As soon as Trinket told Daphne of Booker's recovery, she immediately brought up soup and her meticulous mothering nature. Booker looked at Trinket questioningly as Daphne checked his pulse and temperature. However, he didn't say a word until she left them both alone with the soup.
"She's doing well," he said as Trinket settled back onto the stool by his bed.
"Daphne? Yes, she's amazing," she said, taking up her own bowl of soup after making certain Booker had a firm grip on his.
"Daphne? Oh, Lord, you've named her?"
"It's your silly rule. Patients must have names. Even if it's not their actual name." She swallowed a spoonful of soup. "Oh, and I hired her."
Booker nearly choked on his food. "Pardon?"
"I hired her."
Wiping his mouth, he cleared his throat before asking, "Why the devil did you hire her?"
"Because with her new additions, it will be impossible for her to start fresh elsewhere. Your portable aquariums are not as easy to hide as a mechanical arm or hearing piece."
A playful smile tugged at his lips. "Portable aquariums?"
"And besides that, she's incredibly handy around the kitchen." She motioned to the bowl of soup in his hands. "She's an excellent cook. And she isn't fazed by any of the chaotic goings-on that we throw ourselves into. Look how readily she agreed to have your devices attached to her. And she didn't even hesitate to start taking care of you when I found you semi-conscious and spewing up who-knows-what."
Booker let out a sigh. "Very well. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep her close considering she's the only person we've come across who has actually seen Benedict. Perhaps she can help us find him."
"Precisely."
They continued to eat in silence, the clinking of their spoons against the bowls mixing with the crackling and popping of the fire. After a moment, Booker snuck a glance at Trinket. "But I hope this doesn't mean you won't be making me tea anymore."
She arched an eyebrow. "She makes fine tea."
"Yes, but I've become quite accustomed to your tea, and I'm not too keen on changing that."
She smiled despite herself. "Of course. I view making your tea as part of my duties as your assistant."
He returned the smile and took another spoonful of soup. "Excellent. So, tell me, have you been able to ferret any more information out of this Daphne?"
"Only that she's not a night flower. I tried to find out where she came from, but she was reluctant to tell me, never mind how difficult it is for her to communicate."
"You seem to have a rather good grip on it. I myself can't figure out what she's trying to convey."
"She's very expressive, so that makes it easier. But there are some things that you just need words to say."
"Does she write?"
Trinket recalled Daphne's written instructions regarding the mint. "Yes, she does."
"Maybe we can get her to write down what she remembers of her time spent with Benedict."
"It's worth a try."
When they had finished eating, they called Daphne up to question her right away. She sat at Booker's writing desk with him and Trinket watching over her shoulder. Booker leaned against Trinket for support, and as she held him close about the waist, she could feel that he was trembling.
"Booker, perhaps we should wait until you've had more time to recover," she said softly.
"Nonsense, I'm perfectly fine," he insisted. "So tell us, Daphne, my dear, do you know the name of the man who performed this surgery on you?"
Instead of writing a response, Daphne shook her head.
"All right, how about a description? You said he was tall, right?"
Nodding, she bent over the paper before her and began scribbling a crude picture of a very tall man with dark hair and what looked like tinted glasses. He appeared to be well-dressed, but it was hard to tell from a simple drawing.
"Could be him," Booker mumbled. He cleared his throat. "How did you happen to fall into his hands?"
Hesitating, Daphne shrugged.
"Anything you remember. Anything at all," Booker pleaded.
Though she still seemed uncertain, Daphne took a deep breath and picked up the pen. Both Trinket and Booker watched with rapt attention as she filled the paper with her pretty handwriting. After a while, she stopped and handed the paper to Booker. Trinket leaned in to read along with him.
I got into some trouble at home. As punishment, my tongue was cut out and I was beaten severely and left for dead on the street. Between the cold and my injuries, I blacked out. When I came to, I was in a wagon. I cried out and two men appeared, one tall with dark glasses, the other young.
Trinket inhaled sharply. Could this young man be the same one who had hurt Emma? The one with the dirty fingernails and unusually clean teeth? Could he be involved in trafficking? Had he decided to expand his clientele beyond night flowers? She looked at Booker, but he was concentrating on the note, so she returned her attention to it.
The tall man said something to the young man before putting a rag over my mouth. I blacked out again. I really don't remember anything else before that little girl found me. There are fragments in between, but it's all a delirious blur.
"So you don't remember anything after you blacked out the second time? Not a location or a name?" Booker asked.
Daphne shook her head.
Sighing, he ran a trembling hand through his hair. He was leaning on Trinket more and more, and she began to worry about keeping him out of bed much longer.
"Booker, maybe we should stop for now," she suggested.
He held up a finger. She bit her lip and tightened her hold on him.
"Do you remember the date that your tongue was cut out?" he asked Daphne.
She shook her head.
"What was the last date you do remember?"
She thought for a moment before jotting something down and holding it up.
"That was over two weeks ago," Booker said to himself. "Give or take for lack of a definite day when she was picked up by our little friend, there's a chance she didn't come here until a few days before the third body was found."
"What does that mean?" Trinket asked.
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw as he concentrated. Finally, he let out a frustrated breath and slumped against her. "I have no idea. I'm grasping at straws here."
His weight was becoming more than she could handle on her own. "Come on, Booker, you need to rest. Daphne, could you—"
Daphne immediately abandoned her pen and grabbed one of Booker's arms. Together, they led him back to the bed. Though he did not protest, he seemed less than pleased with being ordered about and treated like an invalid. Daphne gathered up their empty bowls and returned to the kitchen, leaving Trinket to fuss over him.
"Please, I'm not a child," he said as she adjusted his pillows.
"It doesn't matter how old you are when you're sick, you still need someone to take care of you."
"But I'm not actually sick."
She took in his pale face and trembling hands and frowned. "You look plenty sick to me."
"I was just hoping this would be what we were looking for," he said, returning to the subject of Daphne. "That this would be what would break the case."
Taking her place back on the stool, Trinket picked at the quilt. "Do you really think Benedict would make it that easy for you?"
Sighing, Booker let his head fall back on the pillows. "No. And I wouldn't want him to. It would be an insult to my intelligence. I just don't understand why I can't make this connection. Surely there's something there, something in the corpses and in Daphne that will lead us to him. Or at least lead us to where he wants us to be."
"Booker, you were in a delirious state for a week. You're allowed to show a little weakness."
"Weaknesses will get you killed. You must turn them into strengths to stay alive."
"I just mean that no one is expecting you to be right back to your old self. You don't have to go from writhing in pain night after night straight into solving complicated mysteries."
"'No one'? No one knows what happened, and frankly, I don't want them to. If they think I'm vulnerable, they'll take me for everything I am, mark my word."
Gripping the quilt, Trinket leaned forward. "I don't expect you to, Booker."
His frustration seemed to fade away as he met her eyes, replaced by a soft, contemplative expression that made her stomach twist delightfully "No, your expectations for me are much different, aren't they?" he asked gently.
She knit her brows together. "My expectations for you?"
He shook his head and turned away. "No, nothing. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need to rest. I still seem to be a bit delirious."
Nodding, she rose to leave. But as she lingered in the doorway, she threw a final glance over her shoulder. Booker looked so different when he was resting. His face lacked its normal confidence and teasing smile. He looked younger, more innocent. Perhaps this was how he was when he was a young boy. Then again, based on the company he kept even as a child, he was probably never all that innocent to begin with.
Still, there was something very sweet and vulnerable about him as he slept, and watching him caused something warm to grow in her chest. There was no describing the relief at having him back. The panic and terror she had experienced before were only fully measurable now that she knew what peace felt like.
And yet there was an undeniable agitation inside of her that was both frightening and pleasant at the same time. And it was that sensation that kept her worried.