By the end of her first week in Booker's employ, Trinket's dresses were finished and her leg healed enough for her to engage in some much-needed house-cleaning. Though Booker didn't seem all that concerned with the state of his beautiful home, she was eager to get to work. Unfortunately, while scrubbing the floors and polishing the furniture in his abode was a far cry from the forced labor she'd endured in Elysium, the chores conjured up unwanted memories all the same.

Memories of ice-cold baths.

And drug-induced stupors.

And horrifying electricity racing through her body.

The bell at the front door went off, pulling her away from her nightmarish thoughts and back to reality. She gripped the dusting rag in her hand, taking in her surroundings as her pulse began to slow. Right. This wasn't Elysium. She was in a city called Tinkerfall. In the parlour of a strange young doctor.

Whose front bell was still ringing.

Putting aside her cleaning supplies, she hurried to the door and opened it to find a shabby little girl with light brown skin who couldn't have been older than eleven standing on the steps. Her gaze was sharp as she looked Trinket up and down. Though her eyes were a soft, warm amber, they were filled with cunning and intelligence.

"Booker hired another maid?" she asked, her voice both rough like rusted metal and smooth as honey.

"Yes? I mean, yes, he did," Trinket said, suddenly a tad unsure of herself under this child's scrutiny. "Would you like me to call for him?"

The girl placed her hands on her hips and tossed her tangled black hair. "Do you really think you can handle this job?" she asked, ignoring Trinket's question.

"Pardon me?"

"You seem too fragile for Booker."

"What?"

"He's not for the faint of heart."

"Gin?" Booker called from down the hallway.

The girl gave a snide grin before turning her attention to him. "Yep, it's me," she replied.

Booker appeared beside Trinket, and she stepped aside to let him speak with Gin. "Ah, I've been hoping you'd be by. Have you any leads for me?" he asked with a warm smile.

"Just this."

The girl passed Booker the remnants of a pigeon. Trinket swallowed down her revulsion as Booker took it and examined it closely. "Where did you find it?" he asked.

"Down by the Clocktower," Gin said. "Seemed like a lotta damage for a stray, so I thought maybe that wolf you've been goin' on about might've killed it."

"The injuries do seem a bit unusual. I'll have to take a closer look." He glanced up at the girl and smiled. "Thank you, Gin. I know I can always rely on you to bring me something worthwhile. Anyhow, have you met Trinket?"

Gin eyed her suspiciously. "Sure did. Can't believe you hired another maid. Thought after that last one you were done with 'em."

"So did I, but Trinket has proven quite useful."

"Really?" Gin looked her up and down once again. "I don't see it."

"Yes, well, most people don't see you for the feisty slip of a thing you are."

Gin grinned. "Not everyone is as smart as you, Booker." Her smile fell as she turned to Trinket and narrowed her eyes. "I should get goin'. I'll let you know if I hear or see anything interesting."

"I thank you, Gin."

The urchin raised an eyebrow at Trinket and shook her head before taking off. Trinket closed the door and frowned at Booker's teasing grin.

"Don't be too offended," he said. "Gin doesn't take to people all that easily. You have to win her respect and affection."

"Which you clearly have." She eyed the dead pigeon in his hand. "What are you going to do with that?"

Holding the carcass up, he considered it thoughtfully. "I suppose I'll look it over more thoroughly. While I find it strange a hungry wolf would leave behind so much of its meal, I must admit the bite marks don't seem like they came from an ordinary animal."

"Perhaps it got scared off by some passerby."

"Possibly."

Remembering Booker's comment about the beast having a creator, she added, "Or maybe someone called it back home."

A sly smile pulled at Booker's lips as he turned his eyes to her. "Yes. Maybe so. I do like the way you think, Trinket."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, and for some reason it made her a tad uneasy. But then he shook his head and snapped out of his daze. His fingers fidgeted as he returned his attention to the pigeon.

"Whatever the case is, I'll examine this later."

Turning to the parlour doorway, he tossed the dead animal onto the table by the settee and grabbed his coat and hat. She stared at him in disbelief as he tugged his coat on and opened the door.

"First, though, I have an errand to run. I'll return shortly."

The door slammed shut, and she was left alone with the dead pigeon. She hesitated before approaching the table and gingerly nudging the limp body with her dusting rag. The animal's head lolled to the side, its beak open so that she could see its tiny tongue sticking out. Staring at it dumbly, she swallowed and headed into the hallway. She'd finish dusting after Booker returned and removed the bird himself.

~

Booker did eventually return, and he brought the pigeon with him into the basement where he spent most of his time. Once Trinket finished cleaning the parlour and thoroughly scoured the table where the bird had sat for far too long in her opinion, it was nearly dinnertime. Taking a deep breath, she made her way into the kitchen to try her hand at making a stew.

She had yet to attempt to make anything more than melted cheese on toast, but she'd been studying the cookbooks in the kitchen and felt relatively confident that she could succeed with a simple stew. As he had promised, Booker supplied her with ample funds to buy whatever supplies she needed. She had used it to stock both the wet and dry larders with the essentials required for a decent meal.

With the recipe book propped up on the table, she set about preparing the stew. Alas, aside from her lack of experience in the kitchen, there were a number of flies buzzing about her head, making it impossible to concentrate. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths in an attempt to will them away, but they would not relent. As she tried to focus on the recipe, the words on the page swirled together and her pulse began to race.

"They're not there. Just ignore them," she said to herself, batting at a rather large fly.

Like you ignore us?

She squeezed her eyes shut again. "They're not real. Ignore them."

Remember the last time? How you ruined that lovely picnic?

Her heart clenched as the memory of sunshine and smiles flashed through her mind, a beautiful afternoon that was spoiled by her inability to control her condition.

"Stop it," she said through gritted teeth.

You ruin everything.

You're a disaster.

A menace.

Cruel laughter echoed in her head, and the sound of it caused her patience to snap.

"Be quiet!" she shouted as she swatted at the flies like the maniac she was.

The voices continued to insult and mock her as she attacked the imaginary pests that seemed to grow in number with each attempt to destroy them. It was only when she heard a sizzling noise coming from the stove that she was able to pull herself together enough to realize the stew was bubbling over. Grabbing some rags, she picked up the pot and raced into the scullery, tossing the entire thing into the sink. The room was engulfed in steam with a loud hiss.

"Blasted flies," she mumbled, waving the steam away.

You really are a disaster.

"Good Lord, what's happening in here?"

She glanced back and found Booker peering in from the kitchen, dressed as if he were on his way out. She turned to the sink again as he approached. "I was attempting to make a stew for dinner, but that didn't exactly work out," she said, gesturing to the still steaming pot.

He leaned over her shoulder to get a better look and laughed. "Well, it's certainly not inedible, but it does seem a bit overcooked."

"I'm sorry. I know I haven't been doing very well with regard to meals."

"I hardly eat anyhow. Your crumpets and toast have been sufficient for me. Besides, I was just about to go out to the Clocktower. We can dine there tonight."

She turned to him, her brow furrowed. "'We'?"

"Of course. I can't have you stuck here eating burnt stew now, can I? What sort of an employer would I be if I allowed that?"

"A normal one?"

Clearly resisting a smile, Booker gestured for her to follow him. "Come, I insist."

She trotted after him, glancing back at the scullery filled with steam. "But what about the mess I made? I should really clean it up and do something with the stew."

After donning his coat and hat, Booker handed her her coat and waved away her concerns. "No need."

Taking her arm and linking it with his own, he brought her outside and called out to a young urchin boy on the opposite side of the street. The boy came scurrying over, and she recognized him as Madison.

"Yes, sir?" the boy panted.

"Is Gin about?" Booker asked.

"Yes, sir, just down the street playing cards."

"Good. Go get her and a few more of your mates. There's some stew in the scullery. A tad burnt but edible, I'm sure. Have Gin lock up when you leave."

"Yes, sir!" Madison said as he ran off.

"Is it wise to let them in your house like that?" Trinket asked as Booker led her up the street towards the center. "You're not worried they'll rob you?"

"No, especially not with Gin around," he said. "I've earned the loyalty of these children. They'd never take anything from me that I did not offer them. Come on. I can't wait for you to experience the fine dining the Clocktower is known for."

~

A serving girl set two bowls of stew before them. "Enjoy," she said before hurrying off to serve another table.

Trinket eyed the stew suspiciously. It was thick and lumpy and had an odd green tinge to it. The smell rising from the bowl was only a little more appetizing than her own attempt at a meal had been.

Turning her gaze to Booker, she cocked an eyebrow, and he gave a teasing smile. "All right, so perhaps it's not exactly fine dining," he said. "But it tastes better than it looks, I assure you."

Leaving the stew untouched, she gazed about at her surroundings. Booker had explained to her on the way over that the Clocktower was an alehouse that doubled as an inn, pointing out the large clock that had been built into the stone front above a sign advertising the establishment. According to him, the man who originally opened the alehouse had been obsessed with clocks and had a number of them decorating the interior, all from different countries and makers. Many of them still adorned the walls, even years after he'd died and new owners bought the place.

It was warm and smoky inside, a thick haze engulfing those dining there. She disliked the effect. It reminded her of the days and nights she'd spent in a perpetual fog in Elysium.

"You really come here to eat?" she asked, squinting against the sting of the smoke.

"You grow accustomed to the atmosphere," Booker said. "And I find I enjoy the lively conversation."

She took another look around the room. There were so many odd characters milling about. Men with tattoos all up their arms, night flowers propositioning potential customers, drunk folks stumbling over chairs. And then she caught a glimpse of a woman with what looked like a mechanical hand. Worried she was seeing things again, she returned her attention to her stew without saying a word.

"Ah, Orpha, how are you tonight?" Booker said to a woman passing their table.

She gave a sharp smirk as she lifted her chin up high to glare down at him. "You're not getting me caught up in this wolf business, Booker Larkin. Last time I tried to get information for you, I nearly lost a finger."

"Come now, you know I could've fixed you right up if any harm was done."

"Fingers and hands, perhaps, but not slit throats. Find yourself another informant, Dr. Larkin."

Despite her firm refusal, she shot Booker a mischievous smile before sauntering off to a table of loud, drunk men and sitting herself in the lap of the most inebriated one of the bunch.

Trinket turned to Booker and raised her eyebrows. "So it's not the food you come here for," she said.

Shrugging, he stirred his stew. "I do have to eat, but I'll confess that I prefer the Clocktower for its talkative patrons. Some of the more notorious folks find their way here, as do bored servants. It's one of the prime locations for collecting information."

"Is collecting information so dangerous that people may lose body parts?"

He grinned. "Information is a valuable commodity, my dear. People lose their lives over it."

She peered down at her stew and dared to try it. He was right. It didn't taste as bad as it looked. But it was certainly not fine dining.

After another spoonful, she turned to Booker again. "So is that what Gin does? Brings you information?"

"Yes, she's my best source. The best pickpocket, too, I might add."

"How many sources do you have?"

"Oh, plenty. After two years here, I've learned my way around the servants and street folk quite well. I'm very charming and persuasive."

He gave her a wink.

"So you have mutant wolves wandering about the city often enough that you need that many informants?" she asked.

"No, the Wolf only showed up shortly before I stumbled upon you. Tinkerfall isn't known so much for its bizarre happenings as it is its sordid reputation." He gestured to the crowd around them. "As you can see, it's a breeding ground for all sorts of colorful characters."

She scanned the room and again caught sight of the woman with the mechanical hand. Hesitating, she leaned towards Booker. "When you say bizarre happenings—"

There was a shout from a nearby table, followed by laughter and howls as a pale, mousy young woman with a bandaged wrist stormed over to the other side of the room. She sat at an empty table, her face growing redder with every taunting howl that came from her rowdy friends.

Booker caught Trinket's eye and raised his brows excitedly before cocking his head in the girl's direction. They left their stew behind and made their way over to the mousy girl who was now glaring out the window.

"Good evening, miss. Mind if we join you?" Booker asked as he and Trinket slid into the empty chairs at her table.

The girl jumped when he spoke and quickly averted her gaze.

"I couldn't help but overhear the howls coming from your friends," he continued. "By any chance, does their teasing have something to do with the rumors about a wolf being here in Tinkerfall?"

She nodded slowly, peering at them both nervously.

"Have you seen this wolf?"

Hesitating, she darted her eyes towards her friends who had resumed their drinking. Turning back to Booker, she gave another nod.

He leaned forward. "If you don't mind, I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

The girl looked like she was about to faint, but after a moment, she swallowed hard and folded her hands on the table in front of her. "Very well," she said, her voice as mousy as her appearance. "What would you like to know?"

"What's your name?" Booker began.

"Fidelia."

"Fidelia, when did you see this wolf?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

"Not too far from here. I was going home after having supper. That's why they," she motioned to the group she had left, "don't believe me. They think I was tipsy and seeing things. But I swear I wasn't!"

"Oh, trust me, I believe you," Booker reassured her. "What happened when you saw it?"

"Well, it came out of an alley and spooked me. I tripped over my skirts trying to escape from it, and in that moment it grabbed hold of my wrist. I managed to pull away, but it did a great deal of damage."

Booker nodded at her bandaged arm. "May I?"

She held out her hand, and he took it gently. He unwrapped the bandaging to reveal a red gash that looked more like a slice from a knife than a bite from a wolf. Trinket watched the fascination grow in Booker's eyes. It seemed to be all he could do to keep from shouting in triumph.

"Was this an ordinary wolf, Fidelia?" he asked, his voice low as he examined her wounded wrist.

Fidelia's eyes grew large, and there was a sudden eagerness in her expression, as if this were the first time someone had taken her seriously. "No, sir, it wasn't," she said, leaning in closer. "This wolf was surely some demonic creature. Its teeth shone like metal. And when it attacked me, it was like being stabbed with a knife."

Booker bit his lip, suppressing a smile. He began to wrap the girl's wrist up while mumbling to himself, "What if there's more than one?"

Trinket hesitated before addressing the girl. "Did you notice the way the wolf moved?" she asked.

Fidelia blinked, as though surprised by the question. "The way it moved?" she repeated.

"Its gait, how it walked. Did something seem off about it?"

Pursing her lips, Fidelia cast her eyes upward. "Actually, now that you mention it, it did appear to be limping."

"As if it were injured?"

"Yes. It appeared to be having trouble with one of its back legs."

Trinket faced Booker who was watching her curiously. "It's the same one," she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"The wolf that attacked me, you shot it," she continued. "In its right hind leg. If the wolf she encountered was limping, chances are it's the same one you put a bullet in."

Booker did not speak. Rather, he gazed at her thoughtfully, his eyes filled with wonder. It made her a bit uncomfortable to have him staring at her so intently. Turning her face away, she swallowed a knot in her throat, and Booker returned his attention to Fidelia.

"I thank you, miss," he said. "You have been a great help."

He pulled two pounds out of his breast pocket and handed the money to the girl. Her eyes bulged at the sight of the bills, and she looked up at him in awe. "Thank you," she whispered.

Smiling, he rose from his seat and beckoned Trinket to follow. She did so, throwing a single glance back at the dumbstruck girl before heading outside.

It had apparently begun to snow while they were dining. The street was dark but for the gaslamps that struggled to cast their light through the thick flurries.

"You are very observant," Booker said as she struggled to keep up with his pace.

"Yes, I am," she agreed.

He stopped abruptly to face her, and she nearly collided with him. His gaze was intense and probing. "Why?"

"Why am I so observant?"

"Yes."

She thought for a moment, trying to form an answer that would not give away her condition. "Out of necessity," she replied matter-of-factly.

Booker stood still, his stare boring through her. She refused to break her steady eye contact, though, not wanting him to be able to see any of the secrets she was hiding from him. The many horrible, terrible secrets.

He finally relented and turned back to the street, heaving a sigh. "You should come to dinner with me more often," he said as he continued on towards home. "I could use your keen eye."

Letting out a long breath, she followed after him. "If that's what you want, Mr. Larkin."