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

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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œI’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?
    â€œClara,” 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.
    â€œFather? What is it?”
    â€œPardon 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.”
    â€œAnd I will have as many more as I like.” He grabbed her waist, turning her. People around them were beginning to notice, to