After a fitful night's sleep filled with unsettling thoughts of Booker dying by her own hand, Trinket woke and prepared herself for the day ahead. Her emotions were still in a tumultuous state, and the hundreds of spiders spinning webs along the banister as she made her way downstairs were not helping her focus. But she couldn't let these new feelings disrupt her work. She was Booker's assistant first and foremost. All other distractions had to be pushed aside.

Daphne was already making breakfast when Trinket entered the kitchen. The woman flashed her a cheerful smile and motioned to a plate of sliced cheese and bread.

"Thank you, Daphne," Trinket said, forcing herself to take a slice of bread more out of politeness than actual hunger. "Has Mr. Larkin come down yet?"

Daphne shook her head.

Fetching the kettle, Trinket made her way into the scullery to fill it with water. "I'm surprised. I thought he'd be pounding at my door as soon as the sun rose so that we could go out and learn more about this vampire."

Peering into the scullery, Daphne raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side.

"Oh, the patient from last night claims he was attacked by a vampire," Trinket said over the rushing sound of the water.

She turned the faucet off and returned to the kitchen as Daphne scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I agree. It does seem a tad preposterous," Trinket said, setting the kettle on the stove and making her way to the dresser. "But the bite marks on his neck were rather telling."

Daphne fingered her own neck, tracing the scarred tissue around her portiums where her gills were hidden and hydrated. She scrunched her lips up as she stared at Trinket skeptically.

Laughing softly, Trinket retrieved Booker's black tea as well as a jar of green tea from the dresser. "Well, Mr. Larkin isn't so convinced, either. As always, he's certain there's a logical explanation."

Nodding, Daphne scooped up some roasted potato wedges from the pan on the stove and set them on a plate. She pointed at Trinket with the greasy spoon.

"What do I think?" Trinket asked as she added tea leaves to the strainers she had placed over the teacups.

Daphne gave another nod.

Trinket shrugged, fetching the whistling kettle and setting it on the granite cutting board to let the water cool before pouring it over the leaves. "Honestly, I don't know what to think anymore. My life has been filled with so many bizarre things that, at this point, vampires don't seem all that ridiculous. However, if the creature that attacked the older gentleman from last night is indeed part of Benedict's plan, which is more than likely the case, I'm sure there is some sort of scientific explanation."

"Exactly. Which is why we must go out and find this explanation."

Booker was standing in the doorway, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. He beamed up at them and stepped into the kitchen.

"Shall we be off?" he asked Trinket as she finished pouring the water.

"But I just made tea," she said, gesturing to the now steaming cups.

Grabbing the cup of black tea, he drank it down in a single gulp, wincing as the hot water went down his throat. Trinket's eyes went wide, and she turned to Daphne who was watching Booker with something close to disgust.

He let out a rather strained sigh. "Invigorating, as always. Now come along, let's—ouch, ouch! Easy there!"

Daphne had taken hold of Booker's arm and was forcing him into a chair by the table. With no decorum, she pulled his jacket off and began to roll up his sleeve.

"What are—ah! Careful, please. This is one of the few shirts I have that isn't stained with blood or riddled with bullet holes," he objected as she continued to tug at his shirt. He turned to Trinket in desperation. "You hired her. Would you call her off, please?"

Chuckling as she sipped her tea, she shook her head. "I think she's only checking on your wound. Stop being such a child."

She was right. Daphne had rolled his sleeve up enough to reveal the sutured wound. It was somewhat red, but there didn't seem to be any real infection setting in.

Holding up a finger, Daphne went to the dresser to fetch more of the salve from the night before. She returned and scooped a generous amount out with her fingers, spreading it over Booker's arm.

"Where did you even get that stuff?" he asked as he tried to pull himself out of her grasp.

Daphne rolled her wrist through the air, and Booker looked to Trinket for translation.

"I'm assuming she made it," she said with a shrug.

"How does she know anything about medicine?" he asked, finally giving in and cooperating with Daphne.

"She's full of mystery."

"Clearly," he mumbled.

"Now, now, Mr. Larkin, I thought you liked mysteries."

He gave Trinket a withering glare, and she responded with a satisfied smile.

Once Daphne was finished with his arm, Booker threw his jacket back on and pulled Trinket towards the door, barely giving her time to don her coat. Winter was beginning to thaw, and she knew that soon it would be too warm for her thick coat. She would have to purchase a shawl for the damp, muddy transition weeks to come. Part of her was sad to leave winter behind. The season had brought along so much change and excitement. But as she gazed after Booker, who was practically running down Gainsborough Avenue in his rush to reach the city center, she couldn't help but wonder what new changes lay ahead.

Changes aren't always good, moron.

You, of all people, should know that.

Despite the voices' warnings, she couldn't keep her heart from racing excitedly. She had to force herself to put her musings aside.

Booker stopped and turned, apparently just realizing he had outpaced her. "Where do you think we should begin?" he asked as he waited for her to catch up.

"Well, judging by the old man's unbuckled belt, we should start with the night flowers."

He tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "Unbuckled belt?"

She nodded. "When he came in last night, his belt was unbuckled. I'm surprised his trousers weren't wrapped around his ankles by the time he reached us. I highly doubt he's as innocent as he claims."

"Hmm, interesting. Perhaps our 'vampire' is, in fact, a succubus?"

She scoffed. "You're vulgar, Booker."

"Just trying to be accurate. Come along, maybe we can catch Grace before she heads off to bed."

He reached for her arm but hesitated when his fingers were only inches from it. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and she could have sworn he was flustered. The idea seemed laughable, especially as he quickly tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Had she imagined it? But her own agitation was most certainly not imaginary. The warmth from his arm spread through her hand and into the rest of her body, sending her mind reeling.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

As if he'd have feelings for a psychotic killer.

Pathetic.

She swiftly pushed both her feelings and the voices aside, focusing on the road and taking care not to let the rats scurrying across the street trip her. Whether they were really there or not was a matter up for debate. But she was too tired to give it much thought.

They headed straight for Grace's apartment building, a dilapidated brick structure on Nightingale Lane. It was only a few streets down from the Clocktower, a convenient walking distance to a prime business spot for night flowers.

As Booker pounded on Grace's door at the top floor, Trinket took in the interior of the building. The walls had been whitewashed, but it must have been ages ago. There were dozens of clearly old stains marring the paint. The railing along the stairs was missing a big chunk in the middle, and there were so many fleas scurrying about, they almost looked like piles of moving dirt.

"Grace actually lives here?" she asked, watching as a rather large spider crawled across the ceiling.

"From what I hear, she's very good at her work," Booker said, concentrating on the door. "But prostitution just barely pays the bills. Add into that her drug habit, and this is likely all she can afford."

The spider released a long thread and lowered itself towards Trinket. She stepped back, bumping into Booker who put an arm around her shoulders before knocking again. Still, there was no answer.

"Surely she can't be that sound of a sleeper," he mumbled. Once more, he pounded on the door. "Grace! Grace, are you home?"

Someone in the room across the hall let off a string of filthy words, and Booker and Trinket exchanged a look. "Maybe we should try another time," she said. "If she's in that deep of a sleep, she probably will be in no state to answer your questions."

He stared at the door for a moment longer before heaving a sigh. "I suppose. Of course, she could be dead."

"Booker!"

"I'm just exploring all the possibilities. Tinkerfall is not exactly the safest place if you haven't noticed already. And the life expectancy of a night flower isn't all that high."

"I doubt she's dead. Maybe she didn't have much business last night and is out this morning."

"Possibly. Perhaps Gin knows where she is."

"Let's go find her. And maybe we'll hear something about the vampire."

They made their way back outside, listening in on conversations as they passed groups of servants. But it was all local gossip, with an occasional mention of the experimental corpses Booker had been hunting for weeks. Was the old man the first to be attacked by this vampire? Had he told no one about it? Or was a vampire considered commonplace after the most recent monstrosities that had been haunting the city?

"Well, this is utterly disappointing," Booker mumbled as they passed the Clocktower.

"To be fair, as far as folks around here know, there's still a madman butchering people and sewing them back up with animal parts," Trinket said. "It could take some time for this new danger to make itself known."

He sighed. "I suppose."

She patted his arm. "Cheer up, Mr. Larkin. I'm certain something will show up soon. You'll just have to be patient."

"Not my strong suit."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

A shrill whistle pierced the air as a group of police officers raced by them, nearly knocking them into a boy selling jokes. Booker met Trinket's gaze and raised his eyebrows, hardly able to contain his glee. Giving in, she followed his lead as he chased after the officers.

They ended up at the butcher's shop where a small crowd had gathered. The butcher was outside with an officer, rambling on almost incoherently while other officers carried out large burlap sacks from his shop.

"I swear to heaven on high, I have no idea how they got there," the butcher insisted, his words slurring together as his eyes darted to the sacks anxiously.

"Sir, please calm down," the police officer said, placing a hand on the man's arm.

The butcher pushed him away with more strength than his wiry frame suggested he was capable of. "Calm down? Calm down? How can I calm down when you have me pegged for a murderer?"

"Sir, please—"

"I don't know how they got there, but it wasn't me. Someone put them there, I swear. Good Lord, I swear!"

The man's voice cracked, and an unexpected sob escaped his lips. The officer called for backup from one of his fellow bobbies, and together the two grabbed hold of the butcher's arms. Realizing what was happening, the butcher began to struggle against them. Other officers came to assist, and soon they had the frantic man on the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back as he continued to insist he had done nothing wrong.

"What's going on?" Trinket asked Booker, her eyes trained on the sobbing and struggling man.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he said.

As the group of police officers fought to keep the butcher down, a short officer came out of the shop with yet another burlap sack. The butcher, still resisting arrest, kicked out his leg and managed to trip him. He stumbled but caught himself. The sack, however, slipped from his hands and landed on the ground. The force sent its contents tumbling into the street.

Trinket stifled a gasp and clutched Booker's arm. Lying only feet away from them was what appeared to be the lower jaw of a human. She had never seen one unattached from a head, but based on the shape and the teeth, she assumed that's what it was. As disturbing as such a sight was, it wasn't what caused a pit to settle in her stomach. No, what unnerved her was the color of the teeth.

Pure white.

Swallowing down her terror, she glanced up at Booker. His attention was still fixed on the body part as the clumsy police officer hurried to gather it back into the sack. Jaw clenched, Booker took a deep breath and turned his eyes to her.

"I'd say that's a worse fate than being eaten alive by a flesh-eating beetle," he said.

The rest of the crowd was whispering amongst themselves about who the victim could be and how long they thought the butcher had been selling them human meat. Servants joked about how horrified their employers would be to learn that their roast lamb may have, in fact, been supple human buttocks. More than one person turned a shade of green as they declared the city condemned to hellfire.

"Well, what did we expect?" said an older woman with a face like a pin cushion. "He was a butcher, after all. Can only go on murdering animals for so long before it turns you mad."

"Wonder who the poor thing was," said her younger companion who was taller than many of the men around her.

It wasn't even a question in Trinket's mind. She knew who it was. And she knew who had done this to him. From the look on Booker's face, he knew, too. She had suspected that the Mice had murdered the Resurrectionist to get him out of the way. But why had they torn him to pieces and sent him here? Why the need for such excessive cruelty towards both the Resurrectionist and the butcher?

"Booker—"

"Because they're the Dead Mice," he replied softly, tightening his grip on her arm. "Because they have something to prove. To me."

"So this is another warning?"

"I can only imagine. Why else would they make a scene like this? It's just like with Wotton."

Somehow, this seemed so much more morbid than Mr. Wotton's body hanging from a lamppost. Trinket's eyes caught on the butcher who had given up struggling and was now sobbing into the muddy ground.

"Why the butcher, though?" she asked.

"I suppose it made for a gruesome image. To see pieces of human flesh displayed beside the meat folks eat on a regular basis. It was sure to cause a commotion and garner attention."

She glanced up at him again. "Your attention."

He nodded slowly.

"Do you think they did this after we got away?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't say for certain. But that seems like a reasonable assumption."

With all the burlap sacks loaded into a cart, one of the officers locked the door to the shop and motioned for the others to follow. The men who were holding the butcher down pulled him up to his feet and pushed him through the crowd, trailing after the cart full of body parts.

"All right, all right, nothing to see," called out the one remaining officer as he tried to disperse the group of onlookers. "Go about your business. Meat sales are suspended until further notice."

"Blast it all. Where am I supposed to get my master's bacon now?" asked the pin cushion woman as she and her friend followed the direction of the officer.

Booker gazed at the shop for a moment longer before joining the others, taking Trinket with him. She couldn't help but steal anxious glances at him, unnerved by his stony silence as he stared ahead.

"Are you all right, Booker?" she asked.

Snapping out of his daze, he looked down at her and smiled. "Me? Of course. I'm not the one sliced into cutlets, now, am I? Come along. We still have to find Grace."