Trinket nearly fell down the stairs in her rush to the laboratory. She couldn't get the image of Booker spewing that horrible liquid out of her head. Looking so weak. So fragile.

It shook her to her very core.

Dying.

Dying.

He's dying.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't see Daphne until she crashed into her just feet away from the laboratory door. The woman grabbed her shoulders to steady her, peering at her with a questioning expression.

"I . . . Booker . . . he . . ."

Squinting, Daphne gave her a gentle shake, as if to rattle some sense into her.

She hardly knew where to begin. Words would not come easily. Swallowing, she tried again. "Something is wrong with Booker. He's clammy and seems to be delirious. And he's retching up this sickly-looking fluid."

Understanding dawned on Daphne's face, and with a calm urgency, she took Trinket's hand and pulled her back towards the stairs. With what composure she could muster, Trinket led her up to Booker's room. Without hesitation, Daphne marched over to the bed and began examining him. He was no longer retching, but he was still in a semi-conscious state.

Trinket hovered behind Daphne, wringing her hands as she watched her open his eyelids, check his pulse, and listen to his breathing. She felt helpless. She didn't know anything about medicine. Booker was the doctor. He was the one who fixed people.

So who was going to fix him?

Dying, dying, dying.

He's going to die.

Die, die, die.

Trinket shook her head, but the voices continued as shadowy figures closed in around her.

Daphne tapped her fingers against her lips as her eyes darted about the room. They stopped on Booker's writing desk, and she rushed over to it. Pulling out a piece of parchment and a pen, she quickly scribbled something down and pressed the paper into Trinket's hand. Trinket glanced down at the beautiful handwriting.

Mint for his nausea.

Not wasting a moment, she ran back down the stairs and fumbled with her key to unlock the laboratory door. She rushed to the shelf where she knew he kept the mint leaves and found the container. Before she went to leave, though, she caught sight of something in the sink.

A jar.

Placing the mint on the counter and picking the empty jar up, she realized it was the one in which Booker stored his homemade drug. She turned it over in her hands and discovered that it was empty. She glanced back down at the sink, and the memory of her first few nights here came to mind. The muscle aches, the delirium, the feeling that she was about to vomit all over the rug.

All because she had stopped taking the drugs Elysium had forced on her for an entire year.

"Oh, Lord, Booker," she mumbled, fear rising in her throat.

Tossing the jar back in the sink, she grabbed the mint and raced up the stairs.

How long had Booker been taking those drugs? Years? And every day? If she had such a violent reaction to a year's worth of reliance on opium, what would he have to go through after years of it? And it wasn't opium. This was something else altogether. Something she knew absolutely nothing about. Something only he was knowledgeable of.

She forced the panic down and made her way back to his room. Daphne had changed him into a fresh nightshirt and had tossed his old, sweat-soaked one to the floor. As Trinket approached with the mint container, Daphne took it and pulled out a leaf, crumbling it up and smearing it onto his tongue. He swallowed automatically, though it looked like it pained him to do so. Placing the jar on his nightstand, Daphne adjusted his pillows and blankets before turning back to Trinket.

"Will he be all right?" Trinket whispered, afraid to speak any louder.

Daphne hesitated and gave a soft shrug, glancing over her shoulder at him. Trinket took her hand and led her out into the hallway, closing the door slightly, just in case Booker could hear them through his delirium.

"I only recently learned that he's been taking some sort of drug mixture that he made himself," she said. "Something to help him stay awake while he works. He put a little in his tea every day, but for larger projects—like your portable aquariums—he would use additional doses."

Daphne's eyes widened.

"While I was retrieving the mint in the laboratory, I found that the jar he kept the concoction in was in the sink—completely empty. Could this sudden illness perhaps be the result of having cut himself off from the drug so suddenly? I mean, I suppose there's the possibility that he took it all at once, though he's never been suicidal, so I doubt it. Could this be a withdrawal from the drugs?"

Scrunching her mouth, Daphne seemed to consider this for a moment and then nodded and shrugged.

So it wasn't a real illness. Temporary relief washed over Trinket, but she prepared herself to ask the question she feared most. "Do you know if a person can die from suddenly cutting out a drug like that?"

Daphne opened her mouth but hesitated again. Staring Trinket straight in the eye, she took her hand and gave it a squeeze. The relief vanished, and Trinket tried to swallow down the fear and guilt that now clawed at her throat.

Your fault.

It's your fault.

Gesturing to the room, Daphne pushed Trinket gently towards the door. She put up a finger and then disappeared downstairs. Trinket turned to the door and gathered all her courage to enter, so afraid to see Booker in such a precarious state.

He was still in the same position that Daphne had left him in, so at least he hadn't been thrashing around in pain. With tentative steps, she drew closer, unable to pull her gaze from his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he wheezed from time to time, as if it hurt to breathe. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the quilt, so close to his skin she could feel him trembling. Or was that her? He muttered something incoherent, moving his head back and forth in distress. She pulled away, tears pricking at her eyes.

This was her fault.

He was sick because of her.

And if he died . . .

Murderer, murderer, murderer!

Shaking her head, she backed away. No. No. She couldn't be responsible for the loss of another life. This couldn't happen. It couldn't.

Footsteps ascended the stairs, and Trinket turned to see Daphne enter the room with a bowl of water in one hand and a stool in the other. She set the bowl on the nightstand and placed the stool by the bed. Taking a sponge from the bowl, she rang it out enough that it wouldn't dribble before carefully placing it on Booker's lips. Squeezing it, she forced a small stream of water into his mouth. Some of it leaked down his chin, but she was quick to wipe it up.

She faced Trinket and offered a soft smile. Gently leading her to the stool, she had her sit down and then returned the sponge to the bowl. She pointed at it, then at Booker, and held up ten fingers.

"Give him water every ten minutes?" Trinket said.

Daphne nodded and patted her on the shoulder, giving her a gentle smile. She turned to the door again, moving as if to leave.

"You're not staying?"

She glanced over her shoulder and held up a finger before heading back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Trinket returned her attention to Booker. Her pulse raced, and her stomach tied itself into sick knots as she watched him wince and gasp. Reaching out, she took hold of his hand and squeezed it, both in an effort to comfort him and to remind herself that he was still here. That he was still breathing. That he was still alive.

For now.

Despair overtook her, and her chest heaved rapidly until she could no longer keep back her tears. Laying her head on the bed, she wept softly into the quilt, holding tight to Booker's limp and clammy hand.

~

Booker continued on in his ill state. By the third day, he had developed a fever. Trinket stayed by his side at all times, with Daphne coming and going, tending to him with a skilled hand and a nurturing manner. She took care of Trinket as well, as she had become so distraught by Booker's condition that she only ate and drank at her prodding. When exhaustion overtook her, Trinket would fall asleep still sitting by the bed, half draped on the mattress while perched on the stool.

She couldn't leave him. Not when this was her fault. Granted, she found it hard to believe that their argument had convinced him to cut the drugs out just like that. Her opinion couldn't possibly mean that much to him. Still, she felt responsible for his current condition, so she would stay by his side until he was well again.

Or no longer with her.

No. No, she couldn't think like that.

Banishing those dark thoughts, she focused on keeping him hydrated and cool.

It was some time on the fifth day, while Daphne sat with her after failing to coax some soup into her, that Trinket spoke words other than muttered pleas for Booker to get well.

"Are you a doctor?" she asked Daphne, her voice scratchy and dry from disuse.

Daphne shook her head.

"Then how do you know how to do all of this?"

Taking a deep breath, Daphne looked as if she were about to explain. But then she closed her mouth and shrugged.

Trinket nodded in understanding. Daphne could have likely written out a response, but perhaps it was a part of her life that she wished to keep private. If that was the case, Trinket was not about to pry. Turning back to Booker, she watched his chest rise and fall, the muscles in his face twitching periodically.

"This is all my fault," she whispered.

Daphne placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, but Trinket shook her head.

"No, it is. I got into an argument with him about taking the drugs, and then he suddenly stopped taking them and fell into this state. It's my fault. I shouldn't have interfered. It wasn't my place. He's a doctor, he knows what he's doing. I'm just his employee. And I need to remember that."

It felt like she should be crying, but nothing came. Her eyes were sore with pressure from the unspent tears, and her throat tightened to the point that speech became impossible.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Forcing Trinket to face her, Daphne met her eyes with fierce determination. She shook her head slowly, and despite the woman's inability to verbalize her thoughts, Trinket could feel the comforting words she was trying to convey. And it helped. Somehow it helped.

"I went through this myself," she said, turning back to Booker when Daphne had released her. "When he found me and took me in. I spent several nights in a similar delirium. And he stayed by my side and nursed me back to health, even though he had never met me before."

Daphne eyed her suspiciously, and a sudden jolt of panic shot through Trinket's body. Why had she just told her that? She hadn't told anyone that, not even Gin.

She turned to Daphne, covering her mouth with her hand, trying to understand what it was about this woman that had pulled such a confession from her. Was it because she lacked the ability to tell others? No, she could still write it if she wished. Was it Trinket's fragile emotional state? Perhaps. She could hardly think straight with all the turmoil inside of her. Maybe it was even because this woman clearly had a past of her own that she wanted to let go of. She was someone Trinket could relate to.

Still, to share such a secret with a stranger?

Her worry must have been noticeable, as Daphne drew her fingers across her lips and turned them as if locking her mouth with a key. Then she smiled and rose to apply the sponge to Booker's lips. Trinket observed the ease with which she moved despite the containers of water attached to her neck. How quickly she had adapted to her new handicap—if it could even be viewed as one. Whoever this woman had been before she wound up in Booker's laboratory, she must have lived a fascinating life. And while Trinket hoped to someday learn about it, she had a feeling Daphne's past would be a mystery she took to her grave.

~

Perhaps because of her despair and the chaotic state of her heart and mind, Trinket's mental condition worsened as the week wore on. The room was infested with mice and bats, and something that looked like blood oozed down the walls. And the voices harassed her with mocking laughter and vicious words.

This is your fault.

He's going to die.

Just like before.

You're a killer. A menace.

You don't deserve to be alive.

End it now before you hurt anyone else.

She did her best to ignore them and focus on Booker, but their words were taking a toll on her as she realized they were right.

She didn't deserve to be alive.

She hurt everyone she came into contact with.

She had been selfish to run from Elysium. That's where she belonged. She deserved to rot in that hell . . .

No. She belonged underground. Buried alive.

Or in an alley with her throat sliced open, drowning in a pool of her own blood.

Or hanging from a lamp post like Mr. Wotton.

No matter how hard she tried to stop them, these thoughts continually played through her head, the images graphic and far too realistic. She tried to picture how her death would certainly sadden at least Gin and Booker, but her mind refused to believe it. She didn't mean anything to these people. To Gin, she was competition for Booker's attention. And to Booker, she was only a broken girl with the ability to notice small details and toast crumpets.

She was easily replaceable.

Or even completely unnecessary.

Booker had Gin. And Grace. And how many other people in this city who fed him information. And now Daphne was here to cook far better meals than she ever could. What use was she to Booker?

If she were to die, no one would miss her. Not a single soul.

So why not end it all now?

Do it! Do it, do it, do it, do it—

These thoughts and visions did not just haunt her in her waking hours; they seeped into her dreams as well. Although, they felt more like memories than dreams.

That same scene played over and over in her head.

Of what she had done to him.

His familiar voice crying out in pain.

The sight of his blood on her hands and dripping from the knife that she held.

She dropped the weapon and clutched her hair as the reality of what she had done dawned on her. Her breaths came in gasps, his screams drowned out by the pounding in her ears.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

His face twisted in pain, and his green eyes filled with betrayal as he bled to death in front of her. Blood seeped from the wound in his chest and filled the dark room until the thick, iron scent flooded her senses and made her gag.

Trinket.

She looked up. Booker. It was Booker now before her, clutching at his chest, his breaths ragged and short. His expression was filled with hurt as he collapsed to the floor. She cried out his name and tried to run to him, but the blood pulled her back. Struggling against it, she called to him again, but the sea of blood silenced her as it flooded her lungs, dragging her down into its depths. And still she could hear him calling out her name.

Trinket.

Trinket.

Trinket.

She woke with a gasp, still able to taste the blood on her tongue as her eyes darted about frantically. Booker. Where was he? Was he hurt? Was he dying? Was he—

Something touched her cheek, and she turned to find Booker watching her, his fingers brushing against her skin. It took a moment for her to realize that this was not a dream. She was waiting for him to cry out in pain, for the walls to bleed, for something terrible to happen. But no, nothing like that occurred. He simply gazed at her with bleary eyes, a weak smile tugging at his lips.

He was here. He was awake. Unharmed. Not bleeding. Not dying. Just watching her with those intoxicating eyes.

Emotion overtook her, and she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Booker," she whispered into his neck. "Oh, thank heavens. Thank heavens you're all right."

Though his embrace was weak, he still held her as she buried her face in his shoulder. She wanted to cry for her joy at having him conscious and alive. She wanted to hold him until the end of time, to keep him by her side, to protect him from harm.

When she finally pulled away, it was only out of fear that she would hurt him in his weakened state. Her heart was poised to burst, and it took everything in her not to take his hand just to make sure he stayed there with her.

"Well," Booker said, his voice raspy and strained, "perhaps I should have weaned myself off instead of cutting it out altogether. But now I know for next time."

The smile that had been playing on his lips grew, and it warmed Trinket more than even the fire crackling in the background. She had no words. Her relief was beyond comprehension. Seeing him smiling and making infuriating, inappropriate jokes brought her more joy than anything else in the world.

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her braid having all but come undone in her restless hours of slumber at his side. "Hope I didn't worry you too much," he said, his expression a tad more serious than before.

His fingers strayed from her blonde lock and traced her jawline. His touch lit a fire inside of her, and all she wanted was to catch his hand and bring it to her lips. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, "You must be famished. Shall I get you something to eat?"

He chuckled softly before twisting his mouth into a crooked grin. "Crumpets and burnt tea?"