Read Online Winterspell by Claire Legrand - Free Book Online

something—“show a happy face to the public.”
    â€œTradition,” 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?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re lying.”
    â€œClara, 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.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œMy aides do a fine job of that,” the mayor said, staring after the fallen glass in dull shock. “And Dr. Victor.”
    â€œDr. 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.
    â€œYes, Dr. Victor does a fine job, indeed,” Clara bit out. She wouldnot 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.”
    â€œKrupin,” repeated Mayor Stole slowly. “The banker.”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œYou should.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œYes,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “You should shave. Quickly, please, Father.”
    â€œClara,” whispered Felicity as Clara led her toward the door. “Are you angry? Please don’t be angry. Everything’s going to be wonderful,