Read Online Winterspell by Claire Legrand - Free Book Online Page A

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.”
    â€œYes, do you remember those nights in her parlor?”
    â€œDancing in our nightgowns.” Felicity hid her giggle with gloved fingers. “Putting feathers in our hair!”
    â€œPrincesses 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.
    â€œI’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.

6
    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