead body to fetch."

Vernice was no longer in the parlour, but pacing the foyer. She seemed irritated as they descended the stairs.

"Let's get a move on," she said, jerking her thumb towards the door. "I don't want that stupid thing attracting the attention of unsavory characters."

Booker pulled the door open. "Right, much better to handpick your unsavory characters."

A light drizzle was coming down as they traveled along the street, Vernice in the lead as she kept her head low. The rain clung to Trinket's already frizzy hair, and she attempted to smooth it back to no effect. Booker put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. Whether it was to reassure her or himself, she wasn't sure. Maybe both. Either way, she took a deep breath and readied herself for the unpleasant task ahead.

As they turned down Primrose Street, Vernice broke out into a run towards her apartment building. There were two rough-looking young men standing at the front door, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Trinket feared the Mice had beaten them to the corpse. Based on how Booker's fingers dug into her shoulder, he'd had the same thought. But then Vernice waved them over, and Trinket let out a relieved breath.

The young men stepped aside as the three of them approached, revealing a corpse splayed out on the steps. Another woman, this one with fiery copper hair and what had probably been a pretty face in life. In death, it was swollen and ashen. Her lithe limbs were bent at unnatural angles, and her brown eyes stared lifelessly up at the dark, cloudy sky, unblinking against the rain that trickled down her cheeks. And, of course, like all the other bodies, she had a number carved into her head:

917.

"Did you see who left it?" Booker asked, kneeling before the dead woman as he scanned every inch of her body.

Vernice shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. "Had a late night and didn't get back til just a little while ago. Found this thing in front of the door. I was worried Scales and his lot would end up over here if word got out, so I threatened these two into keeping watch til I got you here."

Booker's eyes wandered back and forth as he gently ran his fingers over the number etched into the woman's skin. "This is perfect," he muttered, his gaze distant and distracted, completely oblivious to the world around him.

"It ain't perfect," Vernice hissed, glancing about nervously. "I need this thing gone yesterday. I don't want Granny getting caught up in this nonsense. It's bad enough that resurrectionist fella was living here. This is ten times worse."

Snapping out of his daze, Booker rose to his feet and adjusted his jacket. "Right. I'll have this out of your hair in no time." He glanced over at Trinket and gave her an apologetic smile. "My dear, would you mind?"

Trinket got right to work helping Booker lift the dead woman to her useless, stiff feet. Though lighter than the last corpse they'd carried home, she was awkward to hold. But she was short, and that made it easier to conceal her between the two of them.

"Lord, I don't know where you found a maid willing to do this sort of work," Vernice said, shaking her head in something like impressed awe. "Pay must be real good."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Trinket grunted, trying to keep the corpse steady. "At the very least, I never find myself bored."

"Thank you, Vernice," Booker said, inclining his head towards the girl. "You have no idea how indebted I am to you."

She waved them off. "No debt. Just get that thing out of here and keep those rodents away from my home."

"I'll do my best."

They managed to turn the corpse around and then slowly ambled down the street. The rain, which was growing heavier by the minute, was not helping them keep hold of the flaking skin, but it did aid in obscuring the scene. As they drew closer to Angel Road, Trinket's eyes flickered to the police station. She prayed no one would notice them accompanying a dead body through the city.

"I should've grabbed my hat," Booker mumbled as they turned off the road, leaving the police station and Trinket's fears of being arrested behind.

"Your hair was already a mess," Trinket said, losing her grip on the woman's arm for a brief moment as some of the skin sloughed off in her hand. She suppressed a groan and tightened her hold on the arm. "What's a little rain going to do to it?"

"Not for me, for the corpse. I know it's dark out, but it would be nice to have something more to cover it up."

"She's not sporting any odd appendages. And she's fully dressed. Someone passing by might just think she's sick or inebriated. And losing an alarming amount of skin."

"But the number is a dead giveaway. I don't want Scales or his men to know we have one of the corpses."

"Then we'd best pick up the pace."

Somehow, they made it home without running into a single soul. Once they were inside, Booker locked the door tight while Trinket shouldered the weight of the dead woman. He turned back to her and caught the corpse's arm, flashing Trinket a smile.

"Ready for an autopsy, my dear?"

~

Trinket let out a long breath as she gazed down at the dead woman now lying atop the operating table. She was grateful this corpse was female. Though it was somewhat embarrassing to gaze upon any human in their natural state, it was the men who made her most uncomfortable. That old man whom Tory had first killed would be forever burned in Trinket's memory. The leathery skin, the dried blood around every orifice of his body-every orifice.

Booker wheeled over a table, his tools laid neatly on top. The excitement was radiating off of him, and though it was contagious, Trinket's exhaustion was taking a toll on her. At least there were no more phantom hands tormenting her.

"All right," Booker said, rubbing his palms together. "Let's begin."

He started as he always did by examining the outward state of the body. The hands, the feet, the face. She was missing fingers, mimicking the Mice's calling card like Jewkes had said. Leaning down towards the woman's mouth and nose, he sniffed to try to detect any poison that could have led to her death. He even went so far as to feel her neck and check her ears.

"After the last round of this game, we can't let anything slip past our notice," he said, pulling one of the eyelids open and prodding at the eyeball with a probe.

"But based on the frogs, it's more than likely we'll find our answers within our poor guest," Trinket said, wincing as he repeated the process on the other eye.

He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. "Indeed. And I'm hypothesizing that, like the others, Benedict did not have a hand in this woman's death."

Trinket bristled, but she tried to keep the resentment from her tone. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

He traced the number on the woman's forehead. "As you pointed out with the other bodies, there's very little blood around the carved skin. So I'd guess this was engraved after the woman died."

That didn't mean Benedict hadn't killed her, just that he'd maimed her after her death. But Trinket decided not to go down that route.

"Meaning he obtained it from a resurrectionist," she said instead.

"I'd say so."

"But no one has recognized any of the bodies thus far. Does that mean he's still getting them from other towns?"

"Probably."

She drummed her fingers against the edge of the table and turned her attention to the body. "Would it be worth it to try to track down the resurrectionists who may be helping him?"

Booker took up his scalpel and shrugged. "Maybe. But first, we need to see what we can find here. Would you mind removing her dress?"

Though it felt wrong to humiliate the poor woman, Trinket realized in death it really didn't matter. So she picked up a pair of scissors and cut the old, shabby dress down the middle. Very carefully, so as not to damage any part of the body, she peeled the fabric away. As she did, the woman's bare chest and navel were exposed.

As well as the stitches trailing down the center of her torso.

Trinket furrowed her brow and glanced up at Booker who was staring at the discovery with just as much confusion. "Do you think she had surgery before she died?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly, tracing the path of the stitches with his scalpel. They started at two points by her shoulders and continued down to her groin in the shape of a Y. "This is an autopsy cut," he said.

A shudder ran through Trinket's bones, and she asked the question she was sure she knew the answer to. "What does that mean?"

Setting his jaw, Booker gripped the scalpel tightly, his eyes never leaving the body. "She's been opened up before."