Shortly after having her new name bestowed upon her, Trinket fell into a fitful sleep. Nightmares of Elysium plagued her. Half-dead girls scrubbed the floors of tiny rooms with filthy mattresses. A large, ape-like man leered over her while a woman with smeared lipstick wrapped her fat fingers around her wrist and dragged her down a long hallway.

Then a green door.

Screams echoed off the walls.

She tried to get away, to make another impossible escape. But she was powerless against the merciless woman as she pulled her through the green door.

A room that smelled of chemicals. A mustachioed doctor mixing drugs. A metal table with leather straps.

And a jar sparking with electricity.

She bolted upright with a gasp just as the vicious current began to course through her bones. Struggling to regain her breath, she clutched her chest and squeezed her eyes shut.

It wasn't real. This wasn't Elysium. She'd escaped. She'd made it out.

No one escapes Elysium.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open and looked about the room, taking in every detail to ground herself back in reality. The wallpaper. The crackling fire. The fine and eclectic decor.

She had escaped, no matter what the voices said.

Letting out a long breath, she rubbed her arms against the odd chill in her bones and winced at the ache in her muscles. She felt as though she'd been run over by a hansom cab. Was it because of the wolf bite? Or perhaps the hours spent running from Elysium? Where had she, in fact, ended up? Amidst her reverie of finally being free from that hell, she hadn't bothered to investigate. And by the time her elation had faded, all she cared about was dying.

Right. Dying. Was that still her plan? Did she still want to end her life? Or was there another option?

Was there now hope?

"Good morning, Miss Trinket."

She was pulled away from her dilemma as Booker entered the room with a silver tray. He placed it on the table and leaned against the settee. "How are we today?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Your leg feels fine?"

She nodded.

He smiled. "You're not a woman of many words, are you?"

"I find that speaking too much or too often can get one into trouble."

He nodded in understanding. "I can't disagree with that. Prudence is a most admirable quality. Anyhow, I need to check your wound for infection and change the dressing, if you don't mind. Please, help yourself to some breakfast while I fetch my things."

She watched as he left the room, still not sure if she could trust him. He was a doctor, after all. Once he was gone, her gaze traveled to the tray. There were several pieces of burnt toast slathered in butter as well as a lovely porcelain teacup with whimsically painted flowers and vines growing around the rim.

Her stomach churned at the mere thought of eating. But it'd been days since her last meal—if she could call the gruel in Elysium a meal. So, picking up a piece of toast, she forced herself to take a bite.

It was like sinking her teeth into a dry sponge made of charcoal. How had he burnt it all the way through without starting a fire?

She chewed slowly, hoping that with enough mastication it might be a little less nauseating going down. Swallowing was difficult, the dry, blackened bits getting stuck in her throat.

Unable to make herself take another bite, she placed the partially eaten toast back on the plate and wiped her hands of the crumbs. Booker walked in as she was trying to pick stray pieces of the burnt bread out of her teeth.

"Yes, I'm not much for cooking, I'm afraid," he said with a laugh. "When I feel the need to eat, I usually stop by the Clocktower. Although to be fair, their food isn't any better than mine."

"It's fine," she said, swallowing several more times to rid herself of the awful taste. "I'm grateful to have any sustenance at all. The flavor is just a bit different from what I've become accustomed to."

Chuckling softly, he replied, "You're very kind. Here."

He handed her the cup of tea. Now, this was something she had truly missed. There was nothing like tea to settle her frazzled nerves. Bringing the cup to her lips, she anticipated the warm, soothing effect it would have on her tired body. But as the steaming liquid hit her tongue, she was sorely disappointed by the bitter taste. She choked and coughed, quickly returning the cup to its saucer.

Booker gave an apologetic smile as he offered her a crimson napkin. "Sorry, I do make my tea rather strong."

She shook her head, wiping her mouth between coughs. "That is not strong. That is burnt. I've never known someone with the ability to burn tea."

His lips pulled up in a lopsided grin, he asked, "Where did your kindness go?"

"Embittered with the tea leaves." She let out a short breath, her stomach threatening to expel everything she'd just taken in. "I apologize. You've extended such generosity to me and here I am insulting you. I thank you for all of your hospitality."

Booker knelt beside the settee and began to remove the bandages from her leg. "Don't worry, I'm well aware that my culinary skills leave much to be desired. As does my housekeeping."

Ignoring her nausea, she focused on him. "Is that not what a housemaid is for?"

"Yes, but I don't have a housemaid."

She furrowed her brow and looked about the room once again. Such a home certainly belonged to someone with money. She had never known anyone with wealth being without someone else to do the work.

He stole a glance at her. "You're wondering why a man of apparent fortune wouldn't have a maid."

She shrugged, returning her attention to his hands as he continued to carefully remove the bandaging. "I'm sure you have your reasons."

"Mostly just that no maid has been able to stomach working here for any extended period of time."

With the bandages off, the wolf bite was exposed, and she leaned forward to get a better look. It was red and hot, but there was no pus or fetor coming from it. Booker ran his hand over the stitching, his touch both cool and painful against her aching skin. She tried not to cringe as his fingers delicately traced his handiwork, each stitch holding well.

"You see, my line of work is unusual, to say the least," he continued, pulling the jar of honey from his bag.

"You're a doctor, I'm assuming," she said as he applied more honey to the wound. "How is that unusual?"

"True. I am a doctor—of sorts. That is, I've had training. My patients, however, are not always typical, nor are my methods."

He retrieved another jar filled with a white ointment. Removing the lid and dipping his fingers inside, he coated the stitching with the substance, his every move precise and gentle. Even so, pain radiated through her body, and she had to grip the edge of the settee to keep from wincing.

"I've had maids in the past," he went on as he capped the jar and retrieved fresh dressing. "They just didn't last long. Apparently thugs and night flowers showing up on my doorstep after midnight was not to their liking."

He tied the bandage firmly. It was like knives stabbing her leg, but she dared not say a word for fear he'd insist upon her taking drugs for the pain. When he was finished, he seated himself on the arm of the settee and propped his elbows up on his knees, leaning towards her.

"They also weren't too keen on finding strangers bleeding to death on the front steps. Particularly my last maid. I recall her fainting dead away when she saw a man with a missing arm passed out in the foyer. Made my work twice as difficult having to revive her before tending to the gentleman."

"I can't really judge those prone to fainting."

"Yes, but you fainted from a substantial loss of blood, not from seeing a substantial loss of blood. Anyhow, after a while I gave up. Any maid I hired was too nosey or squeamish or judgemental. Useless, the lot of them. Besides, I'm more than capable of cleaning up after myself."

She drew her brows together and considered the dusty parlour before meeting his eyes again. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged a shoulder.

"Well, to a degree," he said. "It's not as if I need a lot, being on my own and all. I suppose if I ever started entertaining it would do some good to have at least one servant around. However, I don't see that happening anytime in the near future. My guests don't come to be entertained. They come to be fixed."

The fire crackled in the background as she stared at the bitter cup of tea, too nauseated to take another sip. She assumed Booker was waiting for her to speak, but she wasn't quite sure what to say. This doctor was not what she had expected. It was difficult gauging what the right response would be despite years of carefully tiptoeing around her words. But maybe this eccentric young gentleman didn't want her to be as diplomatic as her family had.

So she gave a slight shrug and raised her eyebrows as she met his inquisitive gaze. "Well then, I suppose that accounts for the rubbish tea."

A grin slowly spread over his face, his eyes dancing with delight.

Yes, diplomacy did not seem his style at all.

~

That was the last interaction she had with Booker before she fell into a delirious state of semi-consciousness. Her body was wracked by violent tremors as a cold sweat soaked through her dress and stockings. The aching in her muscles became absolute agony, and her head throbbed with every breath she took. It was lucky all she had in her belly was a bite of charcoal toast and a sip of burnt tea, as the nausea became so intense she was certain it would only be a matter of time before she ruined the fine rug that decorated the parlour floor.

As if her physical distress wasn't enough, the memories from Elysium continued to harass her to the point where she couldn't separate reality from delusion. Amidst her distress, only a single rational thought was able to form in her mind:

She really should have killed herself as soon as she'd escaped.

But after hours and hours—perhaps even days or weeks—of suffering, she drifted off into a more tranquil sleep, one without nightmares or aches and pains. It was the first peaceful night she'd had since being sent to Elysium.

The parlour was dark when she finally woke on the settee with a blanket draped over her. A tiny ray of sunlight peeked through the closed curtains, the only indication of what time of day it was. With great care, she managed to ease herself into a sitting position. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she turned to find Booker in an armchair that had been pulled close to the settee, his head resting lazily in his hand as he slept.

Had he been watching over her all this time? Well, it made sense, seeing as she had taken over his parlour. Hopefully she hadn't kept him from his work. Or vomited on him. Oh, that would be horribly embarrassing. But he was a doctor, so he'd likely be used to it.

Her stomach let out a loud growl, and she clutched it in a feeble attempt to muffle the noise. The nausea from earlier had been replaced by a ravenous hunger. She glanced at the slumbering doctor. After all he'd done for her, she hated to bother him. Besides, even with her appetite back, she wasn't certain she could handle his burnt toast again.

She looked over her shoulder and out into the hallway. The kitchen couldn't be too far. Perhaps she could sneak inside and find something to tide her over until Booker woke up. Surely a doctor who seemed to revel in sarcasm and biting wit wouldn't object to her borrowing his stove and kettle.

Slowly, so as not to disturb Booker, she slid her legs out from under the blanket and rested her feet on the rug. She glanced over at the doctor anxiously, but he was still sound asleep. Taking a deep breath, she tested her injured leg's ability to hold weight.

A sharp pain shot through her calf and up to her thigh.

Biting her lip to keep from letting out a cry, she sat back down. The ache subsided slightly, but there was a dull throbbing to remind her it was there. Still, she'd been in a constant battered state in Elysium. A short walk to the kitchen shouldn't be unbearable.

Taking several more breaths, she steeled herself against the hurt she knew was coming and succeeded in standing. Though the pain was intense and agonizing, she kept silent and turned towards the doorway. Clutching her skirt, she gritted her teeth and took a step forward.

Another sharp pain. But she wouldn't give in. Swallowing down a scream, she attempted a second step. And a third. And continued onward until she had limped her way out of the parlour.

She tried the first door she stumbled upon. Locked. Most likely not the kitchen, then.

The next was unlocked, but it appeared to be a dining room. It was darker than the parlour, with no windows to let in any light. Did the doctor even make use of it? He had said he didn't entertain. Seemed a waste of a lovely room.

She found success with the third door. Grasping the doorknob, she eased herself inside. It was a little brighter than the dining room thanks to the small window by what appeared to be a backdoor, making it easier to see what she was working with.

It was certainly modest. Nothing like the kitchen at home. But it was far nicer than Elysium's. The tiled floor was ice-cold, sending a chill through her one bare foot as she proceeded inside. Her eyes darted about, taking in the whitewashed walls and dark brown dado. Plain, but she assumed that's how kitchens were supposed to be. Clean, too, although based on Booker's culinary skills, perhaps it was more from disuse than actually cleaning.

Her stomach released another loud growl, reminding her of why she was there. Leaning against the table in the middle of the room, she searched for a clue as to where any bread might be. A larder, maybe? Her gaze caught on two small doors, and she drew in a steadying breath before limping toward the closest one.

It was indeed a larder. A pathetically bare larder. There was bread, at least, stale though it was. She scooped the loaf up and returned to the table to rest for a moment before attempting to tackle the stove.

The stove was rather similar to the one back home, which she had used a number of times to make tea when she hadn't wanted to wake their cook, Ottie. Leaving the bread on the table, she made her way to the dresser situated by the window, hoping to find some matches. After looking through several drawers without success, she pulled open the doors and found a box of matchsticks sitting by a jar of tea.

The bitter flavor of Booker's burnt tea was seared into her taste buds. She didn't want to be subjected to that again, especially not when she was perfectly capable of making a decent cup herself. Grabbing the matches and hooking an arm around the jar, she headed back to the table.

Setting the tea down by the bread, she limped to the stove and struck a match against the wall. As she stooped over to light the firebox, she caught sight of a kettle sitting atop the stove. She snatched it up and looked about helplessly for a sink or pump.

After a bit of searching, she stumbled upon a small scullery. It took some maneuvering with her aching leg, but she was able to fill the kettle up in the sink and return to the kitchen without slopping too much water on the floor.

With a triumphant sigh, she set the kettle on the stove and turned to the table where the bread was waiting.

And found a grey cat sitting by the loaf.

She froze, not certain how to react. Did Booker have a pet? He didn't seem the type, but she hardly knew him, so she couldn't say for sure.

The cat's long tail flicked back and forth as it considered her with warm, amber eyes. She blinked hard. And then again. And again. But the cat was still there.

Worrying her lower lip, she glanced about the empty kitchen. It wasn't like anyone was around to notice if she slipped up. There really wasn't any reason to fret.

Turning away from the cat, she went in search of a knife, which she found in a tiny pantry. Dragging herself back to the table, she did her best to ignore the cat as she sliced off a chunk of bread. The animal watched her with unnerving interest, as if silently judging her every move. She was so distracted her hand slipped, and she just barely avoided nicking her thumb.

"Well, you try navigating an unfamiliar kitchen with a bum leg," she said.

The cat's whiskers twitched as it gave a soundless meow.

"I don't know what's more concerning," she went on, "having a conversation with a real cat or having a conversation with one that's not actually here."

She took a bite of bread and cocked an eyebrow at the feline, but the creature didn't reply.

Are you that lonely?

You always have us for company, you know.

She lifted her lip in a snarl. Company indeed. They were companions she could do without.

A whistle from the stove drew her attention away from the voices and the cat, but as she braced herself to fetch the kettle, a sudden onslaught of memories caused her to stumble.

A dark kitchen.

A steaming kettle.

Deep, menacing growls.

The knife in her hand.

And blood.

So much blood. Everywhere. On everything.

His blood.

It's all your fault.

Monster.

Killer.

Murderer.

"Good Lord, what's going on in here?"

With a sharp breath, she was pulled back to the present and found Booker standing in the doorway. His eyes widened as she met his gaze, and he hurried to her side.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, taking hold of her arm to help steady her. "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, really," she said.

"If you were hungry, you should have woken me up."

Gripping the edge of the table, she averted her gaze. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. Truly, I'm so, so sorry."

There was a hesitant silence before Booker sighed and went to remove the still-whistling kettle from the stove. "No, no, you weren't intruding," he said as he pulled out a granite cutting board fixed into the underside of the table. "I'm just not sure you should be moving around so much after being attacked by a wolf."

Her eyes followed the kettle as he placed it on the cutting board. "I didn't want to disturb you."

He furrowed his brow and went to the dresser to fetch two cups. "You're my patient. You wouldn't be disturbing me."

"Right, but you've done enough already, so . . ."

She watched as he set strainers atop each cup and added more tea leaves than seemed necessary. Perhaps he liked it strong? It really wasn't her place to tell him how to make his tea. But as he reached for the boiling-hot kettle, she couldn't keep herself from interceding.

"Wait," she said, grabbing his wrist.

He raised an eyebrow at her curiously.

Realizing her impertinence, she cleared her throat and cast her gaze downward as she released him. "It's just, if you don't let the water cool, the leaves will burn and make the tea bitter."

There was a short pause before Booker spoke again. "Well, as an open-minded man of science, I'll entertain your theory." Crossing his arms over his chest, he glanced down at the bread, completely ignoring the cat sitting beside it. "You know, that would probably taste better toasted."

Not waiting for a response, he made his way to the pantry. "I didn't want to cause more of a ruckus searching for a pan," she called after him, eyeing the cat suspiciously.

The feline opened its mouth in another silent meow.

"You already broke into the kitchen," Booker said, returning with a cast-iron skillet and a butter dish. "I don't see how toasting bread would have made the situation worse."

Tearing her attention away from the cat, she looked between the pan and the loaf of stale bread, imagining how badly he would burn it. She offered him a forced smile and said, "I'm actually not quite that hungry. You really needn't—"

"Nonsense." Pushing past her, he plopped the skillet down on the stovetop with a clatter and headed over to the table. "What good would I be as a doctor if I let my patients starve to death?"

Her eyebrow twitched as she considered how Elysium's staff had allowed girls to wither away under their watch, but she made no comment. "Honestly, you've done more than enough for me."

Booker sliced two pieces of bread and tossed them into the pan. "Making you toast isn't exactly a strenuous activity, my dear," he said as he turned the stove up as high as it would go.

The taste of Booker's burnt toast lingered on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, and as soon as Booker went to the pantry, she quickly hobbled over to the stove and turned it down to a more appropriate temperature. Letting out a relieved sigh, she allowed herself a moment to breathe in the warm, yeasty aroma. Such a change from gruel. Her stomach growled as it anticipated a decent bite of food.

"Apparently my method of toasting bread doesn't meet with your approval?"

She jumped at Booker's voice and spun around so suddenly she nearly toppled into the stove. He reached out to grab her arm and flashed her a crooked grin.

"I'm sorry," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I just . . . you had it up so high . . . I thought . . . I worried . . ."

He chuckled softly and held up the spatula in his hand. "Clearly you have more experience than I do. Please, show me how it's done."

Casting him a wary glance, she hesitantly accepted the spatula and watched as he proceeded back to the pantry. "I wouldn't say experience, exactly," she mumbled, setting her attention on the stove.

"I'm a man of science," he said from the pantry. Reappearing with a plate, he gave her another grin and set the dish beside the butter. "So I'm more than happy to allow a little experimentation in my kitchen."

She kept a watchful eye on the bread while Booker, after obtaining permission from her, poured the cooled water over the strainers. By the time the tea was finished steeping, the toast was a nice, light brown color. Scooping it out of the pan, she slid it onto the plate Booker held out to her, and with his help, limped to the table.

Booker spread a thick coating of butter over a slice of toast, seeming completely unaware of the cat rolling about happily on the tabletop. Trinket's eyes darted to it once or twice before she decided to write it off as a figment of her twisted mind. At least it was only a cat. With her broken psyche, it could've been worse.

The memory of blood splattered on her nightgown flashed through her head.

She clenched her jaw and took a slow breath.

Oh, it could be far worse.

"Well, the moment of truth," Booker said, raising a playful eyebrow as he held the toast up.

She waited in anticipation as he bit into it, slightly anxious about his response. Why? Did she think he might kick her out of his house if he disliked it?

After chewing for a second or two, he nodded. "Not bad, Miss Trinket. It does lack that fortifying charcoal texture, but I gather most folks would consider that an improvement."

With a teasing smile, he laid down the toast and reached for the teacups. Handing one to her, he lifted his own to his nose and gave it a quick whiff.

"Here, though, is the real test," he said. "I'm quite particular about my tea, and I've yet to meet an individual who can brew it to my liking."

Holding her breath, she gripped her cup as Booker took a small sip from his. All the playfulness vanished from his face, and her heart skittered, wondering if she'd somehow offended him by the way she made tea. She'd always felt she was good at it, having been coached by Ottie over the years. But this man did seem rather eccentric. Perhaps he liked burnt, bitter tea.

"Good Lord, I didn't know tea could taste like this," he said.

She swallowed. "Like what?"

"So smooth and rich. I thought it was supposed to be harsh and strong to keep you awake."

Relaxing a bit, she sipped her own cup and smiled. "There's nothing wrong with tea being strong, though I'm not all that partial to it that way. But it's only harsh if the water is too hot. Or if you've steeped it too long. Tea should be refreshing and soothing and, depending on the type, energizing."

Booker placed his cup on the table, his gaze darting from it to the toast. "Well, between the toast and the tea, you've certainly won me over with regard to your skills."

He offered her the other piece of toast. "I wouldn't call them skills," she said, accepting the slice and taking a small bite.

So much better than gruel.

"I wish I had more to offer you," he said, glancing about the kitchen as he took another sip of tea. "But as you can tell, I don't do a lot of cooking."

"Well, it's not exactly like you were expecting my sudden arrival."

He turned back to her. "How're you feeling, by the way?"

Her leg was, in fact, throbbing, but she just shrugged a shoulder. "As good as anyone can be after being attacked by a wolf with metal teeth."

"Right, but what about the rest of you? The past few nights were rather touch and go there."

She furrowed her brow. "How many nights have passed?"

"Three."

Three nights? "I had no idea."

"Well, you did seem as though you might be dying, so I'm not surprised."

"I wonder why. Perhaps the cold?"

Booker narrowed his eyes as he considered her for a moment. "Perhaps," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Anyhow, I really should find something else for you to eat. You need to regain your strength after all you've been through."

After all she'd been through. She nearly laughed out loud. He had no idea how much she'd been through, even without the wolf attack.

"Tell me, what's your favorite thing to eat?" he asked.

Blinking in surprise, she shook her head and gazed down at her tea. "Oh, please, that's not neces—"

"That's not what I asked. Come on, you refused to tell me your name, the least you can do is tell me your favorite food."

She bit her lip but finally relented and met his eyes. "Crumpets."

"Crumpets?"

She nodded. "With strawberry jam."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood up straight and gestured to the door. "Let's go, then."

He offered her his arm. "Where are we going?" she asked as she tried to follow after him without being tripped up by the cat that had taken to weaving about her legs.

"I'm going to change the dressing on your wound and then bring you to the bakery to buy some crumpets." He cast her a side glance and smiled. "And strawberry jam, of course."

"Mr. Larkin, please, you really—"

"No arguing. You made me a proper breakfast, now I shall make one for you. Well, buy one, but it's just as good. Better, in fact. After all, you've already been subjected to my subpar cooking."

She glanced back at the kitchen. The grey cat was sitting in the doorway, watching them go and meowing soundlessly. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could hold it together for one trip outside. She could. She'd done it for years before.

Until you ruined everything.

Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to face forward as Booker led her to the parlour.

He was quick to reapply the honey and ointment and bind her calf up with fresh bandages. The pain his touch had elicited prior to her illness was gone now, the only ache coming from the bite.

"All right then," Booker said, helping her up and into the hallway. "Let's be off to get ourselves some delectable crumpets."

"Mr. Larkin, I—"

"I left your boots in the foyer," he said, ignoring her attempted objection. "Your coat, too."

He helped her into the pathetic articles of clothing, being careful with her injury as he laced up her boots. After donning his own coat and hat, he again offered her his arm and led her outside. Tension built in her chest as she realized how much she would stick out from the rest of the city, especially standing beside such a well-groomed gentleman. Attracting attention was the last thing she wanted to do. What if someone was looking for her? How far from Elysium was she? Would she risk being dragged back by going out in public?

She kept her eyes down as they stepped into the morning light, her anxious thoughts playing over and over in her head. "Normally I'd just walk to the city center," Booker said. "But considering your injury, it might be best to take a coach. Problem is they don't often come by here. Madison! Could I ask a favor?"

Snow crunched as someone hurried their way. She dared to look up enough to see a dirty little boy in ragged clothes sprinting towards them. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Would you mind fetching a coach for us?" Booker asked as he retrieved several coins from his pocket and placed them in the boy's hand. "This should keep the driver from protesting. And there's a little extra for you as well."

The little boy, who she assumed was named Madison, gave a short salute before taking off. She drew her brows together as she watched him go. What was an urchin doing in the suburbs? It was unheard of for them to be scuttling about the posh streets of such fine neighborhoods, at least not without a neighbor calling for the police to dispose of them.

She allowed her gaze to wander slightly, and her mouth fell open when the truth dawned on her.

They were not in the suburbs.

They were in the slums.

There was no doubt about it. The refuse in the street, the ramshackle buildings, the poorly dressed passerby, the stray children. Everything was dirty and broken and starving.

How was this possible?

Looking back at the lavish house she'd just left, she realized that, while beautiful and elegant inside, the outside resembled the pathetic brick buildings surrounding it. Nobody would guess that a gentleman doctor with fine though eccentric taste resided within its walls.

"Well, that was record time," Booker said as a hackney coach came rolling down the street. He took her hand and helped her in. "Come, my dear. Crumpets and jam will wait for no one."

Though still terribly confused, she settled into the carriage while Booker sat across from her and closed the door. The driver spurred the horses forward, and as they proceeded down the road, Trinket couldn't help but stare at the sleazy scenery passing them by.

"You seem perplexed," Booker said.

She turned to voice her bewilderment, but upon seeing the obvious delight he was taking in her disorientation, she clamped her mouth shut and turned back to the window, refusing to feed his sick sense of humor.

He gave a soft chuckle. "Come, now, I didn't mean to tease. Most people who don't know me or my reputation are confused when they set foot in my home."

"Why ever would that be?" she asked, casting him an unamused glare.

Tilting his head to the side, he smiled, as if pleased by her sarcastic response. "I have money, as I'm sure you've gathered. Logically, I should be living in the suburbs, hobnobbing with the upper crust. However, that doesn't really suit my needs."

She raised her eyebrows, which was apparently all the encouragement he needed to continue.

"I enjoy a good adventure. Being a doctor, I do get more of that than the typical gentleman would. But that's not enough for me. I need to be in the know. Gossip is prevalent amongst the upper class, but not the kind of gossip I'm looking for. I like to keep an ear open for any strange happenings."

"Such as a wolf with an iron jaw roaming the streets?" she suggested.

His eyebrows twitched. "Precisely. Urchins, thugs, servants—they're the ones who have that sort of information. Besides, rumors are the only excitement to be found within the gentry. In the slums you get action."

"So you live in the slums in order to engage in reckless behavior?"

"I suppose you could put it that way. Anyhow, two years ago, I inherited a large fortune from the doctor I studied under after he passed away, so I used it to renovate an old apartment building. Keeping the dilapidated exterior helps me to blend in."

"But at the same time allows you to enjoy the luxuries that come with money?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Ah, here we are."

The coach stopped in front of the bakery, and as Booker paid the driver, Trinket gingerly stepped out into the cold street. It was crowded. And loud. There were shops and brick apartments and abandoned buildings lining the snow-covered road. Between the street vendors and shoppers and cabs and wagons bustling about, it was hard to even hear herself think. The smells of unwashed bodies and baked goods and rotting food mingled together to create an overwhelming stench that assaulted her senses. Everything was a blur, and she panicked at the thought of trying to differentiate between reality and her broken mind in such a chaotic place.

You're gonna mess up.

You're gonna ruin it all.

Like you always do.

"Very good," Booker said as he appeared at her side, pulling her thoughts away from the busy crowds and mocking voices. "Now, let's go find some crumpets and jam."

The bakery was so warm compared to the chilly air outside, and the smell was enough to make her stomach growl. Displays of bread and pastries lined the bright green walls and decorated the shop window. A girl with braids stood behind the counter, ringing customers up and taking orders. Moving through the crowd without hesitation, Booker caught her attention with a dashing smile.

"Hello, my dear, how are you this morning?" he asked.

"Quite well, Mr. Larkin," the girl replied, eyeing Trinket warily. "How can I help you today?"

"We were hoping to purchase some crumpets. I've heard tell they're absolutely delicious. Do you have any available?"

"Certainly. How many would you like?"

"A dozen should suffice."

With a nod, the girl set about gathering the baked goods.

"While you're at it, might I inquire as to where one would find jam?" Booker asked. "Preferably strawberry?"

"There's a street vendor who sells some in the market," the girl said as she wrapped the crumpets in brown paper. "My sister raves about her. Says there's no better jam or jelly in all of Tinkerfall."

Tinkerfall. Was that the name of this city Trinket had stumbled upon? She hardly knew of any place beyond her own small town, so she had no clue where exactly Tinkerfall was. She didn't even know where Elysium was. Hopefully this strange little city was a good ways away from that nightmarish prison.

The bakery girl tied the bundle of crumpets up with some string and passed it to Booker. He gave her a handful of coins and another charming smile. "I thank you, my dear," he said. "Have a lovely day."

The flustered girl giggled, and as she went to move on to her other customers, her gaze flickered to Trinket. She eyed her ensemble for a brief moment and frowned before turning away again. Trinket ducked her head, not wanting to encourage any more curiosity. Although, with the way she looked, that would be difficult, what with her loose, greasy hair and a dress that was more rag than garment. Not to mention being escorted rather familiarly by a gentleman of apparent fortune. How scandalous she must have seemed to the hardworking bakery girl.

Booker led Trinket back to the waiting coach and directed the driver to the market where they found the vendor the bakery girl had spoken of. The woman had a variety of jams for sale, including strawberry. Booker purchased a jar with a disarming smile and turned to Trinket.

"I think we have everything we need for a proper breakfast," he said, linking his arm with hers.

The jam vendor's eyes darted between the two of them, a suggestive smile creeping across her face. Trinket tried not to imagine what sort of reputation she was garnering from this simple outing. If Booker would stop making such a show of things, perhaps people would stare less. As it was, her heart hammered every time she saw a fat, pasty woman or a large, hulking man. All she wanted to do was crawl into the shadows and hide. She was certain someone was just around the corner, ready to grab her and drag her back to Elysium.

She'd die before she let that happen.

"Well, we'd best hurry home before these get cold," Booker said as they settled into the carriage.

"We can always warm them up on the stove," she said, relieved to be away from the crowds.

"Are you as skilled with crumpets as you are with tea and toast?"

"It's not that difficult to place a few pastries on an already warm stove, Mr. Larkin."

"I must say, I don't think I've had one of my patients tease me as much as you do."

Swallowing down her more sarcastic nature, she lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Nor have I had one apologize so often. Please, if you haven't noticed, I'm rather enjoying your sass. It's more than enough payment for my services."

Payment. Right. He was a legitimate doctor. A doctor who likely expected to be paid.

"Mr. Larkin," she began, fidgeting with the cuffs of her sleeves, "I realize you've done quite a bit to help me, but I'm afraid at the moment I have no money with which to pay you."

Shaking his head, Booker waved away her words. "Please, don't trouble yourself over it."

"But I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

He laughed under his breath. "It's not so much kindness, my dear, as it is opportunity. Besides, you aren't the first penniless person I've helped. I have a reputation of working on the less fortunate."

He flashed her a smile that bordered on wolfish. Should she be concerned? Why would a charming young doctor not require money for his services? Did he expect another form of payment? She may have lived a relatively sheltered life, but she wasn't unaware of the dangers the world presented, especially for a young woman on her own. Still, what choice did she really have? She had no place else to go. Improper intentions or not, Booker Larkin was the only person she knew at this point.

She'd just have to hope for the best.

The coach dropped them off in the slums once again, and Booker helped her back into the house, leading her straight to the kitchen. The cat from earlier was nowhere to be seen. Good. The fewer distractions the better. She'd hate to ruin something as wonderful as crumpets with her unreliable mind. While Booker set the kettle for more tea, she went about heating up the pastries.

Once the crumpets were warmed and coated in strawberry jam and the tea properly steeped, she and Booker stood together at the table and helped themselves to the delightful treats. She inhaled the familiar scent, savoring every cherished memory that came with it. Sinking her teeth into the flaky cake, she nearly let out a moan as the sinful sweetness of the jam seeped over her tongue. She chewed slowly, and everything else seemed to vanish—the pain in her leg, the sins of her past, the uncertainty of her future. All that existed was that moment in that kitchen with a mysterious doctor, a warm stove, and a fresh crumpet slathered in jam.

"All right, I'm not going to lie, this is delectable," Booker said through a mouthful of crumpet, "but the look on your face is close to euphoric. I'm not sure they're that good."

Giving a shrug, she gazed down at her half-eaten crumpet nostalgically. "After such a long time of separation, reunions can be quite exaggerated."

Booker laughed softly and took another bite. "Well, reunions aside, I probably shouldn't keep you standing on that leg of yours. Come along, let's take this feast into the parlour."

He handed her the plate of crumpets and gathered up the teacups. Offering her his elbow to lean on, he helped her down the hallway and onto the settee. Placing the crumpets and tea on the table, he seated himself beside her and raised his eyebrows. She returned the gesture, waiting for him to speak.

"Trinket, I have a proposition for you," he said at last.

Her chest tightened. A proposition. That could entail oh-so-many things. Scandalous, improper things. "Go on," she said, wary of where this was going.

"Since you have no place to go—"

"What makes you think I have no place to go?"

"Seeing as you refused to give me your name and I found you in an abandoned alley, I assumed as much."

She didn't deny his assumptions, but neither did she confirm them.

"Anyhow," he continued, "that being the case, I wondered if you'd consider accepting employment from me."

Her heart hammered against her ribs, waiting for the catch to all the kindness he'd shown her. "Employment? What sort of employment?"

"I was hoping you might be interested in becoming my housemaid."

She blinked in surprise. "But I thought you said you have no use for servants."

"I have no use for incompetent servants."

"Your previous servants were incompetent?"

"I mean, they cleaned and cooked well enough. But as I said before, they had no business working for me. They caused me more trouble than they were worth."

"And how do you know I won't cause you trouble? After all, I did break into your kitchen. And insult your tea."

Booker grinned. "You're self-sufficient. I like that. And I have a hunch you wouldn't be too put off by my line of work."

She hesitated. "I must admit, Mr. Larkin, I'm not all that fond of doctors. No offense meant."

"None taken. If the bruises on your body are any indication, you've been dealt with rather roughly by someone, and if that someone happened to be a doctor, I can understand your distrust of those in my profession."

So he had noticed. She averted her gaze, hoping he wouldn't figure out the whole truth.

"And you show a surprising amount of bravery, perhaps due to your past. It takes some nerves to walk into the metallic jaws of a demonic wolf. I need a maid who can stomach that sort of terror."

Terror? Clearly being his housemaid was going to involve more than dusting and baking.

"On top of that, you're prudent," he went on. "You know when to keep quiet and how to be subtle. And yet, at the same time, you seemed unfazed by the judgemental stares as you were escorted about the city rather brazenly by a dashingly handsome man who is not your beau. Your comfort with breaking society's rules is an attractive quality, and quite necessary if you're going to work for me."

Wait, had he taken her out into public simply to test her? To see how she would react to being gawked at by complete strangers? He'd put her at risk just to find out if she'd be a worthy maid? Her cheeks flushed with anger, and she hoped he didn't confuse it for embarrassment.

"And if all of that wasn't enough, the crumpets and jam truly sealed the deal," he said with a wink. "If you take the job, it comes with a generous salary as well as a room here in my house. You will want for nothing, let me assure you. So? What do you say?"

She put aside her frustration with his conniving behavior and considered her situation. She was injured. She had no family to go to. She was potentially in danger of being discovered by those from whom she'd escaped. Here with Booker—in this city, in these slums—no one knew who she was. She had a new name. A new home. A new purpose.

The only other option was death. Did she still want to die? She wasn't sure. The desire to end her life had been overshadowed by the excitement of the last few days. Perhaps this was the hope that sunrise had offered her. She could leave her past behind, maybe for good. All her mistakes. Her sins. The blood on her hands.

This could be a new start.

Taking a breath, she turned back to Booker and looked him up and down. He gazed at her intently, awaiting her response. She gave a nod. "I'll do it."

His lips nearly twitched into a smile, but before they could, he got to his feet and extended his hand to her. "Let me show you to your room, Miss Trinket."