Three days later, Booker was finally deemed well enough to venture out of the house. Both Daphne and Trinket had been watching him closely to be sure he didn't try to sneak out before then, and though he protested, Trinket couldn't help but notice the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his step. And while the tremors disappeared by the time they allowed him outside, the dark circles were still there. Was he not sleeping? Or was this another side effect of the drug?

Despite her lingering concerns, she agreed to accompany Booker into the city center to order Daphne some dresses of her own. She had been borrowing Trinket's since her arrival, and seeing as Daphne didn't have quite the same body type as her, they looked a tad odd. So with Booker's assistance, they took her measurements and set off to the tailor.

"Lord, it's wonderful to be out in the fresh air," Booker said as he walked arm in arm with Trinket.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of melting snow and sewage, she raised an eyebrow. "Clearly, being cooped up in that house has caused you to lose some of your senses."

"It's warmer, isn't it?"

It was. Winter was winding down, and they were coming to that unpleasant transition into spring when everything was soggy and smelly. And it seemed it was ten times worse in a little city like Tinkerfall, particularly in the slums.

"I think I'll miss winter," Booker said. "Granted, it made chasing after things a bit difficult, but there's something rather invigorating about the frigid temperatures. Don't you agree?"

"I think you're still experiencing some delirium."

He laughed and continued to take in the sights and smells of the city. Trinket smiled. He was truly in his element here amongst the conmen and riffraff. For a man of wealth, he was indeed peculiar.

"Are you ever going to tell Gin the truth about what happened?" she asked as she skirted a mud puddle.

"No."

She raised her eyebrows at his firm and decisive response. "She'll be very angry if she finds out."

He turned his sharp gaze on her. "She won't find out."

His intensity kept her from arguing. "Not from me, she won't. But why are you so intent on keeping it from her?"

Sighing, he turned to watch the passing crowds. "Because she has enough to worry about. She has to fight to survive. She risks her safety to help me. I don't need to burden her any further."

A smile was threatening to spread over Trinket's face, but she held it back. "She's tough. And you know, she's right. She's really not a child."

"Yes, but it's difficult to separate the Gin I know today from the Gin I met two years ago. She was as feisty and fearless as she is now, but—" He hesitated. "But she was still a child. A child who was willing to trade information for hair ribbons."

Trinket's smile would not be suppressed when she saw the warm nostalgia in his expression.

"I respect her and will not coddle her. But there's a part of me that wants to protect her from unnecessary pain," Booker said.

He finally turned to her, wrinkling his brow at her smile. Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, she steered him in the direction of the tailor.

They were greeted by both the sound of the brass bells on the door and the tailor himself. He eyed them suspiciously, but his smile remained intact. Little had changed since their first visit to the shop.

"You're not going to tease me later for my sentimentality, are you?" Booker asked as he looked through the bolts of fabric scattered throughout the shop.

"On the contrary. I think your warm feelings for Gin only help to improve your image," Trinket said, admiring a deep burgundy satin.

He peered over the fabric to meet her eyes. "My image needs improvement?"

"You can come off rather unfeeling at times. In fact, I believe you once told me that you don't love anyone in this world."

He scoffed, but there was a tinge of color in his cheeks that took her by surprise. "Love? I think that word is thrown about a bit much."

"Are you saying you don't love Gin?"

He fumbled for words. It was both amusing and unnerving to see him so out of sorts. "I am certainly fond of her," he said. "I want her safe and happy. And I'd do whatever I could to make sure that happens."

Trinket smiled. "I'd call that love, Mr. Larkin."

His face continued to flush as he moved over to a display of cloaks and capes. "I think we should order one of these for Daphne. With a high collar. That way she can go out without drawing too much attention to her 'portable aquariums.'"

He grinned at her as he used her coined phrase. Though she would have liked to pursue the conversation that was making him so twitchy, she decided to go along with the change in subject.

"Yes, and then perhaps she could be the one to pick up our tea, seeing as we got ourselves banned from the shop," she said as she joined him.

"And we cannot function without tea." He played with the fabric of a shoulder cape. "Maybe we could have a thicker one for the cold season and a lighter one for the summer months. That way she'll be covered all year round."

He called over the tailor and placed the order, as well as an order for several dresses with fabric chosen by Trinket. Though Daphne insisted on simple dresses for work, Trinket decided on having at least one made up of the beautiful burgundy satin she had been admiring. As before, Booker was able to convince the tailor to put the order at the top of his priority list by offering some extra coins. When all was complete, they ventured back outside.

Booker took a deep breath. "Memories, right?"

"What do you mean?" Trinket asked as they resumed their promenade through the center.

He nodded at the tailor's shop. "Didn't it remind you of our first shopping experience together?"

"I can't deny that it felt a tad familiar."

"It seems so long ago," Booker said as he gazed up at the sky. "It feels like you've been with me for years now."

"Has my presence been so agonizing?"

He chuckled. "No, you've just settled into my unconventional life so well it's hard to believe we've only been acquainted for a few months."

"Oh, but don't you remember? I've been working for you for quite a few years. Only I had a hunch back then, and for some unknown reason I used to dye my hair black."

Grinning at her teasing smile, he drew her closer. "I'm very happy you came to your senses about the hair. You're much prettier as a blonde."

She started at this remark. It was the first time he had ever commented on her appearance. He must have noticed her surprise, as he gazed down at her, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, someone interrupted them.

"Mr. Booker Larkin?" came a small voice from behind them.

They turned to find a petite young woman with choppy black hair that brushed her shoulders. Her appearance suggested that she may have been of Eastern descent, although Trinket wasn't certain of which region. The girl cowered when their attention fell upon her, and as she hid her fair-skinned face, Trinket noticed a long scar from her left ear to the corner of her mouth. Everything about her seemed fragile and timid, but that scar indicated she was stronger than she appeared.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Booker said.

The girl glanced about nervously before taking a step closer. "I've been told you're looking into trafficking here in the city."

Booker's muscles went taut under Trinket's grip. "Is that so?" he said.

Again, the girl's eyes darted back and forth before she responded. "And that you've been searching for a man with dirty fingernails and an unusually white smile?"

Trinket took in a sharp breath and glanced at Booker. He swallowed hard, but that was the only indication that his nerves were on edge. "Word does get around, doesn't it?" he said casually.

"I may have information that could be useful to you."

"And what do you want in return?"

Another frantic surveyal of her surroundings. "Not here. Not now."

Before Booker could inquire further, the girl grabbed his hand and pressed a piece of paper into it. She was gone by the time they realized what had happened. Booker exchanged a glance with Trinket and proceeded to unfold the crumpled note. Leaning over to see better, she could barely make out the messy handwriting.

Clocktower. Tomorrow. Midnight.

"Why do they always insist on meeting there?" she mumbled.

"The delectable stew, of course," Booker replied as he stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Lack of taste aside, it seems we may have a new lead in this case. Let's just hope it's not another dead end."