The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

The Broken One (Part II)

The next morning, after several cups of tea and a few hours of tinkering, Booker went off to the tailor to find Trinket a dress that was a bit more presentable than the rags she arrived in. As he looked through the shop, he found that his eyes were drawn to the pre-made silk dresses, even knowing that he was purchasing garments for his maid. Trinket did not admit as much, but he believed she came from a well-to-do family. Something about the way she held herself and the manner in which she spoke. She may have come to him filthy and malnourished, but he felt like she would look more natural in a dress like the little blue number in the window.

"How much for this?" he asked the tailor, looking the dress up and down.

"Depends on the alterations," the tailor replied as he approached. He eyed Booker suspiciously. "You'd need to bring the lady in for measurements."

Booker shook his head. "No, I think this should be fine."

"Mr. Larkin, really, I must insist—"

He pushed a handful of pounds into the man's hand. "That should cover it."

As the tailor gawked at the money, Booker climbed up into the display window and pulled the dress off the mannequin. Tucking it under his arm, he tipped his hat at the tailor.

"No need to wrap it," he said as he made his way out the door. "Have a nice day, sir!"

As he exited, he garnered a few odd looks from the other customers, and he couldn't hide his smile. There was something so satisfying about leaving others speechless and confused. He practically lived for it.

When he was back home, he headed upstairs and knocked lightly on Trinket's door.

No answer.

He tried again, a little louder this time.

Not a sound.

Worried that she might still be ill, he pushed the door open a crack and peeked inside. Trinket was lying on the bed, her back turned to him. Though he was certain it was improper to barge in on a sleeping woman, he felt it necessary to check that she was well. So very quietly, he made his way inside and went around the bed so that he could see her face. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, her face relaxed and devoid of the pain that had twisted it during her first nights here. He laid the back of his hand on her head. No fever.

Letting out a breath of relief, he glanced down at the dress in his hands. He looked about the room for a moment, his eyes finally settling on the standing mirror. Draping the dress over it, he went over to the writing desk and searched the drawers for a piece of paper and a pen to scribble down a quick note, which he then attached to the silk fabric.

As he tiptoed out of the room, he caught a glimpse of Trinket's bandaged leg. Even if she insisted she was fine, it had to hurt to walk around with that gash. She needed some sort of assistance while it healed. Heading back downstairs, he fetched his walking stick and went upstairs to his own room to pen another note. He then left both the walking stick and the note in her room and closed the door.

Oh. Would she maybe want to wash up before changing into the new dress? He hadn't filled the washbasin for her, had he?

Suppressing a sigh, he snuck back into the room to retrieve the empty basin and hurried to the washroom to fill it. When he returned it to her room, he made a point to double-check that he hadn't forgotten anything else so that he wouldn't need to intrude upon her again.

Satisfied that everything she'd need was there, he once more slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door.

He spent an hour or so downstairs, working on some projects and looking over his notes. He couldn't stop coming back to what he had written about Trinket. Who was she, really? And did it even matter? No, it didn't. And yet, his mind kept coming up with theories. Fleeing from an arranged marriage? Or an abusive family? Perhaps she was a criminal on the run?