Her eyes fluttered open, and she was welcomed back to consciousness by an excruciating pain in her leg. However, the biting cold of the winter air had been replaced by warmth from what sounded like a crackling fire. Blinking a few times to adjust her vision, she surveyed her new surroundings.

She was in a parlour. A rather nice parlour. Lavishly decorated, it betrayed itself as belonging to a wealthy individual. The acanthus wallpaper was a rich red and gold and the dado a deep mahogany graining. There was a beautiful rug with a damask pattern in vivid crimson and dark brown, the colors closely matching the walls. The settee on which she lay was made of oak adorned with carved designs of vines and grotesque masks. She ran her numb fingertips along the bright red silk, hardly able to believe she was reclining on something so elegant.

What a change of scenery. To go from feverish halls and stained mattresses to luxury like this? It had been so long since she'd even laid eyes on a room so lovely. Truthfully, she hadn't thought she'd ever see the outside world again, never mind a house as grand as this. Was it a dream? Another hallucination?

Nothing from your twisted brain could be this beautiful.

Letting out a heavy breath through her nose, she reluctantly agreed with the voice. All her broken psyche could conjure up were things of nightmares. Beauty like this was beyond her condition.

Someone entered the room, and she lifted her head to find the young man from earlier with a leather bag in his hand. He stopped when he caught her eye and smiled.

"Ah, you're awake," he said. "That wasn't a very long fainting spell."

She watched him closely as he knelt before her and opened the bag. Taking out several medical instruments, he laid them down side by side on the low table in front of the settee. None of it seemed too threatening, but the sight of anything having to do with doctors caused her chest to tighten as she recalled the abuse she'd experienced while in Elysium.

"I was just about to take care of that nasty gash in your leg," he explained. He gestured to her injured limb. "May I?"

Though still wary of this stranger and his medical equipment, she nodded and lifted the skirt of her dress. Someone had removed the bottom half of the stocking and tied a tourniquet about her leg, but the wound continued to ooze blood. The young man ran his hands over her calf, examining the gash carefully and ignoring the bruises that had been there before the attack. His eyes widened, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Absolutely fascinating," he mumbled to himself. Sitting up straight once more, he took a wet cloth and began to clean the cut. "As I'm sure you're already well aware, you were not attacked by an ordinary wolf. That creature appeared to have—"

"Metal teeth," she finished, resisting the urge to flinch at his touch.

He raised his eyebrows, another smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. And to support that theory, your wound doesn't resemble a typical dog bite. Or wolf bite in this case. It's far too clean. The beast's teeth sliced through your flesh like a knife through butter."

The enthusiasm in his voice seemed slightly inappropriate for what had just occurred, and she found herself staring at him blankly as he gazed at her excitedly. There was a brief moment of silence before he cleared his throat and tossed the damp cloth onto the table.

"Anyhow," he continued, "I should probably stitch this up."

Picking up a bottle, he doused a second rag with its contents and inched closer to her. Panic seized her chest, and she jerked away from the sweet-smelling cloth. He pulled back a bit, looking at the rag in perplexity before turning to her once more.

"It's only ether. For the pain when I suture your leg."

Again, he moved towards her, but she plastered herself against the settee. That horrible smell seeped into her senses, transporting her back to the infirmary.

With the drugs.

And the ice baths.

And the Jar.

Her limbs twitched involuntarily at the memory of electricity running through her body.

The young man lowered the drug-soaked rag, still seemingly perplexed. "Are you sure? It's going to hurt."

She shook her head violently, eyes glued to the rag until he sighed in defeat and placed it back in his bag.

"As you wish," he relented.

After lighting a candle, he picked up a needle and passed the pointed end through the flame several times before threading it. Bending over her leg, he cast her a single worried glance, as if he hoped she'd change her mind. But she wouldn't. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself as the needle stabbed through her skin.

While the pain was unpleasant, it was nothing she wasn't used to. Her battered and scarred body was a testament to the abuse she could withstand. Besides, she'd rather the pain than the drugs, especially drugs administered by a doctor she had just met. Although, this particular doctor seemed somewhat different from the ones she'd known. At least this one didn't sport a stupid mustache.

"Finished," the doctor announced after what felt like hours.

She opened her eyes, her muscles slowly relaxing as she took in the neat, tiny stitching in her leg. It quite resembled her own needlework before she'd been banished to Elysium. She'd never known a man who could sew like that. With such a steady hand, he would have made a fine lady.

"I'll apply some honey to stave off infection," he said, fetching a jar from his bag. He chuckled as he removed the lid and stuck his fingers into the sticky substance. "You're the first person I've met who's refused anaesthetic. I've known grown men who wept even with ether. And with far less serious injuries."

She bit her lip, watching his every move with a wary eye. "I don't like drugs."

"Clearly." Having finished coating her wound with a thin layer of honey, he started to gently but firmly wrap her leg with a bandage. "You're also unafraid of vicious wolves with otherworldly features. So unafraid that you willingly and unflinchingly walked into an alley where one such creature was cornered."

Her gaze still on his busy hands, she gave a halfhearted shrug.

"I haven't encountered such bravery in all my life," he said.

You? Brave? Ha!

"I'm not so sure it's bravery," she mumbled, loathe to agree with the abusive voice in her head.

He leaned towards her. "What was that?"

"You seem to know an awful lot about what happened before you arrived on the scene. Am I to understand that you watched from afar and did nothing as a young woman walked into certain death?"

The young doctor grinned. "I didn't do nothing. I interfered."

"Only after I had been attacked."

"Well, you seemed to have a handle on it."

What sort of person was this stranger? How could he speak so lightly about such a horrendous event as nearly being mauled to death by a wolf? She stared at him for several seconds, unable to formulate any kind of response to his lack of concern. His gaze was steady, his cognac eyes dancing with something she couldn't name.

Letting out a sudden laugh, he held out his hand. "The name is Booker Larkin."

She glanced down at it and then back up at his face.

He wiggled his fingers a little. "This is generally the part where the other person takes the offered hand and introduces themselves with their given name."

Name? He wanted her name? The thought of revealing who she really was gripped her heart with fear and forced her into silence.

Lowering his hand, he tilted his head to the side. "Not one for formalities? Well, I can appreciate that. How about just your name?"

She pursed her lips together, trying to keep herself from running out of the room. Of course, she wouldn't likely get far with an injured leg. But she'd rather risk causing herself more harm than give him her name. Her name could lead to her family. To her past.

To her sins.

No, she couldn't let that happen.

He grinned at her refusal to answer. "No? So it's the name you have an issue with. Very well. I won't pry. I'm sure you have your reasons for such secrecy. But I need to call you something, so it seems I'll have to come up with one for you. And let me warn you, I'm rubbish with names. Let's see."

He got up and began to pace, examining the walls and mirrors and paintings, as if searching for inspiration amongst them. She watched him with keen interest, observing how he walked with large steps and a quick pace, like he was in a rush to get somewhere. He held his chin high, his eyes constantly darting about the room, taking in every inch of his surroundings. His fingers fidgeted as he chattered his teeth and occasionally blew a strand of dark hair out of his pale face. Everything about him spoke excitement and intrigue.

Yes, he was much different from the doctors she'd known before.

After a long lap around the room, he returned to her and said, "So, my dear, because you refuse to give me your actual name, I am bestowing upon you a new one. From now on I shall refer to you as Trinket. Quite terrible, isn't it?"

Trinket? Was that even a name? How on earth had he come up with it? Nevertheless, she played it through her head several times, running her tongue over her teeth, tasting it, testing it. Trinket. It was different. And a tad bizarre. But then again, so was she.

Booker watched her, one eyebrow raised while he awaited her reply. Her long silence, though, seemed to discourage him. The excitement that had lit up his eyes earlier faded, and he deflated a little as he made to leave the room. His reaction was almost childish, and it nearly coaxed a smile out of her chapped lips.

"Mr. Larkin," she called out before he could go far. "It's lovely to meet you. My name is Trinket."

He turned and smiled as she extended her hand. Slowly pacing back to her, he took it and gave it a firm shake.

"A pleasure, Miss Trinket."