Booker led Trinket to her room, and though it wasn't as large as the parlour, it was certainly nothing to sneer at. The wallpaper was a cheery peach color with delicate designs of vines and flowers, and heavy green drapes decorated a bay window overlooking the street. It was furnished, too. A washbasin sat atop a nightstand situated beside a cast-iron bed made up with soft, colorful blankets. There was also a standing mirror, a writing desk, a bookcase, and a wardrobe, all of which were covered in dust and cobwebs.

"Feel free to redecorate as you see fit," Booker said, leaning against the doorframe. "If there's anything you need, be sure to ask. I'll have no trouble supplying you with whatever you may require in order to fulfill your duties."

"Do you have any specific duties in mind?" she asked, remembering that she wasn't all that educated in what a servant was expected to do.

Booker furrowed his brow. "Well, I suppose keeping the place neat and orderly would make sense. Answering the door, receiving correspondences. And of course, tea and crumpets."

He gave her a teasing smile.

"When do you normally take your tea?" she asked.

"The morning. And occasionally the evening. And at odd hours during the day. Ah, and I probably should have warned you that there may be times when I'll have late-night visitors. Will you be able to see to them when I call for you?"

Late-night visitors sounded very much like night flowers, but she wasn't one to judge. "Of course. So shall I set about my chores now?"

"No, no, you need to recuperate a bit longer. Breakfast and tea are all you have to worry about for the time being. Once I've determined that your leg has healed properly, then you can go about . . . maiding? Serving?"

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh as he fumbled for the right word.

With a quick shake of his head, he smiled and said, "Anyhow, please, make yourself at home."

He closed the door, leaving her alone to take in the luxuries around her. Breathing in deeply, she lowered herself onto the bed. The mattress seemed to be of horsehair—quite a change from the straw-filled one she'd become so accustomed to. And the blankets were warm and clean, not a stain to be found on them. There was even more than one pillow. Burying her head in the bedding, she let out a content sigh. How had her luck changed so suddenly?

It seemed too good to be true.

~

Apparently the excitement of the morning caught up with her, as she drifted off into a fitful sleep only to be woken by birds chirping outside. She squinted and rolled over to find the rising sun peeking through the window.

With a gasp, she bolted upright. No! Had she actually slept through the entire day? What sort of useless maid was she?

Scrambling off the bed and ignoring the splitting pain in her leg, she moved to rush down to the kitchen when she noticed something hanging over the standing mirror. It looked like a dress. Reaching up to remove a piece of paper attached to it, she found a message from Booker. His handwriting was spiky and messy, as if his words came to him faster than his pen could keep up:

A gentleman such as myself cannot allow his help to suffer in rags.

A smile tugged at her lips as she turned back to the mirror and the fine dress. It seemed extravagant for a maid, but who was she to argue with her new employer?

She glanced down at her filthy palms and then over at the washbasin that Booker had apparently filled while she was asleep. How had she not heard him come in? And why was he doing her job? Nevertheless, she didn't want to sully such a lovely garment with the grime and dirt from Elysium. So, limping over to the nightstand, she rolled up her sleeves and dipped her hands into the cold water.

It didn't take long for it to turn a murky brown as she scrubbed at her arms and neck and face. What she really needed was a proper bath, but this would have to do until she was more familiar with the layout of the house.

When she was as clean as she was going to get, she returned to the standing mirror and stared at the silk dress. Looking down at the rags she was wearing, she realized that, aside from her drawers, she didn't even have proper undergarments. Would it be unseemly to wear such a beautiful outfit in her current state?

"Well, what other choice do I have?" she mumbled.

With more than a little hesitation, she slipped off her dark brown dress and tried to avoid catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Alas, despite her efforts, her eyes were drawn to the reflected image of her emaciated body covered in cuts and bruises, some faded, some still fresh. Gritting her teeth, she hurriedly donned her new apparel and forced down the memories her scars conjured up, focusing instead on the comely dress Booker had given her. Though somewhat on the large side, it fit her well enough. The silk fabric was a light blue with broad, dark stripes. The cuirass bodice and fitted sleeves were quite fashionable, just like the ones she used to wear.

She smiled sadly at her reflection. How far away that life felt now.

You only have yourself to blame.

Sighing, she turned her attention to her snarled, greasy hair and attempted to comb her fingers through it. Would she ever get the knots out? What if she had to cut it? Her mother would be aghast at such a suggestion.

Your mother doesn't care.

Wasn't that the truth. Still, Trinket liked her hair long and hoped it wasn't beyond repair.

Accepting that there wasn't any more she could do to soften her appearance, she sat on the edge of the bed to lace up her boots, wincing as the cracked leather scraped against her bandaged calf. Then, taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet and hobbled out the door, making her way down the stairs and towards the kitchen.

She went right to work boiling water and warming up the crumpets from yesterday's breakfast. As she placed the tea on the table to steep, Booker entered the room, tying his cravat and adjusting his morning jacket. A shadow of a smile flickered across his face.

"Ah, it fits," he said, referring to the dress. "A tad large, perhaps. Still, I'm happy to see I wasn't too far off in my measurements."

"I thank you for your generosity, Mr. Larkin. However, it really wasn't necessary," she said as she scooped the crumpets up and placed them on a plate. "It's a beautiful dress, but I don't know how practical it will be for scrubbing floors and cleaning pots and pans."

"As I told you yesterday, I don't want you to do any hard labor until your leg has healed. Besides, this is only a temporary outfit. We'll go to the tailor today and order new dresses. When they come in, he can fit this one to your actual measurements."

Her stomach clenched at the thought of going out in public again. "Mr. Larkin, I cannot allow you to spend any more money on me."

"You can't? Why not?"

She hesitated. While she knew she was in no position to refuse even charity, she felt uncomfortable accepting such unusual kindness. It made her worry that this doctor might have other plans for her.

As if guessing her thoughts, Booker quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not a philanthropist, my dear. You seem to be under the impression that I'm either doing this out of the goodness of my heart or because of some carnal desire."

Swallowing hard, she averted her gaze.

"I assure you, Miss Trinket," he continued, "that while I am not a cad, I'm most certainly not a saint. I'm doing all of this to make it easier for you to perform your duties, which, in turn, will make my life easier. See? It all benefits me in some way."

She dared to meet his eyes. While there didn't seem to be any sort of lechery behind his gaze, there was something she couldn't quite name. Something chaotic and curious. And perhaps a bit mad.

But who was she to judge madness?

Booker took a bite of a crumpet and continued, "Besides, my home is not set up for housing females, if you haven't noticed. My other maids brought their own accessories. I have not the slightest clue what you may require in your day-to-day life. I'm a good employer, Miss Trinket. I supply my help with what they need."

After staring at him for a moment longer, she picked up the plate of crumpets and raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't the employer wait for the maid to formally serve breakfast?"

Another twitch of a smile. Nodding, he wiped his hands clean. "Very true. I will do as I should and wait in the dining room."

He exited through the door connecting the kitchen to the dining room. She watched him go, slightly amused and mildly concerned. What kind of employer was this Booker Larkin? Was working for him really the wisest decision?

Letting out a long breath, she gathered the tea and crumpets onto a platter and managed to bring them into the dining room despite her aching leg. Booker was sitting at the table, flipping through a small book that he put aside as she set the tray down. He snatched up a crumpet and motioned to the chair across from him.

"Please, sit," he said.

"As far as I've ever known, sir, servants do not eat with the master of the house," she said, standing politely to the side with her hands folded before her skirt.

He made a face as he waved the crumpet in the air. "Even in the short time we've been acquainted, have you not realized yet that I don't care much for decorum and normality?"

She couldn't argue there. Taking a seat, she accepted the crumpet Booker held out to her, nibbling at it gingerly.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, handing her a cup of tea.

She laid down her crumpet and took the cup from him. "Well enough. I'm terribly sorry about oversleeping, though. I promise it won't happen again."

"You're still my patient, Miss Trinket. I'm glad you had time to rest. That leg of yours needs to heal. But you must have been cold. I didn't even think to light the fireplace. My apologies."

She took a sip of tea and lifted her gaze to him. "Oh, it's fine, I'm—"

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going wide at the sight of a very large spider crawling up Booker's arm.

"You're what?" Booker asked, furrowing his brow. "Trinket?"

Quickly schooling her expression into indifference, she tried to focus on his face, but she couldn't keep her gaze from wandering to the spider now perched on his shoulder. Booker didn't seem to notice it, though, so, ignoring the arachnid herself, she continued to sip her tea as she gathered her thoughts in order to respond to his question.

"I'm not so fragile as to be inconvenienced by a winter draft," she said, setting her attention on the lacey tablecloth.

There were more spiders now, climbing up the table legs and over the tray and crumpets, leaving trails of sticky thread in their wake. They just kept coming and coming, swarming the room until the entire table seemed to be made up of spiders. Nevertheless, she maintained an unfazed demeanour, drinking her tea and nibbling on her crumpet.

"Well, tonight we'll be sure to light it," Booker said. "I wouldn't want you to catch cold."

"Of course," she said, trying to keep from staring at the spider spinning a web in his hair.

"After breakfast, perhaps we can head back to the center to get you the supplies you'll require. You may object to me spending money on you, but I insist. There's no need to make a spectacle of yourself in those rags you came in."

She dutifully concentrated on her breakfast despite the tiny legs she felt scurrying up her skirt. "Very well. But I should at least clean up in the kitchen before we leave. Even if I am your patient, I'm also your maid."

"Fine, fine. I have a few things to attend to myself, so let's meet in the parlour at say, oh, ten o'clock?"

"Sounds very good, sir."

They finished their breakfast, and as Booker withdrew into the hallway, she gathered the dirty dishes and escaped into the kitchen, relieved to be leaving the spider-infested room behind.

Had Booker noticed? Did he suspect something was off? Or was she still as good at pretending as she'd been back home?

Not good enough to avoid being sent to Elysium, though.

She squeezed her eyes shut and dumped the dishes into the scullery sink, turning on the faucets to drown out the voices.

~

She was in the parlour before ten, having cleaned the dishes and the stovetop, as well as familiarizing herself with most of the kitchen. It was quite lacking with regard to food, save for some old butter, stale bread, and moldy cheese. She'd have to talk to Booker about going out to buy groceries.

Booker arrived just as the clock announced the tenth hour. He was tugging on his jacket, seeming slightly ruffled and distracted. There was a spot of what looked like grease on the bridge of his nose, and as he came closer, she noticed bits of it on his fingertips as well.

"Ready to go?" he asked, buttoning his jacket up.

She cast her eyes downward and cleared her throat while rubbing her own nose. He seemed to take the hint and peered into one of the hanging mirrors. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped away the smudge and cleaned his fingers. Then, without a word, he donned his coat and hat and helped her into her own coat. Though reluctant to be heading off into the crowds once more, she cooperated, and with a reassuring smile, Booker offered her his arm and led her out into the slums where a hansom cab was waiting for them.

"I think I'm fine to walk, Mr. Larkin," she said as they approached the vehicle.

"Miss Trinket, may I remind you who the doctor is here?" Booker responded, handing her inside.

They drove through the slums and onward into the city center without much conversation. She gazed about the streets, observing her new home. It was a sad, dirty place. Brazen night flowers marched up and down the cold streets, advertising to the men walking past them while urchins dipped their fingers into the pockets of clearly intoxicated passerby.

Tinkerfall was nothing like her hometown. There was a pervading sense of sleaze and underhandedness that permeated the air here. It was a tad unnerving. And, if she were being completely honest, a little exciting. What would her life here be like? Certainly better than Elysium.

They pulled up to the tailor's shop, and as they stepped out of the cab, Booker took her arm and gently guided her around a crumpled up body on the side of the road. Whether the man was drunk or dead, she did not know. She hoped the former.

"Mr. Larkin, you're back," said the tailor as they entered his shop.

He was a pale, ferret-like man, his dark hair parted down the middle in a way that mirrored the well-waxed mustache above his lip. The sight of the facial hair sent a slight shiver through Trinket's bones, but she made a concerted effort to remain expressionless.

"I see you took my advice and brought the young lady in for measuring," the tailor went on, looking her up and down before turning his attention to Booker. "Your cousin, perhaps?"

"Employee," Booker replied. "And yes, it seems my eye for size, though impressive, is not exact. If you could take her measurements, we'd like to order a few more dresses, and once those come in, we'll return to have this one fitted."

The tailor's eyes narrowed slightly, but he quickly pasted on a tight smile and nodded. "Very good. Why don't you and the young lady peruse our fabrics while I get my supplies."

As the ferrety man disappeared into the back, Booker turned to her and raised his eyebrows. "See? If you're going to work for me, you need to be immune to the judgemental stares. Anyhow, we should order at least four different dresses, so let's find some fabric you like."

He wandered over to the silks and satins, and she reluctantly followed. "Four dresses? Mr. Larkin, I believe it's highly unusual for an employer to purchase his maid so many outfits, particularly ones made of such fine material."

"Well, I'm a highly unusual employer. What do you think of this color?"

She grimaced at the obnoxiously bright green bolt of satin he was holding. "A tad much."

Shrugging, he set the bolt down and picked up another, this one a deep crimson. "What about this? Matches the parlour."

"Mr. Larkin, really, this doesn't feel right."

"The crimson?"

"No, you spending all this money on me."

He let out a sigh and lowered the bolt of silk. "Miss Trinket, as I informed you earlier, all of my other maids came with their own supplies. Well, all but one, and to be fair, I also supplied her with new clothes."

"Ones made of silk?"

"She preferred trousers, actually. My point is, I take care of those I employ. I'm not a miser."

"But why such fine dresses? Wouldn't a cotton frock be far more sensible for a maid?"

"Why does it bother you so much?"

She took a sharp breath as he met her eyes, his gaze unwavering. Resisting the urge to swallow, she considered the question. Why did it bother her? Was it because she was eager to leave her old life behind? Did she resent high-class living after all that time in Elysium? No, that wasn't it. In fact, she felt at home in this lovely though ill-fitting dress. Was it guilt? Maybe. She really didn't deserve such kind treatment after all the horrible things she'd done.

But as she continued to gaze into Booker's inquisitive eyes, she realized that, more than anything, it was fear. Fear that the reason he wanted her in this upper-class garb was because he knew who she was, where she was from, the sins she had committed.

When she didn't respond to his query, Booker softened his expression and leaned in closer. "I just feel like you're more suited to this sort of clothing."

Every nerve hummed with anxiety. "And why is that?"

He shrugged. "Something about your manner, I suppose? You have a rather refined look to you, even with all the grime and rags."

Her heart skipped a beat, terror rising as she imagined what would happen if this man learned her true identity. What would he do? Would he send her home? Or back to Elysium?

Apparently sensing her panic, he drew nearer and whispered, "Miss Trinket, I promise you I mean no harm. They're only dresses. But if they cause you this much distress, then I'll gladly relent and let you choose whatever common outfit you'd like. I was only trying to make you more comfortable in my home."

Despite the formality, there was a glimmer of warmth behind his words. She met his eyes once more, still unable to uncover what he knew about her. But maybe that was a good thing? Maybe it meant he was unaware of the truth. Maybe he really was just being kind and she was so unaccustomed to such treatment, she was mistaking it for something more sinister.

Exhaling softly, she brushed her fingers against a bolt of pale blue satin. "I'm more partial to blues. And sometimes purples, if they're dark enough."

Booker gave a crooked grin and reached for the fabric. "Well, maybe we should compromise then. Two proper dresses, one from this and perhaps," he laid a hand on a midnight blue silk, "this? And then we'll have two cotton frocks made up that are more suitable for work."

She smiled and nodded. "Sounds fair enough."

"If the young lady would come this way," called out the tailor as he emerged from the back.

While her measurements were taken and the order placed, Booker slipped away. She tried to focus on standing still, lest she be stabbed by the tailor's pins. But as she avoided the man's scrutinizing gaze, her eyes fell upon a newspaper tucked into his pocket. Her heart nearly stopped when she caught a glimpse of the date.

A year. An entire year had gone by since she'd been sent to Elysium.

Her body went cold. A year. A year away from home. A year of abuse and torture.

A year without him.

She swallowed hard, holding back the tears pricking at her eyes. Luckily, Booker returned to distract her, a lovely wool frock coat in his hands. As she stepped down from the stool on which she'd been standing, he held the coat up.

"I think you'd have to agree that this is not frivolity but, in fact, a necessity," he said before she could even try to argue. "We're in the middle of winter. You can't trudge about the streets in that sad excuse for a coat."

Pushing aside the panic and grief building in her chest from the sudden realization of how much time had passed since her imprisonment, she removed her coat from Elysium and allowed him to help her into the new one.

"Much more fitting," he said, tossing the old one over the head of a mannequin.

She drew her brows together, staring at the ragged coat. "Mr. Lar—"

"Allow me to pay you for your fine services, my good sir," Booker said to the tailor, sweeping past her and her objections.

As he settled accounts with the shopkeeper, she mindlessly fingered the frock coat. Did she deserve this? Did she deserve any of this? Even after a year of repenting of her sins?

You can never repent for what you did.

Monster.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she gave her head a quick shake. No. She had to start anew. She couldn't keep dwelling on the past.

And yet, the image of his blood-stained body was still burned into her memory.

"It won't happen again," she whispered.

She'd make certain of it.

~

"All right, my dear," Booker said as they left the shop, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. "I'd say our next stop should be the cobbler. And I'm not saying that as your benevolent employer, I'm demanding it as your doctor. Those boots of yours are going to do a number on your feet. They must be replaced immediately."

The cobbler treated them in the same manner as the tailor had, slyly trying to discern what exactly their relationship was. The expert way in which Booker deflected his questions made Trinket think he'd had some experience in being the center of gossip. Was it because he had a reputation as a doctor of treating less-than-savory characters? Or was he involved in more than just tending to wounds and fevers?

"Why would I need two pairs?" she asked as Booker had the cobbler wrap up a second pair of boots identical to the black leather ones now on her feet.

"What if you ruin this pair and need a back-up?" he said.

"How would I ruin them?"

He smirked. "You'd be surprised around here."

Once they'd received and paid for the second pair, Booker took her old boots and tucked them behind one of the displays before escorting her out of the shop.

"Aren't you going to get in trouble doing that?" she said as she glanced over her shoulder, half expecting the cobbler to come chasing after them.

"I'm a bit of an expert in trouble, so believe me when I say that discarding old clothes in display windows will not send me to the gallows."

Somehow that wasn't all that comforting.

Booker hesitated as they stopped in front of the next shop over. His cheeks coloring slightly, he cleared his throat and turned to her with a strained smile. "Perhaps it would be best if you went in alone for this one. I'll wait out here, find something with which to occupy myself."

She nodded as he placed a generous amount of money in her hand, though she had to wonder why this confident gentleman had suddenly become so squirmy. Did a former flame work here? Or someone he'd wronged in the past? Whatever the reason, she made her way into the shop without questioning him, leaving him to linger outside. However, upon entering the store, she quickly realized why he'd been acting so out of character. The store was filled with women's accessories and unmentionables. She chuckled to herself, glad to see there was something that unnerved the irritatingly collected doctor.

"Can I help you, miss?" asked a finely dressed woman with skin as dark as night and a warm, welcoming smile.

"Oh, ah, yes," Trinket stammered, crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly very aware of her shabby appearance. "I've recently moved here and am in need of a few personal items."

The woman's smile grew even warmer as she gently took Trinket's arm and guided her further into the shop. "I'll be happy to assist you. Come right this way."

With the help of the friendly shopkeeper, Trinket purchased several black stockings, three sets of chemises and drawers, two petticoats, and a nightdress and robe. She also bought a brush and comb along with some hairpins, swearing to herself that she'd spend the night untangling her greasy hair.

Stepping back outside, she looked about for Booker and found him listening attentively to a conversation being held by a group of servants. Not wanting to startle him, she approached slowly, clearing her throat to catch his attention. Without taking his eyes off the small crowd, he took her by the shoulders and drew her to his side, placing a finger to his lips.

"Most horrible sight I've ever seen," said an older servant, his voice like a smoking room. "Cut limb from limb."

"Don't you mean torn?" asked a rosy-cheeked woman who closely resembled a pumpkin.

"No, I mean cut. His arms and legs were sliced through."

"Do you think it was the Mice?" a wispy young woman asked nervously.

"No, this was too messy. The limbs were cut but all haphazard-like. Looked to be the work of an animal," the older man continued.

"What animal could kill someone like that?" the pumpkin woman asked.

"My sister said she saw a wolf wandering about the other night," a freckled girl with braids said. "Scared the life out of her. But what frightened her more than anything was when it bared its teeth at her. She said the teeth glowed."

"Like a lantern?" the wispy girl asked.

"Like a knife."

Goose pimples ran down Trinket's arms as she recalled the metallic teeth of the wolf in the alley.

"I swear, these streets get more dangerous every day," the pumpkin lady said. "Thugs, thieves, and now wolves with mouths full of knives. Ridiculous!"

The others mumbled and nodded their agreement as they parted ways and went on with their shopping. Booker quickly followed after the freckled girl, bringing Trinket with him.

"Miss, if you have a moment," he called out.

The girl jumped and spun around on her heel. Her eyes darted between the two of them before she gave a slow nod.

"Where was it your sister saw this wolf?" Booker asked.

Averting her gaze, the girl mumbled, "Oh, I don't know that it was true. Our folks say she was seeing things."

"I didn't ask if your parents believed it was true, I asked for a location."

She bit her lip in thought. "I believe she said it was by the stationer. She was headed home from work real late because the Clocktower was short-staffed that night."

Booker gave a quick smile and tipped his hat. "I thank you, my dear."

Steering Trinket back the way they'd come, he tightened his grip on her shoulder. "You heard all that?" he said so only she could hear.

"I did," she replied.

He hailed another cab. "You know, I just recalled that I'm in desperate need of a new pen. I feel a trip to the stationer is in order."

~

The stationer was a small, fair-skinned man with thinning hair and spectacles that were perched on the tip of his long, upturned nose. He had a very arrogant air to him. Even his shop did. It was clean, tidy, and somehow seemed to think it was better than everyone who walked through its door.

Trinket hovered in the background as Booker removed his hat. "Good morning, my good sir," he said to the stationer.

"Can I help you, sir?" the stationer asked as he stared at him from over his glasses.

Booker leaned against the counter. "Yes, I'm in the market for a fountain pen. Something suited to a doctor with terrible handwriting. What do you have to offer?"

Though seeming less than pleased to be dealing with Booker, the stationer pulled out a case and opened it to reveal several fancy pens. "Well, sir, we have a fine assortment. The pearls have been our most popular."

"I can see why. Quite beautiful. May I?"

The stationer nodded his consent, and Booker picked one up, examining it closely. As he did, the uptight shopkeeper's gaze darted to Trinket, and she noticed his frown deepen slightly. Did she really look that terrible?

"Tell me," Booker said, his voice low, "have you seen any strange activity around your shop as of late?"

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, the stationer matched Booker's hushed tone. "I'm not sure what you're suggesting, sir. If you're looking for those who engage in less than legal activities, I can assure you I know nothing about them."

"No, I have no trouble finding them," Booker reassured him, still studying the pen carefully. "I'm speaking of a different type of strange. More animal. More otherworldly."

The utter disgust in the shopkeeper's expression was undeniable. "Sir, I do not dabble in fairy tales and ghost stories. If that's what you're after, you'd best visit the bookseller. Or perhaps stoop to gossiping with the servants."

Booker fixed his gaze on the man, a dangerous glint in his eye. "I do not speak of ghosts, my good man. What I'm searching for is very much flesh and blood. And maybe a little bit of metal."

The stationer shook his head slowly. "Mr. Larkin, I know what sort of trouble you like to stir up. I'll have no part in it. Now unless you have a question about paper or pens, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

So Booker did have an unsavory reputation. Alas, it seemed his notoriety would get him nowhere with this gentleman. But as Booker stared the shopkeeper down, a muscle twitching in his jaw, Trinket got an idea.

"If I might interrupt, sirs," she said, stepping forward shyly.

Furrowing his brow, the stationer looked her up and down. "Aren't you with him?"

"Oh, no, we just happened to walk in together," she said, casting Booker a wary glance.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, the shopkeeper drummed his fingers against the counter. "And what do you want?"

"I was wondering if you've seen my dog. I lost him a few days ago and have been searching everywhere."

"Do I look like the dogcatcher?"

She swallowed and averted her eyes. "No, it's just someone told me they saw a dog hereabouts that matched the description of mine, and I thought maybe you might know where he'd gone."

"Child, I haven't seen any dogs." Then the stationer paused, drawing his brows together as if something had suddenly occurred to him. "Although come to think of it, there was a stray pawing at my backdoor two nights ago. I tossed a bucket of water into the alley to scare it off and heard a terrible growl. Bolted my door and didn't investigate any further."

Taking in a sharp breath, she exclaimed, "Oh, I wonder if it was him."

"If it was, I'd say by the sounds of it he's gone rabid. You should keep your dog on a leash, young lady."

She nodded and backed away. "Yes, yes, thank you, sir. I'm sorry to have interrupted."

Spinning around, she headed for the exit.

"Well, are you going to buy the pen or not?" the stationer asked Booker.

She was out the door before she could hear Booker's response, but it didn't take long before he slipped outside and was again by her side. He took her arm and steered her into the alley adjacent to the shop where they found the backdoor and a sheet of ice. They stooped forward to examine the doorpost and discovered some rather impressive claw marks in the wood.

"Do you suppose it could be from an actual stray?" she asked.

"Possibly. Although, it's a fine coincidence that a servant girl saw a wolf right by the same shop that had an aggressive stray pawing at its door. But why would it be interested in the stationer?"

She shrugged. "Maybe it was cold and hungry and looking for someplace warm to shelter for the night."

"I suppose."

With no further clues to investigate, they headed out of the alley. As they did, a cat darted between Trinket's legs. At first, she thought it was another hallucination, but when it began to meow and paw at the backdoor, Booker stopped and glanced back at it. The door opened a crack, and the cat slipped inside, barely getting its tail out of the way before it slammed shut.

"Perhaps that's what brought the Wolf here," Booker said, staring at the closed door. "Hungry wolf smells a cat nearby and hopes to find a fresh meal."

They gazed at the empty alley for a moment longer before Booker let out a long breath and led Trinket back towards the street. As they waited for a cab, she considered how desperate a wolf would have to be to try to break into a shop just for a cat. Maybe its metal teeth made it difficult to chew. The poor thing could be starving.

"That was an excellent performance you put on with the stationer, by the way," Booker said as he hailed a cab. He cast her a playful grin. "Are you an out-of-work actress?"

"It was only an idea. I figured since you weren't getting anywhere with him that it couldn't hurt to try."

Booker helped her into the cab. "It was a brilliant idea. We wouldn't have gotten the information we did if not for it. Well done, my dear."

When they were both settled on the cab bench, the driver urged his horse forward. Trinket peered out into the street, taking in the number of people in the busy center. What would a wolf be doing in such a densely populated city?

"Where do you think this wolf came from?" she asked Booker.

He raised his eyebrows and gave a condescending simper. "Trinket, this beast is surely not a natural occurrence."

"I'm well aware of that. What I meant was, whoever did this to the animal, where did they find it?"

His expression melted into something slightly apologetic. "Stolen, I'd assume. From a zoo or a circus. Or captured from the wild. Although, I don't believe its creator is the hunting type."

She furrowed her brow. Its creator? Did he know who was responsible for the Wolf? "Why are you so interested in this beast?"

He flashed her a grin. "As I've said, I live for adventure."

No, that wasn't it. This couldn't just be morbid curiosity. The look in his eyes betrayed some sort of personal connection. There was something far more than a mutated mutt involved in this mystery.