"Booker, please don't kill anyone," Trinket said as soon as they were out of earshot of the police station.

Heaving a sigh, he stared up at the stars. "For the last time, I am not a murderer."

"I didn't say you were a murderer. I'm asking you not to become one."

He looked down at her with a disheartened gaze. "Are you really still questioning my intentions? Even after knowing me for all these months?"

The unexpected sadness in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings. "To be fair, you've given me reason to question your morality. You've cheated and lied and even hurt people in your search for information. My goodness, you threatened to burn a young man's eyes out with a hot fire poker."

Booker frowned. "All right, so I don't have a good track record. But do you really think I would go so far as to kill someone?"

She shrugged. "Honestly, it's something I've worried about since meeting you."

Coming to a complete stop, he stared at her in horror. "You have?"

Hesitating, she turned her eyes to the ground and nodded. "You're so obsessed with this game. And you are slightly mad. I mean, I'm more than slightly mad, so I suppose I shouldn't judge. But I can't deny that I haven't wondered if one of these days you might cross a line into more sinister territory. And frankly, that thought terrifies me."

When he did not respond after a long silence, she finally dared to sneak a glance at him. He was staring out into the empty market, his face twisted into something between a grimace and a pout. There were many emotions flashing through his eyes, and she wasn't certain whether he was going to take offense at her words or perhaps cry over them. Both possibilities left her unnerved.

Horrible person.

Who are you to judge?

Bad, bad, bad, bad—

He turned back to her, his expression schooled into a gentle but pained smile. "I'm sorry if my actions have terrified you," he said softly. "You're right. I do get swept up in the heat of the moment. Considering my only associates growing up were a prodigy of a mad scientist and a strong-willed girl with seemingly no conscience, I was bound to turn out somewhat depraved."

She was beginning to regret having ever brought the subject up now that she saw how it was affecting him. "Well, I'm one to talk, what with my own disturbed mind."

Shaking his head, he gazed at her thoughtfully. "You're not like us. You're much better."

Guilt weighed down her heart as the memory of blood on her hands surfaced.

You're just as bad.

Worse.

Monster.

Murderer.

Killer!

"I don't know about that," she whispered.

Something in his expression shifted. His eyes wandered back and forth over her face, and he seemed to be considering his next words very carefully. "While I say I am not a murderer, I mean that I have not killed with intent. But I have killed."

Her spine stiffened and her muscles tensed as she dared to ask, "Who have you killed?"

"Patients. Mostly due to complications that were beyond my control. However, there were one or two who died due to my inexperience."

His gaze flitted to her, and she wondered at the odd glimmer in his eyes.

"My point is, mistakes happen. Things beyond our control can affect the situation." Again, his eyes darted to her. "Our mistakes don't make us bad people."

She nodded slowly. "So is this your roundabout way of promising me you won't kill anyone?"

Laughing, he linked his arm with hers and they continued down the street. "Beyond mistakes that may happen in my work, yes, I promise not to kill anyone." He cast her a sidelong glance. "Does that redeem me at all in your eyes?"

She gave a weak smile. "I think we all need redemption." Meeting his gaze, she tilted her head and considered him for a moment. "But I haven't cast you off just yet, now, have I?"

"I pray you never do."

Her heart skittered, but she forced herself to ignore the sensation. "Where would I go anyhow?"

"I'd hate to think your lack of a better place to go is the only thing keeping you here."

Again, there was something like pain and sadness in his tone. Fearing another heart palpitation should she dare to meet his eyes, she tightened her grip on his arm and reassured him, "There's plenty keeping me here, Booker."

When they returned home, she convinced him to go to bed before diving into his research. Without his drug mixture to help him run on only a handful of sleep, he really had no choice but to comply.

She was eager to call it a night herself. Her eyes were heavy with sleep as she dragged herself up the stairs, and she was barely able to change into her nightgown before collapsing onto the bed. But then her mind refused to let her rest, replaying the events that had transpired back at the tailor shop when she had seen the young blonde woman.

Could it have been her? No, how could that be possible? Sure, she herself had escaped from Elysium, but what were the chances of another girl getting out only months after she did? It didn't seem likely.

And yet those eyes. Trinket had never seen such wild eyes on anyone else but her.

Letting out a sigh, she turned over and covered her head with her blanket, plunging herself into warm darkness. No, it couldn't be possible. No one escaped from Elysium.

Even once outside its walls.

~

Screams pulled Trinket from her sleep. She woke with a gasp and scrambled for a candle. The screams grew louder and louder as she fumbled with the matches. At last, she struck a flame, and without even donning her dressing gown, she dashed out into the hallway.

The screams seemed to be coming from every direction, making her disoriented as she struggled to decide which way she should go. Booker's room was right across from her own, so she darted to the door, pounding on it desperately.

"Booker?" she called, her chest heaving as she tried to keep herself from imagining the Mice dismembering and skinning him alive. "Booker, what's wrong?"

"Trinket?"

Spinning around, she spotted Booker standing in the doorway of the library, his shirt rumpled and partially unbuttoned as if he had fallen asleep in his day clothes. His eyes were dark from exhaustion, but otherwise, he was fine. Neither dismembered nor skinned.

And yet the screaming continued.

Understanding dawned on her, and she cursed herself for not realizing it sooner.

"Are you all right?" Booker asked, taking a step towards her, his eyes traveling up and down her body, as if searching for a physical source of her distress.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the screaming voices from her head. "Yes, sorry. It's nothing."

A line formed between his eyes, but Daphne joined them in the hallway before he could argue. She looked between him and Trinket, her gaze filled with concern.

"I'm fine," Trinket told her. "Just . . . it was just a dream. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't real. But it's fine."

Daphne nodded suspiciously.

"Trinket, are you sure you're all right?" Booker asked, taking another step towards her but hesitating when he realized her state of dress.

She crossed one arm over her chest, wishing she'd had the presence of mind to bring her dressing gown with her. "Yes, it's fine. I should get back to bed. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

She hurried back to her room before he could say another word. Quickly closing the door and blowing out the candle, she returned to her bed and buried her head beneath a pillow, though it did nothing to muffle the screams. They continued to echo in her mind, filling her ears and thoughts and making it impossible to seek solace in sleep.

It was going to be an impossibly long night.

The door opened, and she sat up to find Daphne with a teacup in her hand. The woman winced and nodded at the door. She mimed knocking and then shrugged.

"No, no, it's fine," Trinket said. "I just didn't hear you. Please, come in."

Closing the door, Daphne came closer. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed Trinket the cup. It was warm against her clammy hands, and the soothing scent of lavender and honey wafted up to her nose and drew some of her attention away from the obnoxious screaming.

"Thank you," she said, offering Daphne a weak smile.

Daphne returned the gesture, but her brow was still wrinkled with concern. She laid the back of her hand against Trinket's head.

"I'm not sick, I promise," she said, though she knew it was somewhat of a lie.

Removing her hand, Daphne tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

Trinket shook her head and took a sip of tea. "It's nothing, trust me. Just . . . just nightmares is all."

Daphne watched her carefully, and Trinket suspected she was not fooling this perceptive woman. She had yet to tell her about her hallucinatory mental condition. It was not a secret she wished to share with just anyone. Even Gin didn't know. The only reason Booker was privy to it was because she had attacked him in the midst of a dark episode. If that hadn't happened, would she have ever confided in him?

The screams were still there, but focusing on the warm cup in her hands and the soothing aroma of the tea was helping to push the noise into the background. "Is Mr. Larkin all right?" she asked.

Waving away her question, Daphne nodded and gestured to the wall adjacent to the library.

Glancing at the window, Trinket could just barely see a glimmer of sunlight. "It's hardly morning. What is he doing up so early?"

Daphne shrugged and rolled her eyes, spinning her finger in circles around her temple.

Trinket laughed softly. "Yes, he is rather crazy, isn't he?" She took another sip of tea. "He must be reading up on poisons."

Daphne lifted an eyebrow.

"It's Booker Larkin. Why wouldn't he be up at the crack of dawn researching poisons? But it actually has to do with the autopsy he did last night."

Nodding, Daphne tapped her neck.

"Yes, the vampire victim. Booker believes it may have been poison that killed him, but now he needs to find out what kind. I was hoping he'd rest a little before diving into it, but I suppose he stayed in bed longer than I expected him to."

Suddenly straightening up, Daphne pointed at her and then to her pillows and then to the door.

Trinket shook her head. "No, no, it's fine. I don't think I'll be falling asleep anytime soon. Besides, it's rather comforting to have company after that . . . nightmare."

Daphne smiled softly and gently took her hand, giving it a squeeze.

~

The kind woman's presence did quite a bit of good. It distracted Trinket from the incessant screaming, and by the time her cup was drained, the noise was just a distant echo in her head. Though she wanted nothing more than to catch up on the sleep she had lost due to her broken mind, she was afraid that rest would only encourage the haunting voices to return. She had to keep herself occupied.

Daphne took the cup and excused herself from the room, leaving Trinket to herself. She made her way to the window, opening the curtains to find the sun peeking out from over the rotting rooftops of the buildings across the street. The slums were slowly coming to life. Street urchins emerged from the alleys; stray dogs sniffed about in the mud, searching for scraps of food; night flowers retired to their apartments after their late-night shifts. As dingy and pathetic as it was, it was a sight that was becoming rather familiar to her. She even recognized most of the faces. Madison, Charlotte, Thomas—

Her heart skipped a beat as a flash of blonde dashed across the street. Gripping the window sill, she leaned forward in an effort to get a better look. Where had she gone? Had she really been there? Or was it just her mind playing tricks on her again?

There. Again. A young blonde woman weaving in and out of the shadows. Trinket's pulse pounded in her ears as a wave of memories returned.

Memories of forced labor.

Torturous remedies.

And a wild-eyed girl who proved to be the only companion in Trinket's year-long confinement.

Reason and self-control were pushed aside as her panicked emotions took over. Pushing herself away from the window, she ran for the door, leaving her dressing gown and even her boots behind as she raced down the stairs.

Images of leering orderlies and withered patients played through her head.

Stained mattresses.

Watered-down gruel.

A jar filled with crackling electricity.

And again, that young blonde woman with a warm, manic smile.

Trinket burst through the front door, and the chill of the early morning air caused her to stumble, as if rousing her from her nostalgic delusion. She stopped on the doorstep, staring out at the nearly empty street. There were only a few urchins out and about, and though they cast her confused glances, they continued on with their business without saying a word. Her eyes darted about the area, searching the shadows for any sign of movement or life. But there was nothing.

Had it truly been another hallucination?

"Trinket?"

She turned and found Booker standing in the doorway, his brows knit together. There were dark circles beneath his tired eyes, and his face was drawn and pale. How long had he been up? And now he was out here worrying about her? He was pushing himself beyond his limit. If someone didn't take care of him, he'd run himself into the ground.

Forcing a smile, she took a step towards him and shook her head. "I'm fine, really. I just thought I saw something out here."

The concern did not leave his expression. "What could you have seen that would make you run out into the middle of the street?" His gaze flickered to her attire, and she thought that his cheeks turned slightly pink. "And in only your nightgown?"

She gripped the doorpost as she tried to think of an excuse, but she quickly pulled away when she felt something sticky and warm ooze through her fingers. Looking at her hand, she found a dark red liquid staining her palm.

Blood.

Her first reaction was to check Booker for any wounds, but he was completely untouched. Then she caught sight of the wall just over his shoulder, and she bit back a scream.

The walls were bleeding.

Thick streams of blood trickled down the acanthus wallpaper, congealing into puddles on the fine ornate carpet in the hallway. She could even smell the pungent iron scent that brought her back to that fateful night. The night that ruined everything.

The night she ruined everything.

With a quick shake of her head, she turned back to Booker and smiled. "A vampire," she said.

Her response made him flinch, and he didn't seem to know if she was serious or joking. Giving him a wink, she pushed past him and went back inside, locking the door behind her.

"Trinket, really, are you—"

She pressed her hand against his chest, and she couldn't help but be pleased by how quickly this action silenced him. His muscles tensed under her touch. Not like with Grace, though. It didn't seem to be from discomfort but rather from anticipation.

Yes, she very much liked that.

Her own muscles tightened at the feel of his chest rising up and down beneath her hand, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until she thought he might hyperventilate and pass out.

Tearing her thoughts away from his breathing, she met his eyes. "It's all right, Booker. I had a difficult night. My mind is just a little muddled. Don't worry yourself."

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I don't want to overwork you if that's the problem."

His concern touched her, and she removed her hand from his chest to reach for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm fine. Really. Besides, I'm more worried about you. How late have you been up?"

Running a hand through his ruffled hair, he shrugged. "I forget? I kept dreaming about dead frogs."

"Dead frogs?"

He nodded. "Poisoned. There was a trail of them, and I was trying to follow them to find out who had done it."

"Did you discover the culprit?"

"No. I woke up and then went straight to the library."

Smiling, she released his hand. "I think you and I could both use a cup of tea."

"Yes, that sounds good about now."

"Just let me get changed and I'll be right down."

Sweeping past him, she made her way back upstairs to her room. Though she kept her expression calm and unconcerned, she could still see the blood flowing from the ceiling and streaming down the banister. But even with such horrific visions haunting her, all she could think of was that young blonde woman. She had to have been another hallucination. She was as real as the blood collecting into a puddle outside her bedroom door.

And yet something in her broken mind told her she was wrong.