The black liquid that reeked of death filled the hallway. Trinket closed her door before it could follow her into her room, but it seeped through the crack underneath, spreading over the floor and staining the throw rugs.

Letting out a long breath, she set to work preparing for bed. She was just overtired. All she needed was some sleep. Then the rats and spiders and shadows and death ooze would be gone. And then she could concentrate on helping Booker solve this game.

Which would then lead to her role in his life being usurped by his estranged best friend. And that didn't really even matter anyhow, seeing as once he found out the truth about what she'd done in her past, he'd undoubtedly want her out of the picture.

She threw the wardrobe doors open, pushing the rising panic back down as she pulled out her nightgown. This was insanity. Booker would not replace her. He loved her.

But he cared about Benedict, too. He may not have said it outright, but his old friend was an important part of his history. Of course he cared about him and would want him in his life.

Wasn't there room for both her and Benedict in Booker's world?

No. There wasn't. Benedict wasn't good for Booker. Benedict wasn't good for anyone. Look what he had done to the people she cared about. Daphne. Tory. And his stupid game was what had pitted Booker and Scales against each other, so as far as she was concerned, he was responsible for Gin's death as well.

Tossing her nightgown onto the bed, Trinket paced the room and unpinned her hair. She had to keep Benedict from hurting Booker. From corrupting him. But how?

She sat at the writing desk and unlaced her boots as the voices mumbled in her head, making it difficult to think clearly. It would be impossible to convince Booker that his long-lost friend was no good. And after all the work he'd put into trying to find him, there was no chance he would give up now. But maybe if she could find Benedict first, she could keep him from reuniting with Booker.

How?

You're awfully skilled with a knife.

She gasped and clutched her chest. No. No, she could never do that. She could not kill a person because she didn't like them.

So you only kill people you love?

Gritting her teeth, she tugged off her boots and tossed them into the corner. There had to be another way. Maybe she could persuade Benedict to leave. Or threaten him. She wasn't above threats, so long as she didn't carry them out. Perhaps she could use her history as a dangerous asylum patient to her advantage. Would that work on someone like Benedict, though? After all, he'd actually gone to Elysium and taken a deranged young woman into his custody. It might take more than an asylum escapee to unnerve the likes of him.

But everyone had a weakness. And she would figure out Benedict Hawk's and use it to keep him from harming Booker.

Stripping off her dress and donning her nightgown, she sank onto her bed with a heavy sigh. This plan didn't make her feel any better. And it wasn't making the hallucinations go away. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she curled into as small of a ball as she could. Wouldn't this plan hurt Booker? Wouldn't he be upset with her for keeping Benedict from him?

But what if he never knew it was her? She could set it all up to seem like Benedict had lost interest.

No, that would crush Booker. Although, if it was for the greater good, would it be justified?

You're a horrible person.

How could you think of doing this to someone you love?

What makes you a better influence than Benedict?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she began rocking back and forth. They were right. The voices were right. She was no better. She was as bad as Benedict. Perhaps worse. To her knowledge, Benedict had never killed a person. Especially not someone who had loved and adored him.

Like Merrill had loved and adored her.

What kind of monster repaid that sort of devotion with violence? With pain? With death?

Something cold wrapped around her ankle. She gave a sharp gasp as her eyes flew open. There was a hand clasped about her leg. No, not a hand. A claw? Something in between? It was black and skeletal, like it belonged to a rotting corpse.

She quickly pulled away, but its grip was tight. Grabbing a pillow, she beat the beastly claw until it released her. As it retreated under her bed, she realized it had been attached to an arm that was just as ghastly. What the arm was attached to, though, she didn't know. And she hoped to never find out.

A cry escaped from her lips as something tugged hard at her loose hair. Turning, she found another identical hand on the other side of the mattress, pulling a lock of her hair, as though trying to drag her beneath the bed.

As she twisted out of its hold, the hand from before reappeared, grabbing at the hem of her nightgown. And then another on the same side joined in, raking its long, blood-stained nails down her leg.

She moved as far away from them as she could, but they kept groping and clawing, trying to seize some part of her in their attempts to pull her down to where the rest of it lay in wait.

No. No, she wouldn't go. Not without a fight.

In a desperate attempt to find something with which to defend herself, she blindly fumbled with whatever was on her nightstand. She closed her hand around a solid, metal object. What luck! The weaponized hairpins.

Yanking them free from their sheaths, she let out an animalistic growl and plunged one into the closest hand. Dark blood like the death ooze spurted across the blankets. Alas, this didn't stop the monstrous hand. It continued to grab at her despite the knife-like accessory embedded into its rotting flesh.

Not willing to give up, she turned on the hand tugging at her ankle and barely missed her own foot as she impaled her attacker. But it, like the other, did not relent.

Panic clawed at her chest along with the more than a dozen nightmarish hands appearing from behind her. She gasped for breath, her throat closing up from the fear.

Trapped. She was trapped. There was no way out.

Another hand came from out of nowhere, wrapping its cold, skeletal fingers around her neck. She let out a bloodcurdling scream and backed away. In one last attempt to fight back, she pulled open the drawer on the nightstand and shuffled through its sparse contents.

Matches.

She scooped up the long sticks and fumbled with them as she searched for something to strike them against. Surely these demons weren't impervious to fire. If she set the bed on fire, not only would she be rid of the hands, but she'd likely kill the unseen creature they belonged to as well.

"Trinket!"

The sudden sound of her name caused her to lose her grip on the matches, and they scattered to the floor. She looked up, and there, standing in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob, was Booker. He was staring at her. In disbelief? Horror? It was too difficult to tell. All she knew was that he was staring.

At her. And not the rotting, claw-like hands pulling at her nightgown.

Her senses quickly returned, and even though the hands continued to harass her, every muscle in her body went lax. She had to clutch the bedpost to keep from rolling onto the floor as her limbs threatened to give out.

She had no explanation.

She had no words.

Only exhaustion and humiliation.

The door creaked, and light footsteps padded towards her. The mattress dipped slightly as Booker sat beside her, untouched by the claws that grabbed at him. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she let out something between a sob and a sigh.

"Why don't we go have a cup of tea?" he said softly.

~

Booker left her on the settee in the parlour, promising to return quickly. As he hurried off to the kitchen, Trinket folded her arms over her head and took a shaky breath. Her stomach was twisted into fluttering knots. As she imagined what Booker must have seen as he entered her room only minutes ago, her chest tightened and heaved at the same time.

How could she have been so ridiculous? Of course, it had been a hallucination. Demon hands didn't just appear from beneath beds. Her stupid mind had deceived her once again. And though only her mattress had been harmed this time, she could still feel the matches in her hand. She could have burned the house down. She could have killed Daphne and Booker.

She was unfit to be living amongst people.

She belonged in a place like Elysium.

You'll kill them all.

You're a menace.

You're pathetic.

You're—

"I tried my best with the green tea," Booker said as he returned with a teacup in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "I hope you'll forgive me if it's burnt. I'm a bit out of practice."

Though the voices were still mocking her, Booker's voice drowned them out slightly. Lifting her head, she offered what was surely a pathetic smile and accepted the cup. "Thank you, Booker."

He sat next to her as she glanced down into the steaming tea. Just as she was about to take a sip, another rotting hand jumped out at her, its claws reaching for her eyes.

Letting out a gasp, she dropped the cup. It tumbled to the floor, the contents spilling onto the carpet. She groaned and ran her hands down her face. "I'm sorry," she said through her fingers as she rose to her feet. "I'll clean it."

Booker caught her hand. "Trinket, Trinket." He pulled her back onto the settee and gently but firmly wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to himself. "It's all right."

"But the rug, I need—"

"I don't care about the rug. I care about you."

He tightened his embrace, and it was surprisingly reassuring. Not suffocating or confining or controlling. It was something physical. Something real. Something to remind her of where she was. Something to keep her grounded.

Closing her eyes, she leaned into him, concentrating on everything she could feel at that moment. His strong arms holding her. His warm breath on her neck. The slight chill from the unwarmed room nipping at her cheeks. The smooth silk of the settee brushing against her legs.

It was helping. Her heart rate began to slow, and her breathing gradually became less panicked. But she needed more. She needed to stay grounded. She couldn't risk losing herself again.

She slowly moved her hands, exploring anything within reach. Her fingers found Booker's bare arms. He had more hair on them than she'd realized. Tracing every muscle, she soon came across a raised bit of skin. A scar? Yes. The scar she'd given him. During her first episode in his house.

Opening her eyes, she glanced down at the mark. It wasn't as bad as it had been when he'd originally sewn it up. The affected skin was almost a light purple, and she could still see the dots from where the stitches had been. She ran her fingers over them, recalling every moment from that night. Was that when things had truly started to change in her life? Despite having nearly murdered her new employer, she'd gained a confidant. Someone who knew about her condition but didn't judge her for it. Someone who appreciated what strengths she had. Someone who saw her weaknesses as opportunities for brilliance.

"See? Things could certainly have been worse," Booker whispered against her tangled hair. "And if you hadn't stabbed me, I never would have known what a brilliant maid I had on my hands."

She gave a breathy laugh, still running her fingers up and down the scar. "You said I wasn't the first person to come at you with a knife. How many other scars do you have?"

Shifting slightly, he loosened his grip on her so she could turn to face him. "Let's see. Well, you know about the Wolf bite." He lifted his right arm. "And you stitched up the bullet hole from the Mice. And the gash from the knife they threw at me. And of course, this lovely little nick our vampire friend gave me."

He raised his right eyebrow playfully.

"But before you, there was the time some drunk stabbed me in the arm." He rolled up his shirt sleeve a bit more to reveal a scar on his right arm very close to the bite from the Wolf. "And then there was the knife the brother of one of my maids plunged into my leg. Nearly killed me. Thank goodness Gin found me before it was too late."

"Why did he stab you?"

"He was using his sister to rob me. One of the many reasons I went without a maid for so long. Oh, and then there was this."

Unbuttoning his shirt, he exposed his chest and revealed a ghastly pale scar. Trinket reached out and brushed her fingers against it, the feeling of the raised skin and his warm flesh distracting her from the panic and the shadows and the voices.

"Not entirely sure what I did to deserve this one," Booker said as she continued to caress the old wound. "Some raving drunk claimed I stole from him. Didn't know the man as far as I can remember. And then he just up and stabbed me. Again, thank goodness Gin was there. Saved my life that night."

"She was a good friend."

He gave a sad smile. "Yes, she was."

Letting out a soft sigh, Trinket moved closer to him and leaned her head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, his chest hair tickling her cheek, his arms wrapped tightly around her—she was surrounded by reality. A reality she loved. A reality she never wanted to lose.

She closed her eyes and took her first easy breath that night. The voices and shadows faded somewhat into the background as she focused on what was right in front of her.

"Thank you, Booker," she whispered.

He held her tighter, gently stroking her hair. "I love you, Trinket. Mad episodes and all, I love every bit of you."

~

Something jerked her awake. Perhaps it was another voice, or maybe the chill of the room. She looked about the parlour. Still dark. Booker's arms were draped loosely around her as he slept leaning against the arm of the settee with her lying on top of him. In any other circumstance, she would think of how improper this was. Or her heart would pound out of her chest as she resisted the urge to kiss him passionately. But none of that mattered right now. He'd brought her back. Somehow, he'd managed to help her find reality again. No drugs. No treatments. Just being there. Holding her. Distracting her.

What had she done to deserve someone so understanding in her life? She wasn't used to it. Her family had never tried. Her mother had been terrified of her, and her father only learned about her condition the night they sent her away.

But there had been Merrill. And look at what happened to him when he tried to help.

Sitting up, she gazed down at the slumbering doctor. Her heart ached at the thought of what she might do to him. Trailing her fingers over the scar on his arm, she recalled that awful episode in the kitchen. She was capable of so much worse. And she knew it. But she was afraid to tell him that. If she told him and lost him because of it, she wasn't sure what she would do. She'd finally found a place in the world. Would she lose it by being honest about her past sins?

With a trembling breath, she leaned in close to Booker. "I killed my brother," she whispered, her voice shaking as she at last spoke aloud the truth she'd been avoiding for so long. "And I'm terrified to tell you for fear I'll lose you forever."

Her throat tightened painfully as a sob threatened to burst from her lips. She quickly covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook silently for a moment, and when she was certain she'd regained control, she took another breath.

"But I'm even more terrified I'll do the same thing to you," she continued. "I can't lose you, Booker. I can't lose you, too. Not like I lost him."

Lose him to the truth? Or lose him to her own murderous hands? She had to make a decision. He'd find out on his own at some point. So what would she do?

Placing a kiss on his forehead, she let out a sigh. She didn't know. She just didn't know. But she had to decide. She loved Booker more than anyone in this world. If protecting him meant potentially losing him, wasn't that worth the risk?

She swallowed the thick knot in her throat and settled back into his arms. It wasn't a decision she was ready to make.

But what choice did she have?