Midnight seemed to come far too quickly. Before Trinket knew it, she and Booker were heading off into the night on their way to the dreaded police station. It still unnerved her to think of him going back in there. But she was being overly concerned. Jewkes had invited them there. He wasn't going to arrest Booker.

Maybe he'll arrest you.

Because he knows.

He knows.

He knows!

Shaking her head, she focused on something other than the voices. "You're awful chipper," she noted, observing the spring in Booker's step as they rounded a corner.

He gave a crooked smile. "Am I?"

"You look as though you could break into a jig at any moment."

With a soft laugh, he glanced up at the night sky. The moon was bright, and the stars stood out in the inky backdrop. "I suppose I'm eager to expose the ridiculous superstitions my supposed medical equals have suddenly begun to subscribe to," he said. "They are pathetic excuses for doctors."

"Don't pull any punches."

"I'm sorry, but vampires? Really? How can they consider themselves intellectuals when they believe in fairy tales?"

"This coming from the man who has a woman with gills working as his maid."

He opened his mouth to respond but caught her teasing grin and smiled. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call Daphne a fairy tale, but she is the closest thing I've seen to a mermaid."

"All right, so real vampires are out of the question. But could Benedict have created his own form of vampire?"

Shrugging, he glanced down at her. "If anyone could, it would be him. Sometimes I thought his abilities might be supernatural. Like that healing mixture of his."

"Healing mixture?"

"Something his father concocted. Benedict never told me how he made it, but he used it to speed up the healing process after surgery. And it seemed to keep an animal's body from rejecting a new limb. It was something of a miracle. Or otherworldly, even."

"His father made it? Was he a doctor, as well?"

Booker clenched his jaw. "I would dare to say he may have been the original mad scientist. Benedict idolized him. He was raised to be his father's assistant, giving him a leg up in the field. Made it almost impossible to keep up."

There was a hint of jealousy and maybe even resentment in his voice. Trinket found it fascinating that he could be so utterly obsessed with this friend of his and yet at the same time want to crush him as his rival. It made no sense to her. But then, she wasn't a scientist.

"However, Benedict wasn't all that interested in myths and the like," he continued. "So I highly doubt he would try to create something as silly as a vampire."

She furrowed her brow. "Didn't you say that you two tried to sew snakes onto a girl's head? What other source could have inspired that than old myths?"

"Well, that was more Frieda's influence." He gave her a sidelong glance and raised his eyebrows. "She was the one who indulged in fairy tales."

Those were some twisted fairy tales for a little girl to indulge in. Then again, experimenting on animals was rather twisted as well. Clearly, none of Booker's childhood friends were completely within their right mind. Which explained why her own friendship with him had flourished so.

Right mind, right mind, right, right, right . . .

They arrived at the station to find it nearly pitch dark. There was a weak glow coming from one of the windows, likely an officer assigned to overnight duty. They bypassed the main entrance and made their way into the back. Booker knocked on the gate, and before he could hit it a third time, the back door swung open. Jewkes stood in the doorway, bearing a lantern and a sour expression. He jerked his head, motioning for them to follow him.

"Evening, Jewkes," Booker said with a smile, keeping his voice low as they entered the building.

There were dark bags under the officer's bloodshot eyes. "You would be the type to be wide awake at midnight," he grumbled as he led them down the empty hallway.

"Well, I'm about to perform a very delicate work," Booker said, chasing after him. "Would you have me looking as worn as you?"

Jewkes mumbled something unintelligible but refused to turn around.

"Sorry, Constable, you'll have to speak up. And perhaps enunciate."

"Booker," Trinket hissed.

Stopping short, Jewkes glared at them both, his nostrils flaring. "I'm running on no sleep, thank you very much, so I'd be appreciative if we could keep the chit-chat to a minimum."

Booker gave him a mockingly sympathetic look. "Trouble with the missus?"

Scoffing, Jewkes continued on. "If you must know, I've been working hard to keep up my end of the deal. However, it's proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated."

They stopped at a door that was becoming all too familiar to Trinket. She could almost feel the chilly air escaping through the floorboards and winding its way up her ankles.

"How so?" Booker asked, his demeanor turning more serious.

"My superiors are less than eager to release the man."

"Why?"

"They fear retaliation from certain rodents."

Booker knit his brows together. "The Mice had no quarrels with the butcher, at least not that I know of. They only chose him for the shock value."

"Again, I hate to agree with you, Larkin, but I feel the same way. However, the higher-ups are a bit harder to convince."

"They'd rather see an innocent man hang?" Trinket asked.

Jewkes met her eyes. "If it means keeping peace with the Mice? Yes. Any day."

Clenching her teeth, Trinket tried to keep herself from ranting about such an injustice. But she knew there was nothing that any of them could do about it.

"Don't worry, though," Jewkes said as he unlocked the door. "I haven't given up just yet. I'm a man of my word."

He proceeded into the dark basement.

"So long as he's not married to you," Booker whispered to Trinket.

She grimaced at the reminder of the officer's adulterous ways and followed Booker down the creaking stairs.

Each step felt precarious, the old wood bending in protest to the added weight. It was frigid inside. Having donned her winter coat for the occasion, Trinket held it closed as the cold air bit at her skin. Tables covered in sheets lined the walls. She tried to ignore the human shapes beneath the fabric. Granted, at this point, she had been exposed to so many corpses that it was significantly less unnerving to be walking through a mortuary than it had been her first time. Not personally knowing any of the deceased helped as well.

Jewkes led them to a table without a covering. On it lay a naked old man—Booker's patient from the night before. The supposed-vampire victim. The sight of his bare body sent a rush of heat up Trinket's neck, and she had to avert her eyes as they drew closer.

"You sure you'll be all right?" Booker whispered, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

She nodded but kept her eyes away from the man's lower half. The only other autopsy she had been a part of had involved a dead woman. While that had been rather uncomfortable, a man in his natural state was even more so. However, she refused to be bested by a few unfamiliar bits of anatomy.

"Anything you need?" Jewkes asked as he placed the lantern on a nearby table, casting light onto the pale, wrinkled body.

Booker held up his bag and gave it a gentle pat. "I have everything I need here." He then laid a hand on Trinket's shoulder. "And here."

Jewkes narrowed his eyes at the two of them but finally heaved a sigh and shrugged. "I'll let you have at it, then."

Setting his bag beside the lantern, Booker quickly scanned the body. Trinket took a deep breath and did the same, putting aside her embarrassment and ignoring the mice scuttling around her feet. It seemed too cold for them to be real, but even if they were there, she refused to let them distract her.

There was dried blood on the old man's nostrils and lips, as well as clogged in his ears. Streaks of dark brown ran from his eyes and down his cheeks, like trails of old tears. Daring to sneak a look at his lower extremities, she noticed that the stains that had been on his trousers when she'd first seen him had indeed been coming from his groin. What could have caused him to leak blood from so many parts?

"Does it look similar to when you first saw the body?" Booker asked quietly, still running his eyes up and down the corpse.

She nodded. "Yes. Of course, he was clothed when I last saw him, but even then I suspected the bleeding from below."

Taking in every bit of the corpse and sniffing around the man's mouth, Booker finally nodded at the body. "Help me turn him over?" he asked.

Her stomach churned at the thought of touching the old man, but she forced her nausea down and steeled herself for the task. Gripping the corpse's arm, she used all her strength to help flip him onto his stomach. It proved to be much easier than dragging the poor squirrel woman up the stairs with Gin. The old man was short and frail, and with Booker's added strength, it only took a few seconds.

While still uncomfortable, this view of the man was less disconcerting than his front side had been. There was dark brown staining his leathery buttocks, and she recalled the pool of blood that had been coming from beneath him back in the city center. She met Booker's eyes over the corpse, and he raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Yes, I suspected this as well," she confirmed. "There was a significant pool of blood beneath him on the road."

Nodding, he turned his gaze back to the body, giving it a final once-over before heaving a sigh. "All right, let's get him back in position."

Gritting her teeth, she again took hold of the man's arm and helped Booker flip the body right-side up. She dutifully avoided the corpse's lower half and nearly let out a breath of relief when Booker pulled a sheet over it.

"Well, that takes care of the formal examination," he said as he stationed himself by her side, his eyes fixed on the man's neck. "Now for the interesting part."

He leaned down and carefully traced the two puncture wounds with his finger. There was dried blood around them, much like the other orifices. Leaning down, Booker sniffed at the bite marks and scrunched his face up before pulling back quickly.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly.

He shook his head and rubbed at his nose. "No, nothing. Just smells like blood. I'm not very fond of the odor."

"And yet you're a surgeon."

"We all make sacrifices for our passion. Hand me a scalpel, will you?"

She fetched the tool and watched as he made precise cuts along the man's clavicle and down his abdomen. Tugging at the stiff, wrinkled skin, he pried the man's chest open. She had to look away as he employed the bone saw, but the cracking and breaking ribs still made her skin crawl. When he was finished hacking away at the ribcage, she finally dared to turn back. He was already wrist-deep in viscera and organs.

"Interesting," he mumbled, digging through the man's insides as if scanning the books in his library.

"What is it?" she asked as she joined him.

"There's an awful lot of inflammation in nearly all of the organs. And look at these." He pointed to small purple splotches on what looked like the man's lungs. "Signs of burst blood vessels."

"What does that mean?"

"That he was bleeding internally. Very badly, in fact. I don't think I've seen this on internal organs before. Skin, eyes, maybe even in the throat. But on the lungs?"

"What could have caused it?"

Pressing his lips together, Booker shook his head. "Poison, maybe? Though I don't see any signs of corrosive damage to the esophagus."

Her stomach dropped. "Are you going to extract his brain?"

"Hmm, yes, that might give us a few more hints. Good idea, Trinket."

She hadn't meant it as a suggestion, but she closed her eyes as he picked up the saw once again and moved towards the man's head. The sound of metal against bone grated on her nerves, and she tried to think of something else to distract herself. But all she could picture was the top of the old man's bald head falling to the floor like an empty bowl. Was that how it worked? Honestly, she didn't really want to know.

"There's some swelling here as well," Booker said.

She dared to look. Her eyes widened when she saw Booker standing over the man's severed skull, carefully prodding at the grey insides. The old man didn't look much like a person anymore, but she still had to swallow down her revulsion before approaching.

"So you think it's poison?" she asked.

"Maybe? No poison I know of, though. Not that I'm all that well-versed in toxicology."

"Why would someone poison him? And what about the bite marks?"

Shaking his head slowly, he let out a long breath. "I don't know. But I'm certain there's a connection. We just need to do a bit more research."

Passing his gaze over the butchered body once more, he clapped his bloody hands together and turned to Jewkes with a smile. The officer grimaced as his eyes flickered to the corpse lying on the table then back to Booker's stained hands.

"You're done?" he asked, looking like he might be sick.

"Indeed," Booker replied, glancing back at the old man. "I'm afraid that without further research and investigation, I won't be able to give a definite cause of death."

"But you have an idea?"

"I do."

"And that is?"

"Bad stew from the Clocktower."

Staring at him in disbelief, Jewkes slowly worked his jaw, as if he had suddenly forgotten how to speak. "Stew? You're saying it was stew?"

Nodding soberly, Booker heaved a sigh. "Afraid so. I mean, I knew the food was subpar, but I never thought it would kill someone. Unfortunately, with half the city dining at the establishment, I fear you may have many more dead bodies on your hands before the week's out. Might have to expand the mortuary. Think you could knock out that wall there?"

Still staring at him, Jewkes swallowed and tried to speak. But before he could utter a word, Booker laughed and slapped his shoulder warmly, smearing blood and viscera all over the officer's uniform.

"I'm pulling your leg, Jewkes," he said. "It's a joke. No, I think it was some sort of poison that did this, but I'm not yet sure which one. I'll need to do a little studying and get back to you on it."

The officer's face went from sickly green to bright red in a matter of seconds. He pushed Booker's hand off of his shoulder and opened his mouth, likely to call him something rather unflattering. But then he caught sight of the mess Booker had left on his jacket. Gagging, he grabbed the sheet off of the corpse and tried to scrub the blood and guts off.

Trinket glared at Booker as he held back his laughter, and she offered Jewkes her handkerchief.

"Thank you, Miss Trinket," Jewkes said, accepting the cloth and wiping at his clothes. His fiery gaze returned to Booker. "Larkin, can you take nothing seriously?"

Booker feigned hurt as he pulled a bottle of alcohol from his bag and doused his dirty hands with it. "I take many a good thing seriously, Constable," he said, lathering his hands together and then using his shirt to dry them off. "For instance, my tea. I'm very serious about my tea. And my bacon. Which is why I'm hoping that, despite my inability to give you a definitive answer at the moment, you'll still be willing to hold up your end of our bargain."

Handing Trinket back her handkerchief, Jewkes stooped to retrieve the sheet he had dropped. "Of course. I'm not going to take out my distaste for your childish behavior on an innocent person," he said as he covered up the old man. "As I said, the higher-ups aren't keen on letting him go, but I'll keep trying."

Trinket helped Booker clean his tools and pack them away. "Is there anything we can do to help?" she asked Jewkes.

He gave her a gentle smile. "You've done quite enough for me tonight, Miss Trinket. I'll take care of the rest."

Booker snapped the bag closed. "You know what would clear the man's name completely?" he asked as they headed back towards the stairs.

"I'm afraid to ask," Jewkes mumbled, leading them up the steps.

"If another butchered body showed up. That'd be proof enough that the man was innocent."

Trinket's heart leapt into her throat as she anxiously glanced up at Booker. "Let's hope no one else gets murdered," she said.

Unlocking the door, Jewkes opened it wide to let them out. "Your assistant is right, Larkin. We want to save a man, not hope for more death."

They exited the mortuary, and she was thankful for the warm air as it slowly thawed her frozen extremities. "Believe me, I don't want anyone else to die, either. No good doctor would," Booker said.

"I'm not so convinced you're a 'good' doctor, Larkin," Jewkes said.

Ignoring his comment, Booker went on. "But we have no control over what the Mice do. If they decide to chop up someone else and leave them lying in the Clocktower or the tea shop, at least their crimes would be useful."

Running his hands down his face, Jewkes released a long groan. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with your nonsense, Larkin. Just promise not to kill anyone, that's all I ask."

Placing a hand on his chest, Booker responded, "I am a scientist and a doctor, Constable, not a murderer."

"Yet."

Trinket couldn't help but worry that Jewkes could be right about that. "I'll keep an eye on him," she promised, linking her arm with Booker's and pulling him towards the exit.

"I thank you, Miss Trinket," Jewkes said, seeing them out the door.

As they made their way into the dark and empty street, Jewkes called out to them. They turned back and found him leaning against the doorpost. He hesitated before speaking.

"At the risk of sounding foolish and moronic, answer me one thing, Larkin."

"What is that?" Booker asked.

"Is there any chance it was a vampire?"

Booker's eye twitched, but it was so subtle that Trinket just barely noticed. "No, it was not. That I can guarantee."

With a polite nod, Jewkes retreated into the station, and she and Booker made their way home.