The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

 Daphne was sleeping so peacefully that Trinket couldn't bear to wake her. Instead, she used a wet cloth to gently rehydrate her extra appendages. Daphne hardly even stirred. Trinket smiled down at her, envying her peaceful rest. Her first night had been anything but peaceful. And something told her tonight would be no different.

She pushed aside her anger and worry over Booker and focused on Daphne. Who was this woman? What was her past? She appeared to be at least a decade or two older than Trinket. In fact, she could be old enough to be her mother. But there was a youthful glimmer in her eyes when she smiled, as well as something Trinket couldn't quite put her finger on. Wisdom? Savvy? Whatever it was, it engendered deep respect inside of Trinket whenever she spoke to her.

Heaving a sigh, she set aside the wet cloth and tiptoed out into the hall. She'd have to check on her throughout the night to prevent her from drying out. It was just as well. She doubted she'd be able to sleep. Not with Booker downstairs poisoning himself.

"Brilliant fool," she mumbled as she slipped into her bedroom.

~

The next morning, Trinket insisted that Daphne sit in the tub for a while to keep her gills hydrated. Despite her seniority, Daphne politely obliged, and Trinket went downstairs to put together breakfast.

As she warmed up some crumpets, a shadow appeared in the doorway. She turned, thinking it might be Daphne, but was met by Booker's hard stare. She returned her attention to the stove, her muscles stiffening and her heart hammering. He approached, leaning on the table and drumming his fingers against it.

"I need to take measurements of her neck in order to finish the device," he said, his voice cold and distant.

Nodding, she continued to tend to the crumpets. "She's upstairs in the tub."

There was a drawn-out silence filled only by the whistling of the kettle. "I'm assuming you won't be assisting me."

Trinket removed the kettle from the stove. "Why would I need to?"

"Other than the fact that I have hired you as my assistant?"

"You hired me as your housemaid." She turned to face him and took in his dilated eyes and ruffled hair. The drug was having its effect. "And I thought that with your miracle drug you wouldn't need the help of a mentally impaired simpleton."

He narrowed his eyes at her and cracked his neck as he gritted his teeth. "You know very well I have never called you a simpleton. And besides that, I find that you're awfully judgemental for someone who has a past so sordid she refuses to divulge even the smallest of details."

That remark stung. He was right. She had little place to judge. A drug habit was far less shameful than murder. Still, she believed he was foolishly risking his life by indulging in this mixture for the sake of his work.

Sighing, he turned away and disappeared into the hallway. She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting as guilt washed over her. But the guilt would not overshadow her concern for his health. That drug was a bad idea, and she refused to back down.

The smell of burning crumpets pulled her out of her mind, and she quickly removed them from the hot pan. They were rather blackened on the bottom, so she tried her best to scrape it away with a knife. Grabbing a jar of jam, she hoped the fruity flavor would help disguise the charcoal texture.

Booker was in the washroom with a tailor's tape measure around Daphne's neck. Trinket was surprised to see that Daphne was quite at ease with a strange man's hands on her bare skin as she soaked in a tub in her undergarments. She smiled when Trinket entered, and Booker's gaze flickered to her momentarily.