Winterspell (7 page)

“Consider me reproved, then.” Clara turned, clutching Felicity's hand in her own, and steeled herself. What would her father's mood be tonight?

“It's time,” Clara said carefully, gauging him. “The guests have started arriving.”

“You make it sound as though we're heading to an execution rather than to a party,” Mayor Stole said from the shadows of his desk. He held his head in his hands.

So it was to be morose, then. Perfect. That was just what they needed, a drunken, weepy host for everyone to gossip about.

“Well, it's more similar to the former than the latter,” Clara said, impatience getting the best of her. “We shouldn't be having it at all. I tried to tell you, and now we've spent money we don't have on a night no one will remember, except to say, ‘How marvelous it must be for the mayor to hold parties for his friends while the rest of us starve on the streets.' ”

“But Mother always held the Christmas party, every year,” Felicity said in a small voice. She smiled bravely up at Clara. “It's tradition, and it's expected of us. We must”—Felicity took a deep breath, as if reciting something—“show a happy face to the public.”

“Tradition,” Mayor Stole mumbled. “We can't break with tradition. Hope would not approve.”

Clara ignored how his voice broke on her mother's name, and tucked the pain of hearing his naked grief deep inside herself, with all the other broken pieces of her heart. “Father, are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You're lying.”

“Clara, please don't.” Felicity clutched Clara's arm. “Father's not feeling well.”

Clara laughed harshly. “Neither am I, and yet here I stand.”

Mayor Stole reached for the glass beside him. “I can't do it, Clara. I cannot face them. I'm
tired
of facing them, of pretending loyalty I no longer feel.”

“You perhaps should have thought of that years ago, when you first threw your lot in with them.” Clara was on him in an instant, knocking the glass from his hand. It hit the floor and smashed into pieces. She had never said these things to him before, choosing instead to shelter him, in deference to his sorrow. But with the stress of yesterday heavy on her shoulders, she had no patience left for coddling. “And I don't care what you cannot do. I cannot get up every morning and lace myself into my dresses and try to cover for you, and yet I do. I cannot manage our household staff and attend charity functions you can't seem to bother with, and make calls to keep the few friends we have left from abandoning us completely, and yet I do.”

“My aides do a fine job of that,” the mayor said, staring after the fallen glass in dull shock. “And Dr. Victor.”

“Dr. Victor,” spat Clara, and though the damning words rose to her lips, she could not say them. Felicity's presence served as a reminder: She could not say anything, could not go whispering. And anyhow, what could her father do to help her? Concordia was beyond his control now. It had been for months.

“Yes, Dr. Victor does a fine job, indeed,” Clara bit out. She would
not break now, not tonight. “Get cleaned up and come to the ballroom. Your absence has already been noticed, and Mr. Krupin is asking after you.”

“Krupin,” repeated Mayor Stole slowly. “The banker.”

“He is a rich banker, yes, and he sits on the city council, and he is not a patient man.”

Mayor Stole blinked, rising to his feet. “I should speak with him.”

“You should.”

“And shave, as well.” Mayor Stole rubbed his chin and straightened his waistcoat, and those tiny motions made him look so old—so suddenly, unsteadily dignified—that Clara could not help herself. Her impatience vanished; she went to him and put her arms around him. He stank of whiskey and unwashed hair, and it was an awkward embrace with Felicity still held tightly in one hand, but Clara latched on anyway, relishing the scent of him, stink and all. Her father's arms came around her, hesitant, and Felicity pressed her face into his side—delicately, so as not to muss her hair—and they stood there, a mass of fragile hope for the night. When Clara pulled away, she smoothed her father's hair and saw, for a brief moment, an echo on his face—the echo of his former, handsome self.

Her resolve hardened. It would be a good night, a fine night. She would make it so, and she would do it for him, for Felicity, for the family they used to be. Dr. Victor would try to frighten her, and she might never see Godfather again, but she was damned if they weren't about to have the most successful Christmas party there had ever been.

“Yes,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “You should shave. Quickly, please, Father.”

“Clara,” whispered Felicity as Clara led her toward the door. “Are you angry? Please don't be angry. Everything's going to be wonderful, isn't it?”

Clara knelt before Felicity and pressed their foreheads together. “Of course, darling. You'll dazzle them tonight, won't you? You'll dance and dance?”

Felicity's distraught face blossomed into a smile that tore at Clara's heart. “Mother always liked to dance.”

“Yes, do you remember those nights in her parlor?”

“Dancing in our nightgowns.” Felicity hid her giggle with gloved fingers. “Putting feathers in our hair!”

“Princesses in bare feet. Now go on. Have some punch before the serving tables get crowded.”

Clara stood for a moment, gathering herself, watching her sister rush gaily down the hallway toward the chatter of arriving guests.

“I'm sorry, Clara,” her father whispered behind her. He squeezed her hand. “I know what you must think of me. But I am trying.”

Clara blinked back tears. She could no longer look at him; doing so reminded her too dearly of what they had lost. “I know,” she whispered, and left him in the dark.

F
rom her hiding spot on the second-floor mezzanine overlooking the ballroom, partially concealed behind a red velvet curtain, Clara dreamed of murder.

Her nose stung with the echo of Dr. Victor's medicinal tang; he had hardly left her side all evening. If she had to endure one more moment with him . . . well, she would endure it, and do so without complaint. But she could
dream
about clawing his face to pieces; no one would ever know. She imagined the viscera of his eyeballs curdling beneath her nails. He would be afraid, the fear on his face reflecting what he must so often see on her own. And Godfather would stand beside her, nodding in approval, directing her how best to slice him to pieces.

Proper ladies don't think of such things.

She moved to a nearby window seat, closed her eyes, and breathed the violence away—as well as the sense of peace that accompanied it. When she opened her eyes once more, the frenzy had left her, and she was herself again—small, uncertain, naked in her many-layered dress.

From up here, she could see the steady flow of carriages and belled horses outside the mansion, as New York high society arrived to strut and dance and gossip. The frost-lined streets made an eerie, black-and-white world, as though the cold had sucked out everything but snow and shadows.

Inside, however, below the mezzanine with its private curtained sitting rooms, the ballroom swirled with color—satin and silk chiffon, handmade lace and puffed sleeves trimmed with ribbons, in blues, violets, forest green, and crimson. The men's dark coattails fluttered, their gloves flashing, clean and white. Ears, fingers, and waistcoats gleamed with baubles. Jeweled combs winked firelight at the ceiling like hundreds of mischievous eyes.

Godfather's electric lights had been strung from corner to corner across the molded ceiling amid clusters of holly and glittering gauze sashes of silver and gold. Piles of cakes and puddings, sausages and hams, soup and eggnog, and steaming spiced cider and berries with cream covered the serving tables in the refreshment room. Most prominent was the enormous fir tree in the corner, flickering with candles, silver bells, holiday poppers, angels, and poinsettias dipped in gold.

No money for the shelter to have proper beds, and yet there appears to be enough for a party,
Clara thought gloomily.

As if on cue her father, settled by the grand marble hearth in a dark wingback chair, laughed. She found him at once by his hair.

Unbidden, Godfather flashed into her head—Godfather, caressing her hair wistfully, as if it reminded him of something precious and long lost. However inappropriate it may have been, Clara knew how Godfather had doted on her mother. It was, she supposed, natural for an artist to be so devoted to his patroness.

But it would not do to think of Godfather, who normally arrived at their Christmas parties fashionably late, with a grand flourish, and bearing many gifts for the attending children. That morning she had snuck off a note to him:
Stay at home tonight.
She hoped he would understand; Dr. Victor's mood had been decidedly black since finding her at the shop, and she could not chance him goading Godfather into one of his eccentric scenes in front of New York society. Dr. Victor would no doubt use such an opportunity to publicly lock him away, once and for all.

A life without Godfather was not a life Clara wanted to know—especially not before she wheedled some straight answers out of him.

Her father laughed again; the sound of it gave her pause. She left her hiding spot and made for the staircase, alert and wary.

Anyone else would perhaps not have noticed, but Clara had heard her father's genuine laughter often enough—he had been a joyous man once, laughing constantly at Hope Stole's scandalous jokes. But this was not a joyous sound. This was strained, and even frightened.

Something was wrong.

Dr. Victor laughed too, leaning against her father's chair, but his eyes restlessly roved until they found Clara at the top of the stairs. He pinned her in place with them. His gloved hand, white instead of silver at such a public event, beckoned.
Come here. Now. Or you will regret it.

Clara recoiled, clinging to the sensation of the breeches beneath her skirts. Dr. Victor may have been able to leer at her breasts as they'd waltzed, but she would at least wear her trousers, wrapping her legs tightly away, and keep her dagger buckled to her thigh. He could not take that from her.

She approached them—her father and the Proctor brothers; the Merry Butcher; Reginald Winchester from the
Times
; the wealthy banker Pietr Krupin; and Mr. Mansfield, who ran the Garrick Theatre—downing glasses of champagne and chasing them with chocolate-covered cherry bonbons. But her father was on his feet now, agitated.

As she maneuvered through the crowded room, eyes danced at her, smiling faces nodded; guests conversed quietly, luxuriating over coffee and cakes. The lively strains of “Fiddle Me Lovely” seemed grating; the children by the Christmas tree, Felicity among them, opened their Christmas poppers to a shower of confetti, and the series of snaps made Clara jump.

“You look beautiful tonight, Clara,” Patricia Plum murmured, gliding up alongside Clara to take her elbow. She smelled of cider and smoke. “Like a faery bride.”

“I'm no one's bride,” Clara blurted. They had arrived at her father's side, and she did not like the look in Dr. Victor's eyes at the word “bride.”

The Merry Butcher laughed, his fat, pink face shining. So did Krupin, Winchester, and the Proctors. “A right modern woman, our Miss Stole!” said the Butcher.

But Dr. Victor did not laugh. Neither did her father. The tense remnants of a recently ended conversation lingered in the air. Clara tried to imagine what they could have been discussing; none of the possibilities were particularly cheering. Had her father gone ranting about Concordia's corruption again? Had he, heaven forbid, noticed Dr. Victor's fixation on her and reproved him? And why was the Butcher eyeing her father as though he were an unsatisfactory slab of meat?

“Clara,” her father said, drawing her close for a kiss. He crushed her to his chest, his breath sour; Clara could hear his frantic heartbeat against her ear. She pulled away to find that his eyes were bloodshot.

“Father? What is it?”

“Pardon me, Mayor Stole.” Dr. Victor cut between them. “I believe Clara has promised me a waltz.”

Panic for her father made Clara daring. “You've had four already.”

“And I will have as many more as I like.” He grabbed her waist, turning her. People around them were beginning to notice, to whisper and point. It was unseemly for any man—even such a dear family friend—to handle Clara so, to watch her with such hard, hot eyes.

Patricia Plum hurried forward with a bright smile. “Now, Dr. Victor, that's quite enough.”

“You will let go of my daughter,” came Mayor Stole's voice—low, edged.

Dr. Victor was smugly incredulous. “Ah, Mayor Stole, that's where you're wrong.”

“One too many glasses of champagne for these two, I'm afraid,” joked Patricia Plum to those nearest them. “You know how men can be.”

The crowd tittered nervously as Plum directed the nearest of them away, and Clara took the chance to wrench out of Dr. Victor's grasp—but then, from across the ballroom, came the sound of doors slamming open. A curious murmur rippled toward Clara, and she heard Felicity's small voice say, “Godfather?”

The fact that Godfather would enter at such a moment was so coincidentally terrible that Clara would have laughed, had she not been so afraid for him.

“Clara!” Godfather strode out from the ballroom's curtained entryway in a swirl of greatcoat and top hat and unkempt hair. Behind him a pair of wide-eyed street boys in patched jackets lugged a bulging velvet sack and a cloth-covered tower on wheels.

Clara escaped a distracted Dr. Victor and intercepted Godfather in the middle of the ballroom. The crowd had parted, the orchestra fallen silent. Over Godfather's shoulder Clara saw Felicity surrounded by a gaggle of other girls, eyeing Godfather's bundles with shining eyes. Clara knew they expected the traditional Christmas party toys, but the look on Godfather's face was the furthest thing from such frivolity.