They hadn't seen her yet, so she stayed close to the wall in hopes of remaining unseen. Scales watched with mock boredom as the men brought Booker to him. However, as they drew closer, a smile flickered across his lips. Pushing himself away from the wall he had been leaning on, he approached with slow, wide steps.

"Well, well, how nice of you to find the time to meet with me, Larkin."

Booker couldn't respond due to one of the men's hands being clamped over his mouth, but he glared at Scales with something like humor in his eyes.

"I thought we might have a heart-to-heart. See, I'm a very generous man, so I decided to give you the opportunity to tell me what you know about the man behind the recent corpses before I move on to more persuasive methods," Scales continued.

The man keeping Booker silent removed his hand to allow him to speak. A crooked smile tugged at Booker's lips. "And here I thought you wanted a rematch. After all, some speculate that our last game wasn't as honest as it appeared."

"Are you suggesting I cheated, Larkin?"

"Oh, no. Not you."

Infuriated by Booker's smirk, Scales grabbed him by the shoulders and heaved him against the wall. Trinket tensed as his face hovered inches away from Booker's. "Tell me. About. The corpses," he hissed.

Despite the murderous gleam in Scales' eye, Booker's smirk remained intact. "What do you want with a few mutilated corpses, Scales? Your lot is more than capable of making your own."

"I want to know where they came from."

"Why?"

Scales pulled him forward and threw him against the wall. A grunt escaped Booker before Scales drew his face near again. "I'm the one asking the questions. Where did they come from?"

Booker began to laugh, and the sound terrified Trinket as she thought of how Scales would react to his insubordination. Anger blazed in the thug's eyes, and he slowly moved away from him.

"All right, then. If you don't want to talk, how about we see what we can do about that smug face of yours?"

He reached into his pocket, and the moonlight glinted off of the blade of a knife. Without thinking, Trinket let out a cry and ran towards him. The men who had been holding Booker grabbed her before she could get to Scales. Her first instinct was to reach for her faux perfume, but Scales caught her wrist.

"Her right pocket," he said to his men.

One of them stuffed his hand into her coat and pulled out the bottle. Scales gave a sickening smile as he turned his eyes to her.

"You might want to be more careful about constantly checking the pocket where your valuables are hidden," he said. "A classic mistake picked up by even the greenest of pickpockets."

"Are you comparing yourself to a petty thief, Scales?" Booker asked.

Scales stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Trinket. Another sly smile pulled at his lips as he fixed his gaze on Booker. "Scratch that. I'm not so interested in your face anymore," he said. In one fluid movement, he grabbed hold of Trinket and threw Booker to the other men. "I'm more interested in your strumpet's pretty face."

Booker fought against the men, but they held him tight. Scales pinned Trinket's arms behind her and slowly traced the tip of his knife along her jawline. Though he only pressed down lightly, she could still feel how sharp the blade was. For fear he would slit her throat without even trying, she kept her breaths shallow and tried to control her trembling. Booker's eyes were wide, his face drained of color as he watched the knife come dangerously close to her throat.

"Now, wouldn't it be a shame if I were to slip and—" Scales applied more pressure, and Trinket gasped as the blade nicked her skin. "Cut her throat out?"

Blood trickled down her neck, and the realization that she could very well die made her heart race. Booker began to struggle again, but Scales waved the knife at him and clucked his tongue.

"The more you struggle, the worse I'll hurt her. Now," he returned the knife to her throat, "tell me where the corpses came from."

Breathing heavily, Booker looked from the knife to her. All of his composure and confidence were gone, replaced by helplessness and desperation.

"I don't know," he mumbled.

Scales pressed down on the knife. Trinket tried to move away, but his grip on her was firm.

"I don't know! I don't know!" Booker cried.

"I don't believe you," Scales said.

"I swear! I swear upon my mother's grave, I don't know where they came from. I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him in five years."

Narrowing his eyes at him, Scales inclined his head. "Who?"

Booker's eyes flickered to Trinket, and he held her gaze before swallowing. The fear in his expression was unlike anything she had ever seen, and it terrified her even more than the weapon at her throat. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she swallowed hard, regretting it immediately as the knife dug into her skin once more. If Booker Larkin was afraid, it had to mean her chances of survival were slim.

Booker turned his attention back to Scales, but before he could speak, a shrill whistle pierced the air. Scales and his men looked at each other. The whistle blew again, and Scales cursed.

"Coppers," one of the men hissed.

Releasing Trinket, Scales glared at Booker one last time before nodding sharply at his men. "Make yourselves scarce."

They let Booker go and ran for the street, dropping the faux perfume bottle as they left. Scales slipped into the shadows and disappeared while the whistle continued to sound. Trinket watched him go, her heart still hammering in her chest. She rubbed her throat, the feel of the knife lingering on her skin. And then Booker was at her side, his hands clutching her wrists, her cheeks, her neck. When it was clear she was in one piece, he pulled her into a tight embrace. She was shocked to find him trembling.

"Booker," she whispered, unsure of how to react.

The whistle was at the end of the alley now, and they both turned, expecting to see a herd of police. Instead, they saw Gin standing all alone in her bowler hat and oversized coat.

"Gin?" Booker breathed, squinting as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"Thought this might come in handy one of these days," Gin said as she approached them, holding up a shiny whistle. "Lifted it from an officer a while ago."

Letting out a long sigh, Booker placed a gentle hand on her head. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably would be dead ten times over by now." She bent down to pick up the perfume bottle and handed it to Trinket. "Think you dropped this."

Trinket took it from her and put it back in her pocket. "How did you get out here without being seen?"

"Soon as I saw the Mice grab Booker, I slipped out one of the windows." She gave a wry smile. "An advantage to starving on the streets is being able to squeeze through small spaces."

"You saved us."

She shrugged. "It's my job."

Running a hand through his hair, Booker let out another heavy breath and glanced at Trinket. "We should go home before they realize it was a ruse."

Gin led the way, and as Trinket followed her, Booker took hold of her hand and squeezed it, linking his arm with hers. His grip was tight, as if he were afraid that if he let her go, she would disappear.

Booker offered to have Gin stay the night, but she declined and ran off into the dark. As they stepped inside the house and removed their coats, Trinket realized that Booker's hands were still shaking. His face was pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. She had never seen him so unnerved.

"Booker," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm.

He turned to her, and the intensity in his eyes threw her. They were filled with fear. Fear and terror. She hadn't known he was capable of such emotions.

"I'm sorry I got in the middle of all that," she said, removing her hand. "I didn't mean to cause a problem. I just panicked when I saw that knife."

He shook his head. "No, no, it wasn't that. I just . . ." He heaved another sigh and ran a hand down his face. "You're all right. That's all that matters."

Making his way into the parlour, he paced towards the dying fire and leaned against the mantel. Trinket followed him. "Why do you think they want to know about Benedict?" she asked.

"Who knows? But I can't let them find him. God only knows what they'd do."

She wanted to ask him more, particularly about why he was so shaken, but he was gazing intensely at the fire. Knowing she wasn't going to get any straight answers from him tonight, she left to retire to bed.

"Be more careful with that spray," he called after her.

She stopped in the doorway and turned to face him.

He glanced up, and even at a distance, she could still see that fear. "If you let them know your weakness, they won't hesitate to use it against you," he said.

She nodded and made her way upstairs and into her room where she collapsed onto her bed.