After hours of replaying the night's events in her head, Trinket finally drifted off to sleep only to be awoken soon after by sunlight streaming in through her window. With a defeated groan, she stared up at the ceiling and again played back that embarrassing scene. The kissing, the touching, the overwhelming desire—

She covered her eyes, unable to face the reality of her behavior. What had come over her? And how was she supposed to even look at Booker after all that? Especially after he'd basically pushed her away . . .

With great reluctance, she climbed out from beneath her covers and went to the washbasin to splash cold water onto her burning cheeks. Why had he pushed her away? What had she done wrong? Had his feelings for her changed?

Panic seized her heart.

No. No, Booker wouldn't be that fickle.

Wouldn't he?

"No, he wouldn't," she said firmly, bracing herself against the washstand. "Immature, reckless—yes. But not fickle."

Whatever you say . . .

When she was washed and dressed, she made her way downstairs, still internally arguing with the voices about Booker's loyalty. She hurried into the kitchen where Daphne was already preparing breakfast. Catching sight of her in the doorway, Daphne flashed a warm smile.

"You rise before the sun, don't you?" Trinket said.

Daphne shrugged nonchalantly. A sly grin spread over her face as she nodded towards the hallway and raised her eyebrows.

Trinket's heart skittered as she looked over her shoulder, thinking Booker was right behind her. But the doorway was empty. She turned back to Daphne, and it was clear by her expression that she hadn't missed Trinket's odd reaction.

"I haven't seen him this morning," Trinket replied stiffly, heading to the dresser to fetch some tea.

Shaking her head, Daphne followed after her. She pointed between Trinket and the door several times before raising her eyebrows again.

Trinket sighed, her grip on the jar of black tea tightening. "Yes, everything's fine now. We worked it all out."

That sly smile grew, and Daphne began making kissing noises as she puckered her lips.

A wave of heat ran through Trinket's entire body, and she pushed past the teasing woman to return to the table. "Lord, Daphne, it's too early for this kind of harassment."

Daphne's laughter echoed off the walls as Trinket prepared the tea, but she didn't persist. Trinket released a relieved breath and let the soothing scent of the tea leaves ease her nerves. Just as her cheeks were returning to their natural paleness, Booker walked in. His eyes went to her, and when a gentle smile tugged at his lips, she somehow lost control of the spoon in her hand.

"Oh, blast," she mumbled to herself as she scooped the utensil out of the strainer.

"Everything all right?" Booker asked, approaching the table cautiously.

Her eyes darted to him as she swept the stray tea leaves from the tabletop. The sight of that playful grin both infuriated and excited her. Her pulse pounded as a pit of dread sank into her stomach. "Yes, yes, just trying to make sure you don't have to chew your tea," she said, fixing her attention back on the teacups.

Though she refused to look at him, she could feel Booker's gaze. After a long pause, he spoke again. "Trinket, can I talk to you in private?" he said, his warm breath tickling her ear.

In private. All of a sudden, the prospect of being alone with him was terrifying. What might she do? Would she lose control again? And why did he need to speak with her? Were the voices right? Was he no longer interested in her? Would he ask her to leave?

With her heart in her throat and her eyes on the teacups, she managed to squeak out, "But the tea—"

"I'm not so addicted to tea that I can't wait a few minutes for a cup. Come on, it'll be quick, I promise."

He gently took the spoon from her and laid it beside the cups. She nodded her consent, but her feet didn't seem to get the message. It took Booker's hand on her elbow to guide her into the hallway.

They made their way as far as the laboratory door and stopped. Sliding his hands up to her shoulders, Booker turned her to face him. Her heart felt like it might burst from her chest, but she still dared to meet his eyes.

Nothing but warmth and smiles.

And yet she couldn't shake the heavy dread in her gut.

"About last night," he started.

"I'm so sorry, Booker," she said, shaking her head frantically. "I don't know what came over me. And if I did something wrong, if I upset you, if you want me gone—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. Want you gone? Why would you think I'd want you gone?"

"I mean, you did push me away and leave."

Booker's face fell slightly. "Right, I did . . ."

"I assumed I must have offended you somehow."

He let out a laugh. "And here I thought I was the offensive one in this couple."

Couple. He called them a couple. Maybe all hope wasn't lost? So why—

"Then why did you push me away?" she asked, her embarrassment giving way to curiosity.

It was Booker's turn to blush. Averting his gaze, he cleared his throat. "Well, I just . . . I was . . ."

His voice grew faint, and Trinket had to lean forward to hear him. "You were what?"

He took a deep breath and let it out in defeat. "I was scared."

Trinket wrinkled her brow. Scared? He was scared?

Of what?

Her?

As he should be.

"You were scared?" she repeated. "Scared of . . . of me?"

"No, not you. Well, sort of, but not the way you think."

His babbling only puzzled her further. "It's not like you're the first person to be afraid of me. Although, I have to admit, I'm surprised your fear is developing now instead of back when I attacked you with a knife."

He heaved another sigh. "It's not exactly you I'm afraid of. It's . . ." He began to fidget uncomfortably. "It's the idea of being close to you. You know . . . intimately close."

Trinket flushed from head to toe, and the only reason she was able to keep looking at Booker was because he was just as red as she felt. "Oh. I see."

"And that's why I pushed you away. Not because you did anything wrong."

"But wait, aren't you, you know, experienced? What about Frieda?"

Booker grimaced. "Yes, and that experience is why I'm afraid."

"I don't understand."

"I wasn't in love with Frieda. We were barely friends. Our relationship was nothing more than a way to distract myself from my loneliness. Losing her wasn't something I was worried about. But with you . . ."

Relief washed over her. He was afraid of losing her. So his feelings hadn't changed.

Yet.

"That sort of . . . closeness . . . it can change things between people," he went on. "And I really like our current dynamic. I'm so afraid of messing that up. Especially over something as carnal as . . . well, you know."

Smiling, Trinket reached up and cupped his cheek. "I like our dynamic, too."

He met her eyes and returned her smile. "Don't get me wrong. I do want you. I really, really want you."

Heat crawled back into her cheeks, but she maintained eye contact.

"I'm just not sure I'm ready for that yet. I mean, are you?"

The memory of his hands on her body and his taste on her lips rushed through her mind. Chills ran down her spine as she thought about where that moment could have led. Regret lodged in her heart. But not all was lost. He was still here with her. And he still wanted her. She was willing to wait.

Gripping his jacket lapels, she grinned up at him and stood on her toes to brush a kiss against his lips. "There's no hurry, Mr. Larkin. I'm not going anywhere."

He gave a soft laugh and ran his fingers along her jawline. "Thank you, my dear." He slipped his hand into hers and tugged her closer. "Let's go help Daphne finish up with breakfast so we can discuss our next move in this game."

~

"I made a list last night," Booker said, taking a bite of a crumpet as he, Trinket, and Daphne enjoyed breakfast and tea in the parlour. "I wrote down every shop we have a connection to and marked off the ones that have already been involved in this round."

"So the Clocktower, the knacker, the tea shop, the police station, and the Tinker?" Trinket said.

"Exactly. Although, the police station isn't really a shop, is it?"

"Neither is our house."

Booker tapped the rim of his cup. "I'd love to stake out a few of the places, but if Benedict is watching us this closely, he'll likely catch on. And we can't send Daphne for fear he'd recognize her."

Trinket doubted Benedict cared enough about his victims to remember their faces. However, Daphne's portiums certainly made her stand out, and even with the high-collared capes hiding them, Benedict was sure to notice Booker's creations.

"Does that mean we're back to combing the streets at ungodly hours?" Trinket asked, stabbing at her eggs with a fork.

Daphne chuckled as she took a bite of toast.

"Trust me, now that I don't have drugs to keep me awake, I'm just as reluctant," Booker said, shooting her a look. "But I don't see another way. We can't gain access to the bodies that have already been found, so we need to get to a new one before the police do."

"Speaking of the police, Jewkes was here yesterday."

"Does he think I have something to do with these bodies?"

"I'm sure he does. But he was actually letting us know the authorities removed Hiss' corpse from our front steps."

Booker frowned. "Oh. Right. I'd nearly forgotten that was there."

Rolling her eyes, Daphne placed her teacup on the table and shook her head.

"I agree, Daphne. Leave it to Booker to forget about a dead body in front of his house," Trinket said.

"Well, it's nice to see the old bobby is good for something."

Trinket sipped her tea. "While he and I were talking, he may have suggested he was doing his best to stall the removal of the bodies from the mortuary."

Raising an eyebrow, Booker leaned his chin against the back of his hand. "Is that so?"

She nodded. "He says he doesn't have much authority in the case, but he's convinced those who are in charge to let him search for more evidence before the corpses are tossed into a communal grave."

"I doubt he'll have much luck. If we can't find any clues leading to Benedict, neither will he. He's not half as clever as either of us. And this entire city is so terrified of the Mice, they won't dare get involved if they believe the gang's responsible for the bodies."

"He thinks the same. But he also mentioned that, while illegal, body snatching is a far easier method of obtaining bodies than sweet talking the police is."

Booker froze, and even Daphne leaned forward in interest.

"I think he figures a less-than-law-abiding doctor like yourself might have some luck with that," Trinket said, taking another sip of tea.

It was quiet for a long moment. "That . . . would be . . . acceptable, actually," Booker said, tapping the table as he spoke, as if punctuating each word. "Preferable, even. I could haul the bodies back to the laboratory and not have to worry about doing the examination in a rush. Good old Jewkes. Who'd've thought he'd be so cooperative this time around?"

"I believe he secretly likes you."

"No, he likes you. A little too much if you ask me."

She furrowed her brow. "Excuse me?"

Pushing back his chair, he rose from the table. "Best watch yourself or you'll end up his next mistress."

Mouth open in horror, Trinket watched as he made his way to the parlour. "That is ridiculous. I'm practically the same age as his daughter."

"But you're not actually his daughter," Booker called back, disappearing behind the door.

Trinket turned to Daphne and widened her eyes as she jutted her thumb at the parlour door. Daphne just laughed under her breath and sipped at her tea.

"Jewkes is not interested in me like that," Trinket insisted.

Daphne held up her hands and shrugged before laughing again.

"Oh, Lord, not you, too," Trinket mumbled as she tossed her napkin onto the table and followed after Booker. "Seriously, I don't think the man could handle two mistresses and a wife."

Daphne's laughter faded away as the parlour door closed. Trinket found Booker circling the room, tapping his fingers against his chin. She watched him in silence for a moment, entertained by the way his body couldn't sit still. Tapping, pacing, even chattering his teeth together—all signs that the gears in his head were turning at full speed, the excitement inside of him ready to burst from his skin. Unfortunately, it could also mean he was about to come up with a very risky and illegal plan.

"Daphne will be less-than-pleased if you wear a hole in her polished floors," Trinket said at last, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest.

"The cemetery is our best bet," he replied, still pacing and fidgeting. "No police, no time limit. Well, a time limit to dig them up. But if I have someone skilled in the art of resurrection with me, I shouldn't have to worry."

"Do you think any resurrectionists will accept a job from you after what happened to the last one?"

Lapping around the room for a third time, Booker shrugged. "I didn't kill him."

"Not directly, but it was his involvement with us that sent the Mice after him."

"In the meantime," he went on, ignoring her concerns, "we'll go out and search the streets early in the morning and late at night to see if we can't get our hands on a fresh body."

Trinket grimaced at the thought of late-night excursions.

"Yes, I believe this is going to work." Booker stopped in the middle of the room and flashed her a crooked grin. "I think we're making progress."

She offered him an encouraging, if not somewhat uncertain, smile when the doorbell went off.

Booker's face lit up. "Ah, and perhaps that's Gin with news."

Trinket inhaled sharply as he turned on his heel and rushed into the foyer. But then he paused in the doorway. She watched him anxiously, a hand pressed to her chest. The excitement quickly faded from his expression as truth and reality set in, his every muscle somehow going stiff and lax all at once.

"Madison. I meant Madison," he said softly. "Or Grace. Maybe even Jewkes. It could be anyone, really. Well, almost anyone."

Closing his eyes, he swallowed and took a shaky breath. Trinket hurried to his side, her heart still aching as she reached out to him, laying a hand on his back. "Booker, I—"

"No, it's fine." He opened his eyes and forced a sad smile. "Really, it was just a slip-up. The excitement made me forget for a moment there. One brief, wonderful moment."

Pain flashed through his eyes as he stared blankly at the floor, his fingers curling into fists. The bell rang again, longer this time, followed by a light knock.

"I'd best get that," Booker said, forcing another smile. "Could be important."

Trinket nodded and accompanied him into the foyer, keeping her hand on his back to remind him she was right there with him. Opening the door, they found Grace leaning against the doorpost, a coy smile playing on her painted lips.

"Well, it's about time," she said. "Considering the state of your doorstep, I was worried something had happened to you."

"Doorstep?" Booker repeated as he and Trinket glanced down at the front stairs.

In addition to the faint blood stains from Hiss' body that had refused to come up after Daphne's scrubbing, there was now also a small mound of frogs. There had to be at least half a dozen, all piled on top of each other. However, unlike the frogs from before, these came pre-dissected, their bellies slit open to reveal miniature organs, some of which were falling out.

Trinket swallowed down her revulsion as the hallucination of the disemboweled cat came to mind. "I think he's more than hinting at the whole 'open up the bodies' thing," she said to Booker.

"Yes, he's certainly trying to make a point," Booker agreed. Sighing, he turned his attention back to Grace and flashed something between a smile and a grimace. "What can I do for you this morning, Grace?"

"Oh, I can think of nearly a hundred things you could do for me," she said, trailing her finger up his chest. "And even more that I could do for you."

Booker's muscles tensed, and he fell back a step. To his credit, though, he kept a very calm demeanor. "I'm afraid I don't have a whole lot of time. There's the matter of all the dead frogs at my front door I need to attend to."

"I suppose we'll have to save the fun for later." Grace's eyes flickered to Trinket, and she smiled wickedly. "I'm sure your precious maid can take care of your needs until then."

"Is there something you need Grace?" Booker asked, the exasperation in his voice nearly tangible.

She clucked her tongue and turned her gaze back to him. "So impatient. You're really lacking in bedside manner, Doctor Larkin. Anyhow, I'm only here at the insistence of your assistant."

Booker glanced at Trinket, his brows knit together questioningly.

"Right, right," Trinket said, having nearly forgotten Grace's injury. "How is your head?"

"A tad sore and red, but nothing too horrible."

Stepping aside to let Grace inside, Booker and Trinket led her into the parlour where she took a seat on the settee.

"So wait, I think I'm missing something," Booker said as he stood in the doorway. "What happened?"

"Your little lover didn't tell you?" Grace asked.

Trinket bit her lip. "I got sidetracked."

Grace's mouth pulled into a smirk. "Oh, I'm sure you did. I bet there's plenty of sidetracking around here."

"Your head, Grace?" Booker said, getting them back on topic.

Propping an elbow on the arm of the settee, Grace lifted her strategically styled bangs to reveal the stitches Trinket had made. "I had an unfortunate accident the other night, and while I thought I had the bleeding under control, it turns out I needed more help than I realized. Your little assistant and her fish friend were kind enough to oblige me."

Booker's eyebrows shot up as he stepped towards her, seemingly forgetting his discomfort around the night flower. He knelt before her and took her face in his hands, drawing closer to examine the stitching. Trinket held her breath as he gently traced the thread, his careful eye taking in every inch. Had she done it wrong? Was he going to be upset with her for not coming to him for help?

"It doesn't look too infected," he said at last, still examining the wound closely. "Have you applied anything to it?"

"Your assistant advised honey," Grace said, seeming to enjoy every second that Booker's hands were on her.

He nodded and finally rose to his feet. "I'm going to go fetch some ointment. Trinket, would you help me?"

Steeling herself for what chastisement might be coming, Trinket followed after him as they silently descended the stairs to the laboratory. When they reached the last step, he turned to face her. She flinched, expecting to find frustration, perhaps even anger, etched in his expression. But no, she found none of that. Rather, he was smiling at her.

"Your stitching is beautiful, Trinket," he said.

Blinking against the shock, she nodded slowly. "Well, I always did enjoy sewing in my youth. And I've had some practice in stitching up skin as of late."

He laughed softly and gazed at her for a moment longer before snapping out of his daze and heading to one of the shelves. "Did you get supplies from my bag to do it?"

"No, we met Grace near her apartment. She was bleeding so badly, we thought she might faint. She had some thread and a needle at her place. I sterilized everything I could. I hope I didn't cause more damage by not using the proper equipment."

He fetched a jar of white paste and smiled as he turned back to her. "You were resourceful. If she was losing that much blood, it was wise not to make her wait. And honestly, even with the proper tools, infection can still set in. It would probably have been better to use surgical thread, but I'll keep an eye on it to be sure it doesn't take a turn for the worse."

Standing in front of her once again, he gazed down at her with an odd expression. It was something like excitement, but different. Could it be admiration? Pride even?

He reached out and lightly grazed her cheek. "You're amazing, Trinket," he said softly.

Amazing? He thought she was amazing? The warmth of his praise spread through every inch of her body until she was certain she was glowing.

"Anyhow, we'd better get back to Grace before she starts all sorts of rumors about what we're doing down here," he said, nodding towards the stairs.

"Everyone's already gossiping about us. I doubt a little more will do much harm," Trinket said as they made their way up the steps.

"You know, I think I have the perfect idea for what to do with all those frogs." He finished locking the door and turned to her with a big grin. "How would you like to hone your sewing skills on some genuine organic material?"

Though she gave him a pointed frown, an unexpected surge of eagerness ran through her at the suggestion. "You are terribly uneducated in what constitutes a proper date, Mr. Larkin."

He took her hand as they headed back to the parlour. "Very true, and I promise I'll make it up to you with a lovely evening at the Clocktower."

She stuck out her tongue and cringed. "Ugh, I think I'd prefer the frogs."

Grace was still lounging on the settee when they returned, and though Trinket released Booker's hand before they entered, she was sure Grace had seen. Sporting a sly smile, the night flower sat up and raised an eyebrow. "You really don't need a code like 'ointment' to steal away a few private moments together, you know. I'm a woman of the world. You can simply tell me outright that you two are—"

"So how did this happen?" Booker asked loudly as he knelt in front of Grace and uncapped the jar of ointment.

Trinket's heart jumped. Grace opened her mouth to respond but thankfully caught Trinket's wide-eyed gaze in time. Pressing her lips together, she turned her attention back to Booker and gave a demure smile.

"Oh, you know my line of work. Not for the faint of heart."

Booker frowned as he dabbed a small amount of ointment on the stitches. "I know I'm not one to speak out against dangerous activities, but this is rather serious for an overzealous customer. Perhaps you should be more discerning with your clientele."

Grace's smile became a tad strained as she laughed softly. "Please, the overzealous ones are where the money is. They'll pay plenty to act out their violent fantasies on me."

Pausing, Booker glanced up at the night flower, seeming at a loss for words. Trinket's heart ached at the woman's words. That had not been an attempt to shock or cause discomfort. It was the genuine truth, a rarity for Grace. And now Trinket understood why; her truth was not easy to stomach.

"Anyhoo," the night flower cooed, regaining her flirtatious manner. "I'd best be off. I thank you both for your assistance, but I'm going to have to work twice as hard for a while to reel the boys in with this terrible disfigurement."

Booker nodded and got to his feet as he tightened the lid on the jar. "Of course. Just be sure to apply this every night. And please, if anything seems off in the slightest, come find me."

Pouting her lips, Grace rose from the settee and patted his cheek. "So worried about me. Understandable, I suppose. After all, what would you do without your resident night flower around?"

Booker cleared his throat and pushed the jar into her hands while at the same time backing away. "I'll go deal with those frogs so you won't trip over them."

He all but ran into the hallway, Grace watching with a devilish grin as he went. "So much fun," she muttered to herself.

"Thank you, Grace," Trinket said as she approached the night flower.

Turning to her, Grace frowned. "You caught me on a good day. Don't go thinking we're friends or anything."

"I wouldn't dare," Trinket said.

Grace's mouth twitched, but she retained her disapproving frown. "So is there a reason you're keeping the truth about my injury from your paramour?"

Trinket glanced back at the doorway. "I just don't think he needs any reason to believe Scales is involved with these numbered corpses."

As Grace furrowed her brow, her gaze wandered slightly. "Scales? What are you talking about?"

Sighing, Trinket checked the doorway again. "It's a rather complicated and sore subject, and I don't want to get Booker riled up about it."

Grace stared at her for a long moment and then gave a grunt of a laugh. "Well, you may be irritating, but you do take good care of our dear Booker. And for that, I thank you."

The night flower swept past her, and Trinket stood there, not sure if she should acknowledge her gratitude or thank her in return. Shaking her head, she followed after her and met Booker at the door, his arms filled with frog carcasses.

"Since you seem to have your hands full, shall I tuck my payment into your belt?" Grace asked, reaching into her bodice.

Booker practically tripped over his own feet and into the stairs in an attempt to put distance between himself and the night flower. "Ah, no. No payment necessary."

Raising an eyebrow, Grace fiddled with the coins in her hand. "Is all this honeymooning making you go soft?"

"What I mean is, you can pay me by keeping your ears open. Some of your customers are police, correct?"

"Indeed they are."

"If you're at all able to find out when they are going to send those numbered corpses out for burial, I would be most appreciative."

"Very well, I'll do my best." She looked down at the frogs in his arms and raised her eyebrows. "I hope you two have fun with all of . . . this."

She waved at the dead animals with a disgusted flourish.

Booker smiled over at Trinket as she opened the front door for Grace. "Oh, we intend to."

With an awkward smile, the night flower stepped outside. "Everyone has their fetish, I suppose. Well, have at it. Ta-ta."

Trinket glowered at Grace's retreating back and closed the door with a small groan. She could only imagine the rumors that would spread now.

The sound of Booker's soft laughter drew her gaze, and she fixed a stern frown on him. "You're ridiculous."

Shrugging, he nodded towards the laboratory. "Shall we?"