Booker wasted no time kneeling beside the corpse to examine it. Trinket drew a deep breath and joined him, ready to catch even the smallest detail with her keen sense of observation. The dead man was no one she knew from Tinkerfall, but since she'd only lived in the city for less than six months, she couldn't boast familiarity with every citizen like Gin had been able to. He was fully clothed, and based on the smell and state of decay, he'd been dead for a few days.

"There's no sign of heavy bleeding around the numbers," Booker said, eyeing the man's carved forehead.

"So they were put there after he'd expired," Trinket said. "That matches up with what Benedict's done before."

"Out of the way!"

Someone grabbed hold of Trinket's shoulder and yanked her onto her feet. She turned to find herself in the grasp of a tall police officer with a very red nose. He was glaring at Booker, whom he held tight by the jacket with his other hand. Booker's look of utter frustration bordered on disgust as he fixed his gaze on the officer.

"Sir, if you'd just allow me—"

"Get out of here, Larkin," the officer growled, getting in Booker's face. "You're nothing but trouble."

"Yes, but if you'd—"

"Ever since you teamed up with this little assistant of yours," the officer gave Trinket a shake, "dead bodies've been popping up all across the city."

"Right, so who better to help you investigate the deaths than us?"

Scoffing, the officer shoved them back into the growing crowd and motioned for his fellow constables to follow him. "Come on, boys. Let's get this thing to the station."

Booker's eyes were glued to the corpse, his jaw clenched and a muscle in his cheek twitching as he watched the officers surround the dead body. Worried that he might force his way into the scene and get arrested again, Trinket took hold of his arm.

"Come on, let's go finish our dinner," she said, leading him away from the crowd and towards the Clocktower. "If you don't eat something soon, you may pass out."

"I've lost my appetite," Booker mumbled, craning his neck to glance back at the body.

"With dead bodies littering the streets, I can see why."

"Why do they do this to me?"

"Because you are simply a citizen, Booker."

"'Simply a citizen'? Really?"

They stopped in front of the door to the alehouse, and Trinket cocked an eyebrow at him. "Your ego does not help you in situations like this, Mr. Larkin. Let's go pay for our uneaten slop and then return home to discuss things over tea and crumpets. Don't tell me you've lost your appetite for tea and crumpets?"

He finally tore his gaze away from the police and smiled at her. "How is it you're both the emotionally cognizant one and the sensible one in this relationship?"

Rising up on her toes, she planted a kiss on his cheek and gave him a teasing grin. "Well, you can't have brains, beauty, and common sense, now, can you? What would that leave for me?"

"Oh, you most certainly surpass me in beauty, my dear. And you give me a run for my money with regard to brains, too." He held the door open for her. "But you're also a bad influence, it seems. Or at least according to that bloody bobby back there."

Trinket laughed softly as they returned to their table. "You yourself admitted to my corrupting influence, did you not?"

Taking her arm, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "If only they knew how sweet and innocent you were before I got my scalpels in you."

A heavy pit sank in her stomach, and the voices started up, reminding her how far from the truth that was. She was not sweet. And she was not innocent. She was a dangerous, mad killer.

You'll do it again.

You'll kill him this time.

No one can love you.

Your love is poison.

Death.

You're a menace.

You should just die.

Clenching her teeth, Trinket pushed the vicious voices out of her mind and forced a smile as she looked up at Booker. "Actually, it was your burnt tea that corrupted me."

His smile grew, and he wrapped his arms around her. She sank into his embrace, closing her eyes as he placed a kiss atop her head. The voices were wrong. They had to be wrong. She wouldn't kill again. She wouldn't.

Booker would not end up like Merrill.

~

After paying for the stew they'd barely touched, they returned home where Trinket brewed some tea and heated up scones. When she brought the meager meal into the parlour, she found Booker pacing back and forth, fidgeting with something in his hands. She placed the tray on the table in front of the settee and sat down.

"Come eat before you pass out," she called to him. "You're more human than you were before now that you don't have those drugs in your system."

Though still clearly filled with nervous energy, Booker complied and took a seat beside her. "What could the numbers mean?" he muttered to himself.

She passed him a cup and frowned at the object in his twitchy hands. It was a scalpel. "Is that the one Benedict left with the frog?"

He glanced down at the tool, his gaze growing distant. "Yes. His father's. I can't believe he was able to part with it."

"You must mean a lot to him."

"I suppose. As long as I can keep his attention. Which is why I need to figure out this final round."

A tight knot formed in Trinket's throat as she watched him fiddle with the scalpel. That same dreadful thought began to tug at her mind again, the one that had been haunting her since she realized how much she loved being Booker's assistant. What was going to happen once they found his old friend? Would Booker still want her as his assistant? She couldn't see why he would when Benedict was obviously the superior partner.

It was a silly thing to be so worried about. She didn't doubt Booker's affection for her in the least. It was clear she'd always have a place in his life. But being his assistant had given her sad existence more meaning. He'd put a great amount of trust in her and helped her to realize her own potential for brilliance. This was the first time in quite a while that she was excited to see what the future would bring. There was so much to learn, so much to create, so many people to help. And working with him down in his laboratory had brought them closer than she'd ever imagined two individuals could be in such a short matter of time. She'd seen him grow as a person, watched those walls he'd put up around his heart and emotions slowly crumble.

She didn't want to lose all of that.

"Interesting that this corpse is a man," she said, pulling herself out of her gloomy thoughts to take a sip of tea. "All the others were female. I was beginning to think maybe he took pleasure in desecrating the bodies of poor women who hadn't the means to stay alive."

Booker's brows knit together as he turned his gaze from the scalpel to her. "Are you suggesting he gets some sort of twisted thrill out of working on dead women?"

Taking another sip of tea, she shrugged.

Laughing softly, he placed the scalpel on the table and took up his teacup. "While I'm sure he enjoys the experiments he performs, I don't think it's because they're women. Or that they're dead. He just likes to create and learn." He paused, his lips brushing the rim of his cup as his eyes darted back to her. "He's not a complete degenerate. At least, he's no worse than me."

She wasn't so sure about that. While Booker initially had tendencies toward cruelty and selfishness, he was a much softer person now. His breakdown over Gin's death had proven as much. He was nothing like his cold and calculating friend who lured mad girls from asylums and performed ungodly surgeries on them so he could continue some sick and twisted game with an estranged acquaintance. No, Benedict wasn't like Booker, she was certain of it. He was a self-absorbed, reckless man who put countless innocent lives in danger.

But she couldn't say all of this to Booker. He adored his old partner. To him, Benedict was a brilliant genius and rival, someone who spurred him on to achieve more and do better. If she were to tell him what she really thought about his friend, she could cause an irreparable rift between herself and him. No, she'd have to wait until the moment she met the madman in person. Perhaps then she'd understand why he played this horrific game and cared so little for the well-being of others.

Until that day, she'd just continue to support the man she loved.

"So that number. Nine-fifty-seven. What could it mean?" she asked, changing the subject to let her agitated thoughts settle down.

Booker shook his head slowly and drummed his fingers against his cup. "I can't seem to sort it out. It's too high to be an address."

"Unless it's an apartment and the numbers stand for the building and the room."

"Could be."

"Maybe a date?"

"Not one that sticks out to me. And I'm assuming it's a clue connected to my past based on the frog and scalpel."

Biting her lip, Trinket gazed into her green tea, considering every possibility. "Could it be a meeting time?"

Booker perked up. He turned to her, eyebrows raised high. "That would make sense. And seeing as the body was in front of the Clocktower, that would be the meeting place."

"So three minutes to ten. That's oddly specific, don't you think?"

"Since when has Benedict made any part of this game simple?"

He glanced at the clock in the corner, and Trinket followed his gaze. It was nearly eleven.

"Considering the time, it may be for tomorrow night," he said.

"Or morning."

Booker smiled at her and took a crumpet from the tray. "Precisely. So I suppose it's good we're enjoying these delectable cakes now since we'll be breakfasting at the alehouse."

Grimacing, Trinket asked, "What exactly does the Clocktower serve for breakfast?"

"I've never been able to identify it, but going by the smell, I'm guessing it's a mixture of the previous night's stew and a few eggs for good measure."

"Oh, well, I don't know why we haven't been dining there every morning."

"I didn't want to hurt my housemaid's feelings by turning up my nose at her passable toast." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Thank goodness I found her another position, so there'll be no fear of that now."

"Right, because you'd much rather offend your other maid. You know, the one who expertly wields kitchen knives and seems to know her way around a gun?"

Booker's face fell, and he seemed to reconsider. "Ah. Yes. Well, maybe we'll make sure Daphne is privy to our plan."

Trinket chuckled. "The great Booker Larkin being pushed around by maids?" she teased. "What would your old friend think?"

"To be fair, my maids up to this point have been a force to be reckoned with. In fact, I believe the oldest one of the bunch remains the most frightening creature I've ever met. Thought she was going to drag me down to hell for all of my apparent sins."

Laughing again, Trinket leaned her head against his shoulder and patted his knee reassuringly. "Trust me, Mr. Larkin, neither Daphne nor I have any intentions of condemning you to eternal torment."

He put his arm around her and let out a content sigh. "In the end, that's really all a gentleman doctor can ask for. That and a proper cup of tea." He reached down and took another crumpet from the platter. "And these ridiculous things you've gotten me addicted to."

A soft smile spread over her face as she closed her eyes and tried to silence those mocking voices still playing through her head. They continued to predict a violent end for Booker. But she ignored them, determined to enjoy this quiet moment before she and Booker dove headfirst into the final round of the game, the completion of which could change her world forever.

And perhaps even her relationship with Booker.