Trinket and Daphne eventually made it to the Clocktower. Trinket felt it was a little early to be indulging in heavy liquor, but she sipped her tea with no judgement while Daphne enjoyed the alehouse's cheap gin. Even without imbibing, Trinket found herself spilling truths she had yet to speak out loud.

"I'm afraid Booker is going to replace me with Benedict."

Daphne nearly choked on her third glass of gin, and after slapping her chest a few times, she looked up at Trinket as though she had two heads.

"I don't mean completely replace me," Trinket amended quickly. "I know he loves me. He'd never throw me out or anything like that. But I worry he'll choose Benedict as his assistant . . . partner . . . whatever it is I am to him down in that laboratory."

Nodding slowly, Daphne took another sip of gin.

"And I know it's a silly thing to get upset about. We could have a wonderful life together, even with Benedict in the picture. But . . ."

She wandered off, still trying to figure out her feelings. Daphne leaned over and reached for Trinket's hand, gently squeezing it in encouragement.

Trinket gave a soft smile, tracing her saucer slowly. "It was working with him down in the laboratory that brought us together. Watching him in his art, his passion—it exhilarated me. Assisting him is how I grew to admire him. To love him. Even if I was able to keep everything else between us, if I lost that . . . I don't know. It feels like losing what makes us who we are. And I don't want that."

Daphne scooted her chair closer and took Trinket's face in her hands. Gazing deeply into her eyes, she leaned her forehead against hers and smiled. Trinket wasn't sure what she was trying to say, but it reassured her nonetheless. She returned her friend's smile and gripped her wrist.

"Thank you, Daphne," she whispered.

Releasing her, Daphne downed the rest of her gin and let out a satisfied sigh. She then motioned to the door and cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm quite ready," Trinket said, pushing her teacup aside.

After paying for the subpar refreshments, they made their way back home. As they entered the house, Trinket's eyes went immediately to the laboratory door. She knew he was still down there. And his being there without her fed into her fears of losing him. She should be with him. Assisting him. Supporting him. And she should be down there for herself, too. The laboratory was where she was most alive. Where she was most herself. Working to improve the lives of others with the person she loved more than anyone else in the world was what she felt she was meant to do.

She couldn't lose that.

Daphne pulled her from her thoughts as she gently squeezed her shoulder. Trinket tore her gaze away from the laboratory door and met her friend's eyes. There was a knowing glimmer behind them. She nodded at the door and raised her eyebrows.

"I'll check in on him later," Trinket said, her heart pounding against her ribcage. "I have work to do. Besides, I think we both need a little time to cool down. I'm not quite over my frustration."

Rolling her eyes, Daphne headed back into the kitchen. With her gone, Trinket's gaze returned to the door. It hadn't been a complete lie. She was still irritated about the way Booker had spoken to her the previous night. But more than anything, it was fear keeping her from confronting him. Fear of starting another fight. Fear of pushing him away.

Fear of telling him the truth.

Perhaps it was because of her conversation with Daphne and speaking aloud her reservations about Benedict, but she felt as though she might tell Booker everything if she spoke to him right now. About her past. About her sins.

About Merrill.

Some sensation stirred inside her. Love, maybe. And a desire for Booker to know the truth. She took a step towards the door. And paused. Her pulse was racing. She took another. And another. Reached out her hand. Laid it on the doorknob.

Tell him.

Tell him and lose him.

Forever.

Her chest constricted as her heart tried to claw its way up her throat. Pulling her hand back, she stepped away until she hit the coat rack.

No. No, she couldn't do it. Not right now. Not just yet.

She would do it, but not at this moment.

You'll lose him.

Forever.

And ever.

And ever.

And ever.

And—

Shaking her head, she quickly scurried upstairs in search of something to distract her from the voices' truthful words.

~

Hours passed as Trinket busied herself upstairs, dusting anything she could find: the shelves in the library, the empty guestrooms, her entire bedroom. She made several attempts to enter Booker's room, but every time she did, the image of Booker's bare chest flashed through her mind, setting her cheeks aflame and forcing her to retreat to the other side of the hallway.

After cleaning whatever she could get her hands on upstairs, she tried to force herself to open the laboratory door again. But that same panic set in, and the voices returned. Their words became harried and deafening until the sense of danger grew alarmingly real and she fled to her room.

More hours passed in which she paced her room, singing that old song and talking herself down from her anxiety.

"You don't have to tell him," she whispered. "Not yet. Not now. You just have to fix things. You just have to talk to him. Just go downstairs and repair this rift. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. You don't have to tell him."

Are you going to forget me, Kate?

She gave a sharp gasp and turned around, searching for the source of that familiar voice, the same one she'd heard in the Clocktower with Ms. Langtry. But there was no one there.

Kate.

Spinning on her heel, her eyes darted about the room. The voice. It had just been behind her a second ago. Hadn't it?

Kate.

"Merrill?" she asked in a trembling whisper.

How could you do this?

His voice was everywhere at once. But even worse, it was in her head, along with all the memories of him. All the smiles, all the laughter. And all the blood. So much blood. Staining everything. Her hands. His chest. The knife.

Kate, how could you replace me?

She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I could never replace you, Merrill. I love you."

You love him more.

"I thought you would be happy for me. I thought you'd want me to be happy."

"How can I be happy?"

Her eyes flew open. The voice. It was more solid now. And more focused. She turned to her bed and threw her hands over her mouth just in time to smother a terrified cry.

Merrill. He was sitting on her bed with the same knife from that horrible night buried in his chest. Blood poured from the wound, trickling onto the quilt and down to the floor, staining all it touched.

He lifted his head and met her gaze. Those eyes. Those eyes that were always so full of life and excitement were now drained of everything but pain.

Pain and betrayal.

"How can I be happy for you?" he repeated, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "How can I be happy for you when you destroyed any chance I had of happiness?"

The blood pooled around the bed, spreading quickly across the floor. Trinket stepped away, desperate to keep it from staining her life any more than it already had. But it was relentless. Chasing after her as if with a purpose, it backed her into a corner. Her hands began to tremble, and as the warm, thick liquid covered her boots, she lost all control. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her shoulders wracked with hysterical sobs.

For fear Daphne would hear her cries and find her in such a pathetic state, she clamped her hands over her mouth. Closing her eyes, she tried to will away the feeling of the blood climbing up her legs, marking every inch of her, making sure she'd never forget.

Her sins.

Her past.

Or him.

~

She wasn't certain if she passed out due to fear or exhaustion, but when she finally came to, she found herself laid out on the bed.

The bed.

Scrambling up, she plastered her back to the headboard, staring wide-eyed at the foot of the bed. But it was empty. Merrill was gone, as was the blood that had flooded the room earlier. She glanced down at her dress, checking to see if there were any stains.

Nothing.

Letting out a long breath, she looked about the dark room, a mild sense of unease still pulsing through her veins, as if she expected some new horror to jump out at her at any second. But the only thing out of place was the plate of crumpets on her nightstand.

She smiled as she picked a crumpet up. It was cold. Daphne must have left them for her a while ago. Had she also been the one to set her on the bed? Or had Trinket done that herself whilst being harassed by those horrible visions? She couldn't remember.

Returning the crumpet to the plate, she sat back and stared up at the ceiling. Merrill was right. Or the hallucination of him was right. She was replacing him. So many years ago, he'd been the most important person in her world. The one person who supported and protected her. She would have given her life for him. But that wasn't the case anymore. Even if he were still alive, it wouldn't matter. Booker was the one she would give everything for. He was the one she loved more than anyone else.

And the guilt that came with that realization was enough to squeeze the life out of her heart.

With a quick shake of her head, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose to her feet. She couldn't change the past, but she could change her present. And while she wasn't prepared to admit to Booker the sins she'd committed in her former life, she was ready to set things right.

The house was silent. Stepping out into the hallway, she wondered if Daphne were still awake. Based on the sheer darkness, it seemed likely she'd already gone to bed. Trinket was ashamed she'd let her friend take care of the rest of the housework on her own, but she didn't have time to worry about that right now.

Hurrying down the stairs, she made a sharp turn and went straight to the laboratory door. And then paused. Her hands shook as she stared at it. Booker's words echoed through her head.

"How could you do something so stupid?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. He'd only been afraid of losing her. He hadn't meant it. Surely he couldn't have meant it. He loved her. Just like she loved him.

Kate, how could you replace me?

Her eyes shot open at Merrill's words. No, she wasn't replacing him. She was just trying to move on. There was a difference.

But did she deserve to move on?

Taking a deep breath, she retrieved the laboratory key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. And turned it.

No!

Another pause, dread building in her chest.

Don't do it!

Stop!

With one final breath, she pulled the door open and made her way down.

Booker didn't stir. He was sitting at his writing desk, sleeves rolled up, head in his hands, staring at something she couldn't see. She paused by the operating table, watching him for a long moment as she tried to sort out the whirlwind of emotions in her heart.

Frustration.

Anxiety.

Guilt.

Fear.

Oh, so much fear.

But this was Booker. There was no reason to be afraid of Booker.

She took a step towards him, but he still didn't move. His eyes were fixed on a container sitting on the desk. Furrowing her brow, she stooped forward to catch a glimpse of what it was. It appeared to be powder in a jar. There was something familiar about it. A familiarity that sent goose pimples up her arms.

"Booker?" she said warily, unsure of the reaction she'd get from him.

Nothing. He just continued to stare. She took another step towards him, her eyes darting between his concentrated gaze and the white powder in the container. As she drew closer, a strong odor wafted in her direction. It smelled like Elysium.

Like drugs.

"Booker," she breathed, her pulse pounding in her ears as she put the pieces together.

"I've been staring at it for hours," he said at last, his voice cracked and dry.

"You made more?" She couldn't believe it. After he'd nearly died, he was going to start up that horrible habit again?

"I can't figure this game out. My mind is all over the place. I can't concentrate, I can't . . . I can't do it. I got desperate. I . . ."

He closed his eyes and swallowed. Trinket's every muscle tensed as she waited for his next move. Opening his eyes again, he focused once more on the powder. His pupils were normal, and though there was a slight tremble in his breath, nothing seemed too out of the ordinary. Perhaps he hadn't taken any yet. Perhaps she could still dissuade him.

But she couldn't speak. She just stood and watched.

"I've been sitting here, willing myself to either take it or destroy it." He gave a wry laugh. "For hours. And here I am. Still staring, unable to solve even this simple dilemma."

She sucked in her lips, her fingers twitching at her sides, aching to make a move. She held back, though. And waited.

"Trinket, help me," he whispered so softly it was almost inaudible.

And just like that, she took action. Grabbing the container from the desk, she stormed over to the sink and turned the faucet. She dumped the powder out and watched carefully to be sure every speck of it disappeared down the drain, letting the water run long after there was no trace left of the vile concoction. When she was satisfied, she shut off the faucet and turned back to Booker who now had his hands over his head, as though he were trying to curl up into a ball and vanish from sight.

"Thank you, Trinket," he whispered, his voice muffled from beneath his arms.

She stalked towards him and pulled him to his feet. "Come," she commanded, leading him to the stairs.

He didn't resist. Following her up the steps and into the parlour, he kept his head down, seeming both defeated and relieved. She pushed him firmly onto the settee and held up a stern finger.

"Stay here," she said before marching back to the hallway and into the kitchen.

Her fingers moved with more speed and skill than she realized she was capable of. Lighting the stove, filling the kettle, setting up the teacup—somehow, she was able to keep her mind fixed on the tasks at hand. She didn't dare let it wander. If she thought about what might have happened had she not gone downstairs when she had . . . if she thought about what could have happened if he'd taken the drugs . . .

She slammed the kettle onto the cutting board, banishing those thoughts.

Tea. Focus on the tea.

Once the water had cooled, she poured it over the strainer filled with Booker's favorite black tea and then set it aside. With the single cup and saucer in hand, she returned to the parlour where Booker was obediently sitting on the settee, his elbows propped up on his knees and his head hung low. When she entered, he looked up, his expression both eager and contrite.

She pressed the cup and saucer into his hands. He took them without objection, but his eyes followed her as she took a seat beside him. They sat in silence for a few tense seconds.

Finally, she glanced over and nodded at the cup in his hands. "Well? Drink it. I didn't bring it in as a prop."

He did as she said. After a sip or two, he paused and dared to steal a glance at her. "I'm not sure if you're preparing to hit me or lecture me. I'm also not sure which would be worse."

Releasing a long sigh, she let her shoulders sag as she ran a hand through her hair. "How could you make that horrible drug again?"

Placing the teacup on the table, Booker folded his hands in his lap and turned his eyes down to the carpeted floor. "I know. I'm sorry. Everything's just been so difficult. I'm not up to this challenge, and the thought of failing drove me mad, and I . . ." He sighed, dragging his palms down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Trinket."

"You could've died. You could've died before I was able to apologize and put an end to this fight."

He turned to her, brows drawn together in confusion. "Apologize? Trinket, you have no reason to apologize. I shouldn't have said what I did the other night. None of it was true."

She leaned back on the settee, rubbing her head. "Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't. Trinket, you're not stupid or foolish. You're brilliant and clever and brave. I shouldn't—"

"I've been taking the same risks I constantly scold you about. You're right. I could die if I'm not careful. Scales is not someone to fool around with. And while I can promise I do not seek out his company, I have been careless in my speech. I do mock him. Bait him, even. And during the card game, I just got so upset with the way he was treating you. I acted rashly. And I shouldn't have."

He gently gripped her arm. "But I should never have spoken to you like that. I was completely out of line."

"You were afraid. And I should have understood because I've felt that fear as well. Fear that I might lose you." She turned her eyes to him. "I don't know what I would do if I lost you, Booker. I love you so much, I worry I'd lose what's left of my mind if you were to die."

His intense gaze did not leave her face. He swallowed hard and laid a hand on her cheek. "That's how I felt last night. And when we found Viper's body. If I lose you, I fear I may break. You steady me, Trinket. You keep me from delving into utter madness and becoming the monster I was before I met you."

"You were never a monster, Booker."

He pulled her close and caught her lips. Something loosened inside of her at his touch. The fear, the anxiety, the frustration—it melted away. Slipping her arms around his neck, she drew him nearer, deepening their kiss to remind herself he was here. He was alive and he was here. With her. The relief that came with that knowledge flooded her entire body.

As they parted, he gently stroked her cheek with his thumb, smiling down at her. "I suppose it's only to be expected that two passionate people like ourselves will have a rather intense fight every now and again."

"I'm told all couples argue. Of course, I don't believe they argue about corpses and thugs and drugs. But they argue all the same."

"What else is there to argue about?"

"Finances, I suspect."

His fingers traced the nape of her neck. "Well, I think my fortune may spare us from any such arguments."

"Then we'll have to find some other mundane subject to disagree on. Perhaps tea?"

"Could work. You do insist on drinking that abominable green sludge you try to pass off as tea."

She laughed and leaned forward to brush her lips against his. He held her close, his hands sliding from her neck to the small of her back. They parted again, and as she gazed into his intoxicating eyes, she found herself unable to move away. Something was building within her, and it muddled her thinking so much that all she could concentrate on was the feeling of his hands on her body.

Booker must have been experiencing something similar, as he tightened his embrace and kissed her again, harder this time. His lips moved against hers with such urgency. She lost all sense of where she was and clung to him with just as much desperation.

Inhaling sharply, she pressed her body against his, pushing him back so they were practically lying on the settee. Winding his arms about her waist, he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss and sending electricity through her veins. Warmth spread from somewhere deep inside her, setting every inch of her skin aflame.

Closer. She needed him to be closer. How much closer could they get? Lord, he smelled so good. How could chemicals and machine oil smell so good? Where was this going? Was she ready for it? She wasn't sure. But his hands on her hips made it hard to think. She needed more. More of this. More of him. More of—

Booker suddenly let out a soft groan and pushed her away. She sat back on her knees, her breath coming in short bursts as she quickly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, I don't know what—"

"No, no, it's not you," he said as he lifted himself into a sitting position. He brushed back his hair and gave a strained laugh. "Trust me, that was. . ."

Running his hands down his face, he rose to his feet and released a strangled sigh.

"Booker, are you—"

"I think it might be best if I head off to bed."

She watched him go, her pulse pounding. "Oh, all right. Good night, then."

He stopped in the doorway to look back at her. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he quickly closed it and heaved another sigh before turning away. "Goodnight, my dear."

Watching as he disappeared upstairs, Trinket remained kneeling on the settee. She ran her fingers through her hair and glanced about the empty room. The warm sensation had vanished, and now she felt cold and confused.

What had she done wrong?

What haven't you done wrong?

You ruin everything.