Trinket had never been inside any of the rooms at the Clocktower. And now that she was standing in the middle of one, she realized she was not missing out. The floors were creaky and covered in unrecognizable stains, and the green floral wallpaper was fading to yellow and peeling in the corners. There was a single bed covered with a patchwork quilt and two pillows that were so flat they might as well have not even been there. A window was hidden by thin curtains that had been patched so many times it was impossible to tell what the original color had been.
The door closed behind her, and she listened as Booker secured the locks. "I know it's not much, but it will do for one night," he said, appearing beside her. He threw her a sidelong glance. "Are you nervous?"
Her muscles tensed, but she refused to let on that he was correct. "Why would I be nervous?"
Pacing over to the bed, he sat on the end and stretched out his legs. "You're alone in a sleazy rented room with a devastatingly handsome doctor. No one could blame you if you were anxious. Or even a little excited."
He waggled his eyebrows and cast her an infuriating grin. She narrowed her eyes at him and glared. Laughing softly, he rose to his feet and took a few steps towards her, his head dipped in a contrite manner.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to be disrespectful. I'm just trying to lighten the mood a bit."
Folding her arms over her chest, she moved further into the room and inspected the furnishings. "I am surprised you were frightened enough to insist on waiting until morning to return home." She glanced over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow. "Is the dauntless Booker Larkin intimidated by a Mouse?"
He hesitated before heaving a sigh and leaning against the wall. "Aren't you the one always telling me I should be more afraid of them?"
"I keep telling you that you should be warier."
He looked away. "I was worried that if we tried to go home now, they would jump us on the street in an attempt to get information we don't have. But they would torture us until they got something out of us, and I wasn't quite in the mood to have my fingers cut off and my teeth pulled out."
She shuddered at the thought. "How did they even find out about the girl?"
"Who knows? Maybe they have someone following us. Or perhaps they saw us talking to her earlier and assumed we'd end up at the Clocktower. It's a small city. There are only so many places we could meet."
Daring to sit on the suspiciously stained quilt, Trinket let out a sigh. "Do you think they'll catch her?"
"Based on her disappearing act downstairs, I think she has a fighting chance."
"I'm sorry you didn't get the information you wanted."
He shrugged. "Chances are he's not even the man we're looking for."
There was a trace of disappointment in his words. It was true that they were running on a hunch. But that man's nails wouldn't leave her thoughts. There was a connection between him and the mutilated corpses. She was sure of it. It was just that there were so many pieces to the puzzle that she often got lost in her mind trying to put them all in place.
You'll never figure it out.
So stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Booker's soft chuckle interrupted the voices as he moved to the small desk in the corner. "This place certainly takes me back," he said, running a finger along its dusty top.
"Right. You said you used to perform your surgeries here."
"Indeed. I replaced a number of limbs in these rooms." He scuffed a stain on the floorboards. "I may even be responsible for some of these."
The thought should have made her sick, but she had seen enough blood in her short time with him that it was becoming easier to stomach. "How long ago was that?"
He stared up at the ceiling and released a deep breath. "Two, three years? Although time often gets away from me, so I could be off a bit."
Two or three years. He had been chasing after this man for almost three years? Or had it been longer? Was it just that long since he had started attaching mechanical limbs to desperate patients? What had he done before that to try to catch his friend's attention?
She studied him carefully as he gazed up at the water-stained ceiling. To think that he cared about someone so much that he was willing to focus his entire life on trying to impress them. She didn't know if that was admirable or pitiable. But it certainly made him more fallible. He wasn't just the cocky, brilliant doctor who could make her angrier than anyone she had ever known. He was also a vulnerable, sentimental little boy.
Picturing him as a child caused a smile to slowly spread over her face.
He must have sensed her attention, as his eyes moved from the ceiling to her. "What?"
Shaking her head, she smoothed out the musty quilt. "Nothing."
He pulled out the chair by the desk and sat down. "You're thinking what a fool I am for chasing after someone for so long?"
A twinge of guilt twisted her stomach. "I was thinking that this room is still nicer than the one I stayed in back at Elysium."
At the mention of the asylum, Booker straightened up and focused on her. "You don't say?"
Nodding, she kept her eyes trained on the quilt. "All I had was a straw-filled mattress and a threadbare blanket. No windows. No light. Just me in the darkness."
"Sounds lovely."
"But I preferred to be left alone in my room. It was better than being dragged out for treatments."
"What sort of treatments?" he asked carefully.
Surely he knew already. He said once that he had toured asylums when he was training. A brilliant man like him couldn't be ignorant of the practices in such establishments. But she answered him all the same. "There were the everyday chores that were supposed to focus our broken minds. But then there were also ice-cold baths. And being strung up by your hands and neck." She gave a wry smile. "And drugs, of course."
He cleared his throat nervously.
"It was the Jar I feared the most, though," she continued. "Some hideous contraption filled with electricity. I only experienced it once, but that was enough. One of the other girls there told me that after a while you don't remember the pain. But I did. I still do."
Running a hand up her arm, she could almost feel the electricity pulsing through her veins, hitting every nerve and bone until her entire body was filled with excruciating fire.
Burning fire.
That went on and on and on.
You deserve it.
Scum.
Monster.
Die, die, die, die—
She swallowed hard and turned to Booker, finding his gaze fixed intently on her. "After a date with the Jar, one tended to be much more compliant," she said.
His eyes wandered, and she thought she saw pain and guilt behind them. The pain she could understand. But the guilt? "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Trinket," he said softly.
Shrugging, she turned her attention back to the quilt. "You should probably rest. You're still recovering from your illness."
Though he seemed reluctant to change the subject, he went along with it. "I wasn't ill. And I'm recovered."
"Really? Does that mean your tremors are just a product of my sick mind?"
He lifted his trembling hands and frowned at them. "I do hope that stops. If my hands aren't steady, I'll be a rubbish surgeon." He squeezed his fingers into fists. "And that is unacceptable."
"Maybe if you rest, you'll recover more speedily."
Waving away her concerns, he tilted his chair back. "There's only one bed anyhow."
She rose to her feet and motioned to the bed. "Right, so go sleep in it."
"And where will you sleep?"
Glancing about the room, she was struck by the sheer emptiness of it. She shrugged and turned to him. "I'll rest in the chair."
He leaned forward, and the chair protested his movement. "Or you could sleep in the bed while I sit in the chair and keep watch."
"Keep watch?"
"In case the Mice catch on to our plan."
"Booker, would you please just take the bed?"
"Trinket."
"Booker."
He sighed. "Why are you so intent on getting me into bed?"
Heat crawled up her neck and spread to her cheeks, her stomach twisting in a strangely delightful and terrifying manner.
Booker knit his brows together, and then it seemed to dawn on him. Clearing his throat, he looked away. "I simply meant, why do you want me to sleep? In the bed. So badly."
Rubbing the blush from her nape, she averted her eyes. "Because despite what you say, you're still not yourself. You need to sleep and rest to fully recover."
"It wouldn't matter anyhow."
"Why not?"
He heaved another sigh and turned to her. "Because I find sleep to be rather evasive as of late."
She started. "You can't sleep?"
"No, not very well." He gave a crude laugh. "Funny, isn't it? I began taking that concoction in order to make long periods of sleep unnecessary. Since I've quit it, it's proving effortless to stay awake. And yet now I find myself desperate to slumber. On top of that, I have a new—ah, I can't quite name it. A feeling of unease. Sudden panic. Irritability. Not always, but every so often, it comes on out of the blue. It's frustrating. And incredibly tiring."
He ran his hands over his face, and Trinket couldn't help but notice how much more defined the circles under his eyes had become. Sympathy tugged at her heart, and she moved closer to him, seating herself on the corner of the desk. He glanced up at her. His confidence and carefree manner had slipped away from his visage, being replaced with exhaustion and a bit of vulnerability. Without realizing what she was doing, she pushed his hair back from his forehead, gently running her fingers through it. His eyes closed at her touch, and her hand lingered at the nape of his neck.
Something spread from the tips of her fingers to the rest of her body. A warm tingling that was surprisingly pleasant. Booker opened his eyes and met her gaze. The intensity behind them made her forget where she was. All she could see were those intoxicating eyes focused on her. While she couldn't deny that she was intrigued by his attention, it was somehow frightening as well.
Slowly, she removed her hand from his neck and placed it in her lap. Booker let out a long breath, and it occurred to her that he had been holding it this entire time. Closing his eyes once more, he took several breaths before opening them again.
"How about a compromise?" he said softly. "We both share the bed, but neither of us sleeps?"
Trinket's eyes widened, and she hoped she was misreading his intentions. And yet, at the same time, hoped that maybe she wasn't.
Wait, what?
Her reaction must have made him rethink his phrasing. "Why don't we both keep watch for the Mice while resting on the bed. On top of the covers. Fully clothed."
He smiled teasingly, and somehow it managed to dispel her perplexing emotions. "Very well, Mr. Larkin."
~
By the time they left late the next morning, Trinket was more exhausted than she had been the night before. She and Booker had sat up in the bed for hours, on top of the covers and fully clothed as he had promised. Sometimes they talked, but for the most part, they enjoyed a comfortable silence. While Booker found sleep nearly impossible, Trinket could hardly keep her eyes open. And though he told her she should feel free to sleep, she couldn't seem to allow herself to drift off. She trusted Booker, but the intensity of that night had left her slightly unnerved, and she was worried what dreams and nightmares would haunt her if she slipped into slumber.
"What do you say? Shall we breakfast here?" Booker asked as they descended the stairs and made their way into the alehouse.
The smells of ripe cheese and over-cooked porridge permeated the room. She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think my stomach could manage it this early."
"Perhaps Daphne will cook us something back home."
"Do you think it's safe to leave now?"
"The sun is in the sky and there are likely plenty of people milling about. The advantage to having stayed here for the night is that the alehouse is in the middle of the city. So if the Mice want to abduct us, they'll have to do so in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses."
Arm in arm, they headed outside where, just as he had conjectured, there were crowds of people bustling about the street. Booker smiled down at her, and together, they made the journey back home. The thought of warm crumpets and eggs was appetizing, but more than anything, she was longing to crawl into her bed and catch a few hours of sleep.
Someone in a bowler hat and long coat ran by, pushing them apart and nearly knocking her over. Booker shouted at them, but they kept running until they disappeared around a corner. As they did, Trinket could have sworn she saw a flash of a scar down the side of their face. She turned to Booker to ask if he had seen it, too, but his eyes were wide as he put a hand in his pocket.
"Booker, what—"
Before she could finish her thought, he grabbed hold of her arm and hurried her down the road. He did not speak a word until they were inside the house with the door securely locked. Only then did he pull from his pocket what appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper, holding it close to his face.
Daphne, having heard them come in, emerged from the kitchen. She looked at Trinket questioningly, but all Trinket could do was shrug. Booker read the note several times, his eyes growing wider and wider. Finally, he passed it to Trinket. It was the same messy handwriting of the girl with the scar:
Primrose's nails keep getting dirty. Perhaps the matches she plays with are to blame? There's some soap on the third floor that she could use. Three bars should do the trick. Her nails are disgusting enough to raise the dead.
She stared at the message, trying to understand what on earth it could mean. She glanced up at Booker who watched her with great anticipation. "Who's Primrose?" she asked.
"Primrose Street," he said, his eyes lighting up.
Primrose Street?
Oh!
Matches. Dirty nails.
She looked down at the note again. They had been right. The young man with the dirty fingernails did live in the apartment building across from the matchstick factory. And it seemed that the girl with the scar had given them an exact room to visit.