The bell at the front door rang later that morning, and Daphne and Trinket answered it to find Grace leaning against the doorframe, a smug smile on her painted lips. When she caught sight of Daphne and her portiums, though, her expression melted into surprise.

"Well, well, that's not something you see every day," she said, squinting as she took in the devices. "Booker's handiwork, I assume?"

"Yes," Trinket replied.

"Knowing Booker Larkin, I doubt this was for aesthetic purposes. So what are you hiding under there?"

Daphne raised her eyebrows and pasted on a smile. She stepped aside, inviting the night flower inside.

"Not much for talk, is she?" Grace asked as she entered the foyer.

Opening her mouth wide and stooping forward, Daphne showed Grace what was left of her tongue. There was no more infection, but it was a sight to behold.

Grace fell back a step and clutched her shawl closer to her chest. "Ah. I see. That's unfortunate. I'm surprised Booker hasn't found a way to fix that."

"Daphne has very creative ways of getting around her missing parts," Booker said as he came through the laboratory door. He flashed Daphne a smile. "As well as her added ones."

Daphne returned the smile. She held her index finger and thumb together and lifted them up before making her way to the kitchen.

"Tea," Trinket translated as Booker looked to her for an explanation.

He turned back to Grace. "See? With her creativity and Trinket's skill with tongues—or rather lack of them—we get along just fine. Anyhow, thank you for stopping by. Come, make yourself at home."

He motioned to the parlour, but Grace raised an eyebrow. "Oh, dear Booker, if I'm really going to make myself at home with you, I think your maid may get jealous."

Trinket didn't even need to be touching Booker to know how tense his muscles were. He was still sporting a polite smile, but it looked poised to fall at any second. "You're always so full of wit, Grace. Please, take a seat. I have some questions for you."

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Grace reluctantly sat on the settee. Booker went to the armchair, and Trinket noticed he casually edged it further away from the settee before sitting down. Chuckling softly, she positioned herself beside the chair, ready to swoop in and rescue him if need be.

"Sorry for the delay," Grace said as she arranged her patched skirts. "A good customer of mine was particularly needy. Poor dear, his wife is laid up with another cold. Seems she's sick nearly every week. Fragile little creature. Although, based on her husband's performance, I can't help but think that perhaps her persistent illnesses might be put on."

Booker cleared his throat and folded his hands on his knees. "Well, I thank you for coming so quickly."

"I'm not as quick as you'd think, Booker dear," she said with a suggestive grin.

Was that a blush in Booker's cheeks? It would have almost amused Trinket if she wasn't mortified by the night flower's innuendos.

"Anyhow," he continued, "I wanted to ask you about your associates."

"Associates?"

"The other night flowers."

"Why? Are you looking for some company? Because none of them are as good as me."

Booker leaned forward slightly as he shook his head, avoiding Grace's eyes. "No. I was curious if there's any fresh blood in your ranks."

She shrugged. "I don't exactly converse with them on the regular. But as far as I know, there hasn't been anyone all that new. It can be hard to keep track. New girls are often shy and quiet about their business, so it can take a while to notice them."

"Have any of your customers mentioned having issues with other night flowers?"

"Most of my customers prefer to skip the pleasantries, and those who don't usually have nothing interesting to say, so I tune them out. Why? What have you heard?"

"What about injuries?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you noticed any strange marks on your customers?"

"Strange marks? You'll have to elaborate, considering we live in a city where a good handful of folks bear your mechanical creations and scars."

"Just strange. A bite mark or something."

Grace tilted her head. "Bite mark? Like from a dog? Or a cat?"

"Puncture wounds, if you will."

It took a moment, but the pieces suddenly seemed to fit together in Grace's head, and she let out an understanding hum. "Are you suggesting some of the local night flowers have joined the ranks of the undead?"

Booker pulled back a bit, pouting his lips in impressed surprise. "Not exactly, but—"

She gave a deep, throaty laugh. "Booker Larkin, a man of science and learning, thinks there's a vampire on the loose?"

"I do not think there's a vampire on the loose," he said firmly.

"Bite marks? Puncture wounds? What else could you be suggesting?"

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I had a patient here last night who claimed to have been attacked by a vampire. He had two distinct puncture wounds on his neck that, to the untrained and uneducated mind, would appear to have come from a legendary creature of the night."

"And to a trained and educated mind, what would they appear to be?"

Sitting back and extending his hand into the air, he replied, "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Grace stared at him for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest and an amused twinkle in her eye. "No, I have not heard of any bloodthirsty night flowers roaming about. However, there are some depraved individuals here in Tinkerfall, so it wouldn't surprise me if a girl stooped to vampiric tendencies at a customer's request to earn a few extra coins."

Rolling his stiff shoulders, Booker heaved a sigh. "Well, it was worth a try."

Daphne entered through the dining room door with a tray of teacups and crumpets. She placed them on the table and offered a cup to Grace.

"Do you have anything a tad stronger?" Grace asked. "I've spent all night with a man who likes to narrate his subpar performance, and I could use a swig of gin."

Surprisingly, Daphne pulled a flask from her apron and handed it to the night flower. Trinket and Booker exchanged confused looks as Grace added a generous portion of the alcohol to her tea.

"What makes you think this vampire is a night flower?" asked Grace, handing the flask back to Daphne.

Booker was too busy watching Daphne slip the flask into her apron pocket to answer.

"The patient's belt was unbuckled when he arrived here," Trinket replied. "Based on that and how he made it a point to tell us how he was innocently walking home when he was attacked, it seems safe to assume he was in the midst of a certain act when he was bitten."

Grace raised her eyebrows and regarded her with a respectful glance. "Interesting deduction. But I still can't say I've heard of any girls growing fangs."

Daphne returned to the kitchen, and Booker's attention refocused on his guest. "Well, I'd be most grateful if you could keep your eyes and ears open. I'll certainly pay you well for your assistance."

Taking a long sip of her tea, Grace nodded. "Of course. I'm always more than happy to be of assistance to you, Booker."

~

After finishing their tea and engaging in brief pleasantries, Booker and Trinket saw Grace to the door.

"If you'll wait here, I'll retrieve some payment for your time," Booker said as he turned to the laboratory.

Grace shook her head. "No, that won't be necessary. It was payment enough to finally see where the great Booker Larkin lives. I must say, it did not disappoint. Your taste in decor is—" she glanced about at the eclectic furniture and wall furnishings. "Intriguing. Fits you just right."

He smiled and inclined his head. "I'm happy it meets with your approval."

"After knowing each other for so long, it's hard to believe this is my first time inside your home."

"Well, a visit was long overdue, then."

Grace stepped towards him, and he instinctively stumbled back, bumping into Trinket. He took hold of her arm, his grip desperate and tight. Holding back a sigh, she moved closer to him, doing her best to stay between him and the persistent night flower.

"We could make our visits more regular," Grace said. "I'd love to get a full tour. Perhaps we could start with the bedroom?"

Swallowing hard, Booker cleared his throat. "I'm sure that would be lovely, Grace, but I'm afraid I hardly make use of my room. It would be a very short and boring tour."

"Oh, I could help you get the most out of it, trust me."

"Forgive me, Grace, but Mr. Larkin has a patient arriving in a few minutes, and we must prepare for their arrival," Trinket said, edging herself further between the two.

Grace gave a scowl but relented nonetheless. Taking a step back towards the door, she shrugged. "Another time then. When there aren't so many clingy maids about."

"Thank you again, Grace," Booker said, his muscles still tense as he clutched Trinket's arm. "I do appreciate your help on such short notice."

"It's been fun," Grace said as she opened the door. She glanced over her shoulder and gave another alluring smile. "Though it could have been even more entertaining. Maybe next time."

The door shut, and Booker released a long breath before turning his eyes to Trinket. He gave her a weak smile. "Thank you."

She returned his smile with a teasing grin and patted his arm. "What are assistants for but to save you from infatuated women?"

"I mean, I can't blame her for being infatuated. I am quite the catch if you hadn't noticed."

Not wanting to feed his ego, she unlinked her arm from his and shook her head. "Oh, yes. You have all sorts of women falling over you. Well, not all sorts. Mostly dead."

Letting out a surprised laugh, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, if you want to get technical."

"I thought a brilliant doctor like yourself would."

His soft smile grew as he gazed at her. "I don't know what I'd do without you here to check my arrogance, my dear."

"I'm sure if Daphne could speak she'd gladly assist in that regard."

Booker's smile turned amused at the mention of Daphne. "Right. Did you expect her to just pull a flask out of her pocket like that?"

Laughing, Trinket shook her head and glanced down the hallway towards the kitchen. "No, I did not. She's really full of surprises, isn't she?"

"Wields kitchen knives like a pro, can make healing salves, keeps a flask on her person," he said, ticking each fact off on his fingers. "She's fascinating."

"Indeed she is."

Stroking his chin in thought, he let out a soft hum. "Maybe Grace was on to something with that artificial tongue idea. I'd love to hear Daphne's story."

"She can write, remember? So she could just pen it for you. But I believe that even if she could speak, she wouldn't be willing to divulge her past. She seems content to leave it behind her."

"Hmm, yes, that's true. Those running from their past do so often end up at my door."

A heavy feeling of guilt weighed down on Trinket's shoulders as she thought about the past she herself was keeping from him. He had shared so much with her, and she had only given him tiny tidbits, reluctantly at that. But she was still afraid to speak out loud the horrors she had committed. It was as if saying it would make it all real.

Images of blood splattered on a kitchen floor flashed through her mind.

A knife in her hand.

Merrill on the floor . . .

Murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer!

But it was real, spoken or unspoken.

Still, she wasn't ready to tell the man she cared for what she had done to the last person who had been so near to her heart. So she forced her guilt down, locking those haunting memories away.

You'll do it again.

Murrrrrdereeeeerrr.

"Ah, it's of no concern, anyhow," Booker said, pushing himself away from the wall and heading towards the laboratory. "I have a feeling her future is bound to be even more interesting than her past."

Trinket shrugged, ignoring the dark memories from her own past and focusing on her present. "Particularly if she continues to be employed by you."

He grinned. "I believe she'll be an indispensable addition to our little household. Though she could never trump my irreplaceable assistant."

With those words still lingering in the air, he disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

She clutched her skirts, a warm glow spreading through her chest. Irreplaceable. Was that true? She liked to hope so. Her worries that Booker would no longer have use for her once he found Benedict were still swimming through her head. But maybe she brought something to his life that his friend never had. Perhaps it wasn't just her assistance he needed. Maybe he wanted her companionship as well.

Delusional.

Forcing herself to ignore the voices and the fluttering in her stomach, she fetched the tray of tea and crumpets from the parlour and made her way into the kitchen. Only time would tell what would become of her situation here with Booker. In the meantime, she would focus on what was important:

Teas, crumpets, and vampires.