Upon returning home, Booker brought the dead pigeon downstairs to examine it more closely. This was certainly not the work of a run-of-the-mill stray. The bite marks were reminiscent of the wound the Wolf had left on Trinket's leg: clean yet jagged cuts. Like wild knives slicing through flesh.
Letting out a long sigh, he tapped his pen against the notebook in which he'd written his observations. Of course, this didn't really bring him any closer to the beast. It only gave him more evidence that it existed. But he didn't need evidence. He already knew it was real. There was no denying that. He'd seen it with his own eyes. What he needed was to find the animal's creator.
Benedict.
Booker rubbed his tired eyes. Staring at the dead pigeon wasn't going to bring him any closer to his goal. What he needed to do was get out there and start asking questions. He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. The Clocktower would be filled with drunk patrons by now. Perhaps he would be able to pick up on some prime gossip.
Getting to his feet, he tugged on his jacket and made his way upstairs. He wasn't all that hungry, but dining at the Clocktower rarely had anything to do with food. Even so, he knew he had to eat every once in a while to stave off malnutrition. Not that the Clocktower's stew was all that nutritious.
As he emerged into the main part of the house, he noticed smoke trailing down the hallway from the kitchen. He furrowed his brow, wondering what Trinket could be doing in there when there was a sudden crash. Flashbacks of Song being burnt by the boiling pot of water sent him into a panic, and he nearly tripped over his feet as he rushed towards the kitchen.
There was no spilled pot of boiling water nor was there an injured maid on the floor. But there was smoke. Lots of it. He coughed and waved it away as he moved further into the room, searching for Trinket.
"Blasted flies," mumbled a voice from the scullery.
Booker peered inside and found Trinket standing before the sink, waving away the steam that was rising from it. "Good Lord, what's happening in here?" he asked.
Trinket glanced over her shoulder. "I was attempting to make a stew for dinner, but that didn't exactly work out," she said, gesturing to the still steaming pot.
He leaned over her to get a better look and laughed when he saw the gooey, burnt mess in the pot. "Well, it's certainly not inedible, but it does seem a bit overcooked."
"I'm sorry. I know I haven't been doing very well with regard to meals."
"I hardly eat anyhow. Your crumpets and toast have been sufficient for me. Besides, I was just about to go out to the Clocktower. We can dine there tonight."
She turned to him, her brow furrowed. "'We'?"
"Of course. I can't have you stuck here eating burnt stew now, can I? What sort of an employer would I be if I allowed that?"
"A normal one?"
A smile threatened to break over his face, but he held it back and gestured for her to follow him. "Come, I insist."
Trinket trotted after him. "But what about the mess I made? I should really clean it up and do something with the stew."
Booker donned his coat and hat and handed Trinket her coat as he waved away her concerns. "No need."
Taking her arm and linking it with his own, he led her outside and called out to Madison who was on the opposite side of the street. The young urchin came scurrying over. "Yes, sir?" he panted.
"Is Gin about?" Booker asked.
"Yes, sir, just down the street playing cards."
"Good. Go get her and a few more of your mates. There's some stew in the scullery. A tad burnt but still edible, I'm sure. Have Gin lock up when you leave."
"Yes, sir!" the boy said, running off to find Gin.
"Is it wise to let them in your house like that?" Trinket asked as Booker led her up the street towards the center. "You're not worried they'll rob you?"
"No, especially not with Gin around," Booker said. "I've earned the loyalty of these children. They'd never take anything from me that I did not offer them. Come on. I can't wait for you to experience the fine dining the Clocktower is known for."
~
The serving girl set down two bowls of stew in front of Booker and Trinket. "Enjoy," she said, turning to help another table.
Trinket eyed the stew suspiciously before setting her gaze on Booker. She cocked an eyebrow, and he flashed her a teasing smile. "All right, so perhaps it's not exactly fine dining, but it tastes better than it looks, I assure you," he said.
Leaving her stew untouched, Trinket gazed about at her surroundings, her eyes passing over the various clocks adorning the walls. "You really come here to eat?" she asked.
"You grow accustomed to the atmosphere," he said as he stirred his stew. "And I find I enjoy the lively conversation."
Her attention returned to the boisterous room, taking in the smoke and laughter and the odd collection of rogues and drunks. He watched her curiously until a familiar face passed by their table.
"Ah, Orpha, how are you tonight?" he asked the woman.
She stopped and gave a sharp smile as she lifted her chin up high to look down on him. "You're not getting me caught up in this wolf business, Booker Larkin. Last time I tried to get information for you, I nearly lost a finger."
"Come now, you know I could've fixed you right up if any harm was done."
"Fingers and hands, perhaps, but not slit throats. Find yourself another informant, Dr. Larkin."
Despite her firm refusal, she shot him a sly grin before sauntering off to a table of loud, drunk men and sitting herself in the lap of the most inebriated one of the bunch.
Trinket turned her attention to him and raised her eyebrows. "So it's not the food you come here for."
He shrugged. "I do have to eat, but I'll confess that I prefer the Clocktower for its talkative patrons. Some of the more notorious folks find their way here, as do bored servants. It's one of the prime locations for collecting information," he said as he took a spoonful of stew.
"Is collecting information so dangerous that people may lose body parts?"
He grinned. "Information is a valuable commodity, my dear. People lose their lives over it."
Trinket looked down at her stew and hesitantly sampled a bite. Booker tried to keep from smiling as he watched her consider the taste before taking another spoonful. After swallowing down the second, she looked back up at him.
"So is that what Gin does? Brings you information?" she asked.
"Yes, she's my best source. The best pickpocket, too, I might add."
"How many sources do you have?"
"Oh, plenty. After two years here, I've learned my way around the servants and street folk quite well. I'm very charming and persuasive."
He gave her a wink and was slightly disappointed when he got no reaction.
"So you have mutant wolves wandering about the city often enough that you need that many informants?" she asked.
"No, the Wolf only showed up shortly before I stumbled upon you. Tinkerfall isn't known so much for its bizarre happenings as it is its sordid reputation." He gestured to the crowd around them. "As you can see, it's a breeding ground for all sorts of colorful characters."
She scanned the room once more and then hesitated before leaning in towards him. "When you say bizarre happenings—"
There was a shout from a nearby group, followed by laughter and howls as a mousy young girl with a bandaged wrist stormed over to the other side of the room. She sat at an empty table, her face growing redder with every taunting howl that came from her rowdy friends.
Booker caught Trinket's eye and raised his eyebrows excitedly before cocking his head in the girl's direction. They left their stew behind and made their way over to the mousy girl who was now glaring out the window.
"Good evening, miss. Mind if we join you?" Booker asked as he and Trinket slid into the empty chairs at her table.
The girl jumped when he spoke and quickly averted her eyes.
"I couldn't help but overhear the howls coming from your friends," he continued. "By any chance, does their teasing have something to do with the rumors about a wolf being here in Tinkerfall?"
She nodded slowly, as if unsure about whether or not she should engage in conversation with them.
"Have you seen this wolf?"
She hesitated, her eyes darting to her friends who had resumed their drinking. Turning back to Booker, she gave another nod.
He leaned forward. "If you don't mind, I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."
The girl looked like she was about to faint, but after a moment, she swallowed and folded her hands on the table in front of her. "Very well," she said, her voice as mousy as her appearance. "What would you like to know?"
"What is your name?" he began.
"Fidelia."
"Fidelia, when did you see this wolf?"
"Two nights ago."
"Where?"
"Not too far from here. I was going home after having supper. That's why they," she gestured to the group she had left, "don't believe me. They think I was tipsy and seeing things. But I swear I wasn't!"
"Oh, trust me, I believe you," Booker reassured her. "What happened when you saw it?"
"Well, it came out of an alley and spooked me. I tripped over my skirts trying to escape from it, and in that moment it grabbed hold of my wrist. I managed to pull away, but it did a great deal of damage."
He nodded at her bandaged wrist. "May I?"
She held out her hand, and he took it gently, unwrapping the bandaging to reveal a red gash that looked more like a slice from a knife than a bite from a wolf. Just like Trinket's wound. Excitement built inside of him, but he tried to hold it back for fear it would spook the already nervous girl.
"Was this an ordinary wolf, Fidelia?" he asked, keeping his voice low as he continued to examine her wounded wrist.
Fidelia's eyes grew large, and there was a sudden eagerness in her expression, as if this were the first time someone was taking her seriously. "No, sir, it wasn't," she said, leaning in closer. "This wolf was surely some demonic creature. Its teeth shone like metal. And when it attacked me, it was like being stabbed with a knife."
Yes. This was exactly what he was hoping for. Not just evidence, but an eyewitness.
Biting his lip, he began to re-bandage the girl's wrist while wondering out loud, "What if there's more than one?"
Trinket suddenly spoke up. "Did you notice the way the wolf moved?"
Booker paused and set his gaze on her. The way it moved? What did it matter how the beast moved? But there was a strong determination in her eyes that stilled his tongue as he waited to hear Fidelia's response.
The girl seemed surprised at the question. "The way it moved?" she repeated.
"Its gait, how it walked. Did something seem off about it?"
Pursing her lips, Fidelia cast her eyes upward in thought. "Actually, now that you mention it, it did appear to be limping."
"As if it were injured?"
"Yes. It appeared to be having trouble with one of its back legs."
Trinket turned to Booker. "It's the same one," she said.
He raised his eyebrows, still not certain what she was getting at.
"The wolf that attacked me, you shot it," she said. "In its right hind leg. If the wolf she encountered was limping, chances are it's the same one you put a bullet in."
She was right. He had shot the animal. So it would make sense for it to be limping now. What a clever observation. Booker continued to gaze at her thoughtfully. What other surprises might this mysterious young woman have in store for him?
After a moment, she turned her face away, seeming uncomfortable. Though still curious about her astute observation, he returned his attention to Fidelia. "I thank you, miss," he said. "You have been a great help."
He pulled two pounds out of his breast pocket and handed the money to the girl. Her eyes bulged at the sight of it, and she looked up at him in awe. "Thank you," she whispered.
Smiling, he rose from his seat and beckoned for Trinket to follow. They made their way out of the Clocktower, leaving the speechless girl behind.
It was snowing, and the streets were dark but for the gaslamps that struggled to cast their light through the clouds of flakes. "You are very observant," Booker said as he hurried down the street, Trinket trying to keep up with his pace.
"Yes, I am," she agreed.
He stopped abruptly to face her, and she nearly collided with him. "Why?"
"Why am I so observant?"
"Yes."
She paused before meeting his eyes. "Out of necessity," she replied matter-of-factly.
He continued to gaze down at her, trying to see past her calm and unreadable facade. There was something she was hiding. He was sure of it. She was not an ordinary young woman. She couldn't be. He would never be so fascinated by someone dull and ordinary.
This girl had to be special.
Turning back to the street, he heaved a sigh. "You should come to dinner with me more often," he said as he continued on towards home. "I could use your keen eye."
Trinket followed after him. "If that's what you want, Mr. Larkin."
~
While Trinket continued to prove useful with her keen observation during their trips to the Clocktower, she also continued to be a complete and utter mystery. Gin had been unable to find anything on her, and Booker himself couldn't seem to learn a thing about where this quiet, clever young woman had come from. Not that it was important, exactly. Whatever her past was, it didn't seem to affect her present position as his maid. Still, not knowing was killing him.
Who was this fascinating young woman?
After nearly a month, he was no closer to answering that question than he was to finding the Wolf. The frustration from all this failure was incredibly aggravating. He was a scientist. A brilliant scientist. It shouldn't be this hard to learn a girl's name. Alas, Trinket was careful not to let a single detail of her former life slip past her lips. Her calm coyness was infuriating and yet intriguingly alluring.
It was driving him mad.
"Who would've thought I'd be bested by a seventeen-year-old maid," he mumbled to himself as he worked on one of his mechanical hands in the laboratory.
A scream erupted from upstairs, and he slipped and nearly severed one of the fingers. Jumping to his feet, he raced up the stairs and stumbled into the hallway, searching for the source of the noise. Was it Trinket? Had she been hurt? Where was she?
Another scream. It was coming from the kitchen. He tripped over the carpet as he hurried towards the sound, coming to a skidding halt in front of the doorway.
It was Trinket. She was screaming hysterically and stabbing the air with a kitchen knife. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but he could still see the panic in her expression. Gone was the calm, unemotional facade she normally wore. It was now replaced with sheer terror.
What had happened to her?
"Trinket, what's wrong?" he asked, warily taking a step towards her.
She didn't seem to hear him as she continued to plunge the knife into the empty space before her. Something was wrong. Very wrong. If she didn't stop, she'd hurt herself.
He moved closer. "Trinket, please, calm down."
He reached out to catch her wrist, but she was stronger than she appeared. Pulling away from his grasp, she buried the blade in his arm. Letting out a cry, he stumbled back a step, clutching the bleeding wound.
"Trinket, please, it's me. It's Booker. Trinket!"
And just like that, she stopped. Her eyes flew open, moving about rapidly as they took in the room, him, and the knife in her hand. Understanding seemed to dawn on her, and she gasped, dropping her weapon to the floor. Sanity returned to her demeanor, but Booker wasn't going to take any chances. He grabbed hold of her wrists and shoved her into the pantry. Slamming the door shut, he dragged a chair over and jammed it under the doorknob. When he was certain the pantry was securely barricaded, he glanced back down at his arm. The blood was pouring from the deep gash, staining his white dress shirt beyond repair.
His gaze darted back to the door. Though he was eager to find out what had possessed his normally quiet maid to behave in such an erratic way, he was worried that if he didn't take care of this wound quickly, he'd pass out before he could get the truth out of her.
Rushing back downstairs, he pulled out his medical bag and rolled up his sleeves. He took a few seconds to examine the gash before pulling out his tools. It was deep. That girl had a lot of strength behind her slight frame. Granted, it wasn't nearly as bad as the damage Hog had inflicted on him, but it was still impressive.
He washed the wound out with alcohol and sterilized the needle. As he sewed the flesh back together, his racing thoughts distracted him from the pain. What had caused Trinket to act in such a way? Had she seen something? Was she sleepwalking? And that look on her face when she took in the scene. It wasn't just shock at seeing her injured and bleeding employer standing in front of her. No, there'd been something more. Something like disappointment. Was this not the first time she'd attacked someone?
When his arm was adequately stitched up, he quickly cleaned his tools and then made a beeline for the kitchen. There were splatters of blood on the tiled floor, and the knife remained where Trinket had dropped it. He picked it up and laid it on the table before turning to the pantry. All was still and silent. He'd half-expected to find her trying to escape. At the very least, he thought she'd be pacing about the small closet. But no. There wasn't a sound coming from behind the closed door. Was she all right? Had she been injured during their struggle?
Swallowing hard, he stepped forward and removed the chair from the door. He then took a deep breath and entered the pantry.
Trinket was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her skirts. This was not what he'd been expecting at all. This look of utter defeat. No, he'd been expecting panic and explanations, not passive despair. He adjusted his collar, feeling almost uncomfortable seeing her this way.
Glancing up, she met his gaze with a look of such hopelessness that he actually found his heart aching at the sight. "Well, then," he breathed.
"Are the police here for me?" she asked, her voice small and weak.
He tilted his head and furrowed his brow. She spoke with such unemotional resignation. "No?" he said uncertainly.
She squinted at him for a moment, and then terror fell over her face. "Did you contact Elysium?" she whispered, the fear in her voice tangible.
His brow furrowed even further. "Elysium? What?"
She seemed just as confused as he was. "Then I suppose you want me to leave?" she asked.
Booker was surprised that the suggestion sent a surge of disappointment through him. "Do you want to leave?"
Trinket looked down and shook her head. "No, I only thought—"
"That because you stabbed me I would want you out? Trust me, my dear, you are certainly not the first person to stab me, nor will you be the last."
He smiled playfully, but she refused to look up. Her body was rigid and small, as if she were trying to will herself away. Moving closer, he kneeled down before her and waited patiently for her to meet his eyes. He'd never seen someone look so haunted and depressed in his life. And while her despair tugged at heartstrings he was unaware he had, it also whetted his curiosity.
Who was this mysterious, fascinating young woman who could wield a kitchen knife like an experienced thug?
He had to find out.
"I know I haven't pried into your personal life thus far," he said softly, "but considering what just happened, I think maybe we should clear a few things up. I need to determine if that attack had to do with your dislike of me as an employer or if it stemmed from something else altogether."
Trinket closed her eyes tightly, and for a moment, he worried she'd refuse to tell him. But then she let out a long breath and began to speak. "When you found me in that alley, I had recently escaped from an asylum. Elysium Asylum."
Booker's eyes widened a bit, and he sat beside her, resting his arms on his knees. "An asylum. So back there in the kitchen—"
"Was an episode. I . . ." She trailed off, as though considering her words carefully. "Since I was a little girl, I've experienced . . . I've had . . . that is, I've heard things. And seen things. That aren't there."
Wait, what? "Hallucinations?" he said.
"Yes."
Hallucinations. No, that was certainly not what he'd been expecting. This was beyond anything he could've ever imagined. She'd never shown any signs of mental instability. Or had she? He wasn't always the most observant person when he was focused on something else. Like the Wolf. Or Trinket's shrouded past. Blast it all, he was too clever to be missing the forest for the trees.
"What sort of things do you see?" he asked. "They must be horrible considering your reaction."
"Most of the time it's animals and insects. Sometimes people. But on occasions, I see . . . monsters."
"And that's what you saw earlier?"
"Yes."
He raised his eyebrows. "And that's why you weren't afraid of the Wolf? Because you thought it wasn't really there?"
She nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze.
"How often do you experience these hallucinations?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Pretty frequently. I likely see more things than I realize. Sometimes I'm not sure if they're real and no one is paying them any mind because they're ordinary, or if people are ignoring them because they aren't there. I've learned to watch how others react before I do or say anything so as not to draw attention to myself."
"Which explains your amazing observational skills."
"My family tried to hide my condition for a while, but they finally sent me away to Elysium about a year ago." She took a shaky breath and glanced down at her hands. "I haven't seen them since."
"Do you have any other issues?" he asked.
She drew her brows together. "What do you mean?"
"Something that accompanies the hallucinations. Nervousness, sadness, despair. Anything like that?"
"Well . . ."
"Yes?"
Sucking in her lips, she twisted the fabric of her skirt around her fingers. It seemed to pain her to keep feeding him information about herself. "I often experience this heavy weight on my chest. A deep sadness that makes simply existing seem impossible. And then . . . there've also been . . . that is . . ."
He waited for her to find the words. What other revelation was she about to offer up? It must be something awful by the way she struggled to say it.
She closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists. "I've had thoughts of suicide. In fact, I tried to kill myself in the asylum. That's what I was trying to do in the alley. I escaped so I could die."
Suicidal tendencies. It wasn't very often that he met with those suffering from mental illness. He had studied the subject briefly at some point during his education, but not extensively. Going through her symptoms, he tried to remember anything he may have read about such a condition but came up with nothing.
"Do you feel these things more strongly when the intense hallucinations occur?" he asked.
She blinked. "Yes, I do, actually."
"Interesting."
He'd never heard of anything like this before, though he was sure she wasn't the only one living with such an ailment. No wonder she was so secretive and quiet. One slip of the tongue and she could end up right back in an asylum.
"Do you know what's wrong with me?" she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. "Not at all. I'm afraid the human brain is a very complex organ. At this time, we're ill-equipped to help those afflicted with conditions like yours. Sufferers are usually lumped together under the category of 'dangerous' and sent off to madhouses, as you yourself were."
She clenched her jaw and averted her eyes.
"Elysium," he repeated, leaning back and stretching one leg across the floor. "That's in Kineworth. It's over an hour away. You came quite a ways. Did you realize how far you'd run?"
"No. I just ran until I couldn't anymore. All I could think of was escaping."
"This revelation at least explains your aversion to drugs. And your intense illness upon arriving here. Madhouses are notorious for drugging their patients so as not to have to deal with them."
"They made us take them every night. And if we resisted, they forced them into our bodies."
He nodded slowly. "I toured a few asylums during my training. They are not pleasant places. Their methods of treatment are nothing less than torture."
An asylum. This explained so much. And yet, not much at all. She still hadn't given him her true name or her hometown. Nor had she spoken about her family beyond more than a brief mention. This young woman was very good at spilling her heart without actually telling a person anything. That was a valuable ability. Especially to him.
"How do the drugs have anything to do with my being sick several weeks ago?" she asked.
"Withdrawal," Booker replied. "If you were administered drugs daily, you became dependent on them. When you left the asylum, you also left your steady supply, and your body had a bit of a breakdown over it."
"Just another reason not to use them."
It was a shame she hated drugs so much. From what he recalled, some mixtures could be used to help with mental distress. If she were willing to try, he might be able to help her with at least some of her issues.
"Not all drugs are bad, you know," he said at last.
She turned to him. "I haven't met one yet that seemed good," she said sharply.
"Any drug when used improperly can harm a person. Ether, for instance. It's marvelous as an anaesthetic, but administer too much and you kill your patient."
She scoffed.
Clearly, she was not convinced. But he couldn't help but like her sarcastic returns. "All I'm trying to say is that some drugs could help your condition," he said.
"Do you know of any drugs that cure hallucinations?"
"No, but I know of some that could take the edge off of your heavy sadness. They may help with the suicidal feelings, too."
She shook her head. "No."
He put his hands up in defeat. "All right, all right, I won't force you. But there are other ways. Herbs, teas—"
"Tea can cure ailments?"
"Certain teas can help with colds and coughs, even with things such as anxiety and chronic melancholia. When made properly and not burnt, of course."
He smiled at her and was pleased to see her relax slightly. "So you really want to keep me on as your housemaid?" she asked.
Getting up, he offered her his hand. "I told you before, my work is not for the faint of heart. Normal servants simply cannot stomach it. You, however, deal with terrifying visions on a regular basis."
He led her out of the pantry and into the hallway. "What if I try to hurt you again?" she asked.
"Now that I understand your situation, I'll be more aware of your condition. It was foolish of me to be so oblivious. I should know better than to take things at face value."
He brought her into the parlour and sat her down on the settee.
"If anything," he continued, "with this new knowledge about you, I'm further inclined to keep you on as my housemaid."
Trinket gave a sharp laugh. "I try to kill you and it makes you want me more?"
He grinned and leaned against the arm of the settee, his arms crossed over his chest. "Oh, yes. I have no interest in the ordinary. And you, my dear Trinket, are anything but ordinary."
She seemed a tad unsure of his response, but she did not object. Instead, she offered him a hesitant smile.
He'd been right. There was something special about this young woman. And it wasn't only her unique condition that had him so intrigued. While that was, indeed, a subject of interest, he was far more attracted to the brilliance of her mind than he was to the brokenness of it. She didn't think like other people did. She couldn't. For the sake of her survival, she'd been forced to look at the world differently than others. Questioning everything, learning to be unafraid even in the face of nightmares.
Yes, she was unlike anyone he'd met in a long time. In fact, he hadn't been this fascinated by someone since he'd met Benedict. It was rather exhilarating, especially knowing he'd only just scratched the surface of who she really was. He was determined to learn more. Even if it killed him.
No, there was no way he was letting her go.
He'd finally found the perfect maid.