The stars stood out starkly in the night sky, and a full moon illuminated the filthy, snow-covered streets. Trinket was relieved not to be enveloped in darkness, what with the Elysium orderlies still about. However, she knew the moonlight made it easier for others to see her and Booker walking down the street well past midnight with a leg of lamb tied to a rope and slung over Booker's shoulder.

They were sure to attract some unwanted attention.

Booker whistled a jolly tune as they strolled through the city center. "I rather like Tinkerfall this late at night. There's something quite alluring about a lonely street."

"It's not so lonely," she said as she stifled a yawn. "If it were truly lonely, you'd be all by yourself."

"True. And I don't think I would enjoy this half as much without someone to talk to."

He flashed her a smile, and she returned it with a drowsy one of her own. How did he function on so little sleep and still keep his charm? The man wasn't human.

"So, anything interesting happen while you were out and about running errands?" he asked.

"Well, I did learn a new conspiracy theory about the Wolf."

"Ooh, do tell."

"The Tinker believes the government has created it to kill off the beggars and urchins."

Booker scoffed. "As if they have the skills."

She shrugged. "I can't say he was all that convincing."

"He's a moron, really. I tolerate him because he's the only tinker for miles around. Most of his creations are poor quality knockoffs. He hasn't an original thought in his head. Likely heard that preposterous theory from a customer and is now pawning it off as his own."

"You know what else I learned?"

"What?"

"That I've been working for you for the past five years. And that I used to have a hunch. And fancied dyeing my hair black. Honestly, I must have been quite a sight."

Booker's lips twitched. "Interesting how much you can learn about yourself from other people, is it not?"

"It's far more interesting how anyone could actually swallow such absurd lies."

"If you tell someone something with enough confidence and determination, even the most ridiculous lies sound believable."

"Well, the people of Tinkerfall will have a wonderful impression of me now."

"An impression of who you were. The hunched-over brunette they'll think they remember will only be a hazy image. The girl they see today will be the one who remains in their memory. Your past does not define who you are. You do."

The past doesn't define you. It was an appealing concept. But as she watched a swarm of bees rush out of the chimney of a nearby shop, she highly doubted it was true for her. How could she escape her past when her broken mind reminded her of it on a daily basis?

"I just can't believe anyone really thinks I look old enough to have been working for you for five years," she mumbled.

Booker chuckled. "Oh, come now, there's nothing wrong with having a few years on you, is there? I myself am relatively seasoned."

Turning her eyes to him, she asked, "How seasoned?"

He raised his eyebrows playfully. "How seasoned do you think I am?"

She shrugged. "I've never been good at guessing games."

"Oh, that's a lie, I'm sure of it. You're very clever."

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. "Well, since you're a trained medical professional, I'm going to say twenty-three?"

"Ooh, close. I'm twenty-one."

"You're awfully young for such a skilled doctor."

"Age has nothing to do with skill or experience, my dear."

She clutched his arm as she nearly tripped over her own feet trying to avoid what must have been an imaginary pig in the middle of the road. Blast it all, she should've seen that one for what it was. Who leaves a pig out in the dead of night?

"So how old are you in reality?" Booker asked, throwing a glance at the spot where she had stumbled before setting his attention back on her.

She gave him a teasing simper. "What, you're not going to guess?"

He grinned. "I may be young, but I'm old enough to know not to go guessing a woman's age."

"I didn't take you for a coward, Mr. Larkin."

"Coward or wise man? Many would say the latter based on their own personal experience."

"Seventeen. I'm seventeen."

"Seventeen. Hm."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you regretting hiring someone so young and inexperienced to be your assistant?"

"You're most certainly not inexperienced, my dear."

He eyed her knowingly, and she self-consciously turned her gaze away, forcing down the memories of her nightmarish year in Elysium. "Experienced" was one way of putting it.

"In fact," he went on, "I was musing over how seventeen was a defining age for myself as well. Life-changing, you might say."

Flashing her a grin, he steered her into an alley between what looked like two abandoned buildings. Thinking they were going to break in through a window again, she was taken by surprise when Booker opened a weather-worn door towards the back. With a flourishing bow, he held it open for her, and she tentatively stepped over the threshold and into the stairwell.

It was dark and dank inside. The rickety staircase creaked with each step she took, and with no railing to hold on to, she braced herself against the grimy wall on her left. As she drew closer to the bottom, she caught a glimpse of the room into which she was descending. It looked very much like the one she and Booker had taken shelter in during their last late-night excursion. The floor was nothing more than packed-down dirt, and the stone walls were covered in mold and mildew.

"Cozy, isn't it?" Booker said as he appeared beside her.

"Charming," she said, her eyes sweeping over the piles of debris scattered about the room. There was a sudden spark of illumination, and she glanced over her shoulder to find Booker lighting a small lantern. "Where did you get that?"

Shaking out the match with a cheeky grin, he replied, "I may or may not be rather familiar with this particular joint."

He brushed past her and made his way further into the room, setting the leg of lamb on one of several tables. "Is this another meeting place for shady business?" she asked as she joined him, careful not to walk into the cobwebs hanging from the rafters.

"Yes, it is. I've played many a game of cards here."

"Why would you need to gamble? You have more than enough money, don't you?"

"I'm not in it for the money, my dear. I play for information."

"Of course. I should have guessed."

Booker's lips twisted into a crooked smile. "You've figured me all out in such a short period of time?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, I don't think I'll ever figure you out, Mr. Larkin."

He gave a pleased hum and turned back to the meat. "People aren't meant for figuring out, my dear. They're meant to be observed and studied. You can never finish learning about them. And that's what makes us such fascinating creatures."

She furrowed her brow as she watched him toss the rope he had tied to the lamb over one of the rafters. "Is this how you intend to lure the Wolf in?"

"It is."

"You really think it's going to smell a leg of lamb from wherever it is in the city?"

"Tinkerfall isn't that large of a city. And the Wolf appears to be sticking to the center, likely because of all the shops filled with food. And if that isn't enough, I have Gin leaving a trail of meat as we speak. Buried a bit in the snow to keep anyone from noticing, but I'm sure a hungry wolf will be quick to pick up the scent."

Quite the well-thought-out plan. "And what are you going to do if it does come?"

"I'll use this."

The meat plummeted to the ground as Booker abandoned the rope in his excitement. He beckoned her over and pulled out a pistol—except it wasn't exactly a pistol anymore. It had been altered so that the chamber was visible from the outside, containing, not bullets, but a single projectile in the form of a needle and syringe.

"What did you put in the syringe?" she asked.

"A tranquilizer of my own creation. Should be mild enough not to kill the animal but potent enough to keep it under so we can drag it back to the laboratory."

"Impressive."

"It certainly is one of my finer inventions." He hesitated as he met her eyes. "I thank you for the inspiration."

She couldn't help but give a soft smile, even if she felt her contribution had been small. "You're welcome. I'm glad to be of some use."

He offered a smile of his own. "You are of great use to me, Trinket."

The door slammed open, interrupting their warm moment.

They both froze, eyes wide.

Footsteps.

Coming down the stairs.

Booker blew out the lantern and grabbed the leg of lamb. Taking her hand, he dragged her behind an overturned table where they both crouched down out of sight. She concentrated on her breathing, doing her best to keep it as silent as possible. Even though he was holding her close, Booker hardly seemed fazed by this unexpected interruption. How often did he do this sort of thing?

The sound of someone wheezing and struggling pulled her attention away from Booker's unbelievable composure. Heavy boots plodded down the wooden stairs, the grain threatening to split under the stranger's weight. There was a succession of thuds alongside the footsteps, as if something were being dragged.

Or someone.

The crunch of dirt beneath feet. The strike of a match. The smell of sulfur and oil.

"Take a chair, sir."

A voice. A man's voice. Oily and charming. It sounded as though he were smiling. But the tone of his words suggested anything but friendliness.

There was more struggling, followed by a thump. Then silence.

Trinket dared to steal a glance at Booker and was taken aback by the look of fear and recognition in his eyes. He knew who these people were? And was scared of them? Whoever they were, they had to be dangerous if Booker Larkin was afraid of them.

The oily voice spoke again: "So, from what I've been told, you haven't been having much luck with your finances. Is that the case?"

No response. Then, out of nowhere, the distinct sound of a fist colliding with flesh. A crunch. A groan. The splash of liquid falling to the ground. Trinket gritted her teeth, imagining a bloodied face and a broken nose.

"I'll repeat myself. Have you been having trouble with money?"

"Yes," replied a scratchy, strained voice.

"And did we offer you assistance?"

"Yes."

"You told us you'd have your debt with us settled within four weeks. But you've only paid us half of what is owed."

"I'm sorry, sir, but business has been slow. I just need more time, please."

"More time? I think we've been extremely generous with our time already."

"I'm saving every penny I earn, all of it for you. I swear, I'll pay the rest."

"We don't like when people lie to us."

"I'm not lying. I'll pay you. Please, just give me another week."

"You have not been saving every penny."

"What do you mean?"

A rustle of papers. "We have receipts here for a food bill, a visit to the apothecary, six shillings to a Mr. Fealy—"

"Sir, my family has to eat, and my wife is very ill. She needs medicine. And Mr. Fealy is the man I rent from. If I don't pay him, the shop will be closed, and I'll have no way of earning money. I won't be able to pay you back."

"All I hear are lies, lies, lies. We don't like being lied to."

"I'm not lying. I'm saving every spare penny I can."

"That's not what you said a moment ago."

The oily-voiced speaker seemed to take great pleasure in toying with the man; his words dripped with sadistic mockery.

A tense pause. Then a resigned sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie."

"Your apologies are no good. You'll have to make it up to us in some other way."

Fingers drummed against a table, echoing through the silence that seemed to go on forever until the oily man spoke again.

"Take his right index finger."

Trinket's eyes widened in horror, and Booker tightened his grip on her, as if to remind her to stay quiet.

"No! Please, no!"

The hiss of a knife being pulled from its sheath, like a snake just before it strikes.

"Now, now, hold still. I know you're left-handed, so I'm not taking anything from that hand. You should be thankful I'm so generous after the way you blatantly lied to my face."

There was a slight struggle and a clatter as a chair was knocked off its legs.

It was a blur of noise: the slicing of metal through flesh and bone, the agonizing scream, the thud of the blade hitting the table, gasps of pain, incoherent babbling—

Unwanted memories filled her mind.

Being tied to a table.

No, a tub.

Both?

Ice-cold water.

A tube forced down her throat.

A jar sparking with electricity.

Ah, poor bird.

Poor, poor bird.

Filthy, dirty, wicked—

"I don't want to hear any more excuses, Mr. Wotton," came the oily man's voice, pulling her back to reality. "Have the rest of the money to us by the end of the week or we move on to other members of your family. Now, take him home. I'm sick of looking at his face."

Heavy footsteps plodded up the stairs, and as the door slammed closed, someone released a long sigh.

"I do hate when they give me excuses," the oily man said. "Keep an eye on his wife. We need to know her comings and goings to make for an easy abduction should he not pay up in time."

"Yes, sir," responded a gruff voice.

A sniff. "Do you smell that?"

Another sniff, this one nearly a grunt. "Smells like raw meat."

Trinket's heart stopped, and she exchanged a panicked glance with Booker.

"Must be a dead rat or something. Take care of it, will you? I have other business to attend to."

A set of footsteps went up the stairs while heavier ones shuffled along the dirt floor, drawing nearer to the overturned table where she and Booker were hiding.

They were done for.

But Booker was prepared. In one swift motion, he lifted his sleeping pistol at the large, balding man just rounding the table and fired. The syringe got him in the neck before he could even spot them. Sausage-like fingers attempted to pull it out but immediately went limp. The hulking man swayed on his feet for a moment and then collapsed, a cloud of dust bursting into the air as he hit the ground.

With the lamb tucked under his arm, Booker grabbed Trinket's hand and bolted towards the exit. As they made their way up the stairs, he handed her the meat and took from his coat pocket an unmodified pistol. Peeking out the door to be sure the coast was clear, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the street. Again, he checked for any stragglers before making a mad dash into the night, holding onto her tightly as they ran.

Only once they were safely inside the foyer of Booker's house did she dare to speak. "Who were they?" she wheezed, seating herself on the bottom stair and placing the leg of lamb beside her.

Booker finished locking the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. "The Dead Mice."

Dead Mice? "As in the gang?"

He nodded. "The one doing all the talking was Scales. He's their second-in-command. Does most of the dirty work, as you just saw. Well, heard."

"I can't believe they cut that man's finger off. Who was he?"

"Mr. Wotton. Runs the flower shop. Has two young daughters and a very sickly wife."

"Will they really go after his wife if he doesn't pay?"

"Most assuredly."

She swallowed hard. "Shouldn't we warn him?"

"I try not to get mixed up with the Mice."

"But that poor man. Can't we do anything to help him?"

He shook his head. "I'm not in the business of charity, Trinket. If he comes here looking for a replacement finger, maybe I can help him there, but—"

"If he's willing to pay you in information, you mean."

Booker reeled back as if she had shot at him with his own sleeping pistol. Even she was surprised by how bitterly the words had come out. "I do expect to be paid for doing my job," he said. "The same as you do for doing yours. It's business."

She averted her eyes. "I suppose. I just don't like leaving that family in the clutches of such vicious men."

"He should have known better than to get wrapped up with the likes of them. Everyone knows they show no mercy."

"He was obviously desperate."

"Of course he was. That's the only reason anyone would be stupid enough to go to them for help."

"Then can you blame him? Wouldn't you do whatever it took to help someone you loved?"

"That's really not a concern for me, seeing as I don't love anyone."

Staring at him in disbelief, she slowly shook her head. "Then there's no way you could possibly understand where he's coming from."

Booker looked her straight in the eye, his gaze hard and cold. "I don't see that as a problem."

She held his stare for a moment longer before rising to her feet. "I didn't think you would. Goodnight, Mr. Larkin."

"Trinket—"

"I'm rather tired from tonight's excitement and need my rest so I can make breakfast in the morning, as that is the job I'm being paid to do. Goodnight."

Before he could speak another word, she left the leg of lamb on the stairs and scurried up to her room. She slipped inside and quickly locked the door. Leaning her head against it, she let out a weary sigh.

What sort of heartless monster was she working for?