The washroom was spotless by the time night fell, but Trinket's nerves were as frayed as ever. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she surveyed the pristine black-and-white tiled floor she'd just finished scrubbing and shifted her weight off her knees to sit down. Leaning her head against the cool surface of the tub, she tried to stop the exhausting carousel of thoughts from circling around and around in her mind.

The Lipstick Woman.

The Ape Man.

A dead cat.

A stolen wolf.

The baron of Broadfall.

Broadfall.

Broadfall.

You can never escape.

Closing her eyes, she began to sing under her breath. "Ah, poor bird, take thy—"

That's his song.

How dare you.

Murderer.

A sob caught in her throat as flashbacks of that night came at her with more force than she could withstand.

Darkness.

A crushing sense of doom.

The demon wolf.

Utter terror.

A sharp kitchen knife.

His face. Twisted in pain.

Blood. Pouring from his chest . . .

She let out a cry and doubled over, hugging herself tightly to stay grounded. But it was no use. The scene played over and over, the horror of the memory eating away at her. The blood. The screams. The guilt.

You'll never escape.

Your sins will always be here.

No one will ever forget.

It will haunt you.

Until you die.

Why won't you just die?

A knock at the door interrupted the voices' hateful words. Her head shot up. "Yes?" she said, her voice tight with repressed emotion.

"I wanted to let you know that I'm headed off to a meeting," said Booker from the other side of the door. "It'll likely run late, so don't bother waiting up for me."

She nodded in understanding, but when she remembered he couldn't see her, she replied, "Very good."

Once she was sure he was gone, she eased herself onto her shaky legs and examined the sorry state she was in. Sweaty, dirty, and trembling. Thank goodness Booker hadn't come inside. What would he have thought, seeing her like this?

Pathetic.

With a sigh, she turned to the tub and ran the water for a bath. Stripping off her clothes and laying them over the sink, she unpinned her braid and combed her fingers through her hair. Her nails snagged on tiny knots, and she carefully tried to break them apart before they got wet and became too tangled to fix.

When the tub was filled, she slowly immersed herself into the comforting embrace of the warm water. Her eyes fluttered closed as her muscles relaxed. How sad was it that after Elysium, bathing regularly felt like a luxury?

A chill ran through her bones at the memory of the sort of baths they gave in the asylum. Tied to the tub and doused with ice-cold water, the pain of a thousand tiny needles piercing her skin. Sitting there for hours and hours until numbness eventually set in . . .

She opened her eyes and inhaled sharply. No. She needed to leave that behind. It was in the past. Just like Broadfall. Elysium and Broadfall couldn't hurt her anymore.

But you can hurt plenty of people.

Taking a breath, she sank under the water in an attempt to escape from the nagging voices. Alas, she knew it was impossible to drown them out. They were always there. And they always would be.

You could drown yourself, though.

Breaking the surface with a gasp, she grabbed a bar of soap and went to work on her hair and skin, eager to distract herself from the tempting suggestion.

"Ah, poor bird, take thy flight," she sang softly as she scrubbed the grime from her fingertips, "above the sorrows of this sad night."

The voices eventually died down, and she was able to finish her bath in relative peace. But as she drained the tub and dried herself with a freshly laundered towel, she wondered if maybe they were right. Perhaps she never would escape her past. After all, hadn't the Lipstick Woman and Ape Man found her here? Who was to say her parents wouldn't learn of her escape? And when they did, what would they do to her? Force her to return home?

She let out a short laugh. That was unlikely. Her parents wanted nothing to do with her. And she couldn't blame them. Not after what she'd done.

Her chest tightened as scenes from that night again played through her head. She sat on the edge of the tub and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing those painful memories down. There was nothing she could do. She couldn't change the past. She couldn't right wrongs.

She couldn't bring back the dead.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, she opened her eyes and found a momentary distraction in the form of a moth fluttering about the room. She gazed at it thoughtfully, trying to determine whether it was really there or if it was a figment of her imagination. Not that it mattered. There was no one else here to worry about. Real or not, she was free to react as she pleased.

She stretched out her hand, and the moth floated down onto her index finger. Bringing it closer, she marveled at the pink markings on its moon-colored wings. Its feathery antennae quivered as it rubbed its tiny legs up and down its face.

She couldn't help but smile. As terrifying as her mind could be, it did on occasion create something beautiful.

Maybe she wasn't quite as broken as she thought.

A thunderous roar filled the room. Looking up in surprise, she found herself surrounded by a swarm of moths identical to the one on her finger. They were a flurry of pink, fluttering wings, and the combined sound of their flight was deafening.

She closed her eyes and released a long sigh. No, she was just as unstable as she'd always believed.

~

Fed up with the moths, she retreated to her room to change into her nightgown and retire for the night. As she sat on the bed and combed through her damp hair, her thoughts drifted back to that newspaper article about the baron from Broadfall. She'd been so distracted by the name of the town that she hadn't even read the name of the gentleman. But based on his picture, he was no one she knew. Then again, she hadn't been the most social person when at home. It'd been enough work trying to keep her condition hidden from her family, never mind the rest of the neighborhood.

She froze, her eyes widening. Perhaps she didn't know the baron, but her mother likely did. Her mother knew everyone. And everyone knew her mother. So what if this baron knew about what she had done? What if he knew why she'd been sent away? If Booker went to him in search of information on the Wolf, he could come back with more than that. He could find out about the blood she'd spilt. About the life she'd taken.

About her darkest sins.

Shaking her head, she resumed her combing and gave a nervous laugh. That was ridiculous. She hadn't told Booker where she'd grown up. How would he even have an inkling that it had been Broadfall? No, she was being absurd.

But her stomach sank when she recalled the orderlies. If he didn't find out in Broadfall, there was still a chance he'd find out here in Tinkerfall. Although, did the Lipstick Woman know all the details? She couldn't remember. Memories of her arrival at the asylum were fuzzy and unfocused. Nevertheless, there was a possibility the vile woman did know. And considering how cruel and spiteful that wicked orderly was, Trinket was certain she'd find a way to tell Booker every sordid detail.

And then what?

He'll send you away.

Just like your family did.

She tossed her comb onto the nightstand and turned down the covers. Her hair was still damp, but she couldn't bear anymore waking moments alone. Booker was a smart man. If he wanted to learn about her past, he would've by now. Besides, he was a mad scientist who made limbs out of gears and metal. And his morals were far from high. Perhaps he wouldn't despise her as much as she thought if he learned the truth.

Even an immoral doctor couldn't stomach what you've done.

Letting out a long breath, she crawled under her blankets and settled into bed. It was true. No one could forgive the sort of sins she'd committed. She was a monster. She was unfit to be around other people.

And she was selfish, too. Because, despite knowing what a terrible person she was, she still wanted to stay in Tinkerfall. She wanted to remain here with a doctor who thought she was useful. She wanted to help him fix those who had been deemed unfixable by society. And in order to do that, she needed to keep her horrible past hidden.

"Broadfall and Elysium be damned," she whispered as she blew out her candle and pitched the room into darkness.

~

She woke with the sun the next morning. Despite a deep ache in her muscles and the lingering fear that her secrets would be revealed, she quickly got dressed so she could have breakfast ready before Booker came up from the laboratory.

She trotted down the stairs in a more optimistic mood than she would've expected after her panicked state the night before. Perhaps that was a sign that things would work out for the best. She could only hope.

As she reached the final step, the front door flew open. It took her by such surprise that she nearly fell onto her backside. Clutching the railing to keep herself upright, she watched as Booker hurried into the foyer in his coat and hat. When he caught sight of her on the stairs, his eyes widened and he backed into the door as if she were threatening him with a knife.

She let out a relieved breath. "Are you just getting in?"

He sighed and peeled himself off the door. "Ah, early meeting," he said as he placed his hat on the coat rack.

"Another one? Didn't you have a meeting last night?"

He flashed her a smile but avoided her gaze. "I'm a busy man, Trinket. Everyone wants a piece of me."

Clearing his throat, he made his way into the parlour and stood in front of the settee. But instead of sitting down, he glanced about the room, seeming almost lost. Sighing, he paced over to the fireplace and then returned to the hallway, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he walked. Trinket followed at a distance, completely baffled. What could have put him so out of sorts?

"Would you like some tea?" she asked as he opened the laboratory door.

He jumped and turned to face her, refusing to meet her eyes. "Ah, no, not now, thank you. However, if you could run to the Tinker's shop for me, I need some more gears. I've written the sizes and amounts on a scrap of paper. Should be in my coat pocket."

Before she could respond, he quickly slipped into the stairwell and closed the door. Still puzzled by his demeanour, she fetched the paper from his pocket and glanced at the abominable handwriting. She had no clue what any of the words meant. Hopefully the Tinker would.

Her eyes wandered back to the laboratory door, and she furrowed her brow as she recalled her employer's odd behavior. What in heavens could have spooked the likes of Booker Larkin?

"Seems he's not as infallible as he'd like the world to believe," she said to herself as she grabbed her coat and headed out the door.