Winterspell, page 41
The meaning of his words sank into her. “I could perhaps return someday,” she said, appalled to find herself crying, “when everything in New York is as it should be.”
Nicholas bent low and brushed his lips across hers. “I would wait for you.”
“Time passes more quickly here than Beyond. You’ll be older, you’ll be courted by everyone from here to Mira’s Ring—”
“Yes,” he agreed, taking her face in his hands, “but I want you.”
Then he kissed her, slow and deep, and this time there was nothing in the room but them. No faeries watching, no curses or danger, but instead a sweet fullness, a sense of careful discovery—and then, when they had moved unsteadily to the bed, Nicholas’s lips hot against her neck, his hands sliding up into her hair, a sense of wanting and need. Clara gasped with the pleasure of it, turned into his chest and melted into the shaking cradle of his arms, let him pull her atop him and met his kisses joyfully. His hands slid up her back, beneath her shirt, turning her, and then he was above her, and Clara could no longer think. She could feel only the scorching thrill of his body against hers, the care with which he touched her, the rightness of being loved by him.
“Clara,” he murmured against her ear.
“Hmm?” Oh, was he talking? Whatever for?
He found her bottom lip, nipped it gently. “I just have to say . . .”
“Well, be quick about it!”
“That this bed . . .” He stopped kissing her for a moment to meet her eyes, his expression somber. “Is disgusting.”
She pulled away. “What?”
“I mean, really, look at it. Dusty, horribly out of fashion . . .”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Not sure what that patch is over there. Maybe something growing . . .”
Outraged, she found a pillow and pummeled him with it. “I don’t care about the bed,” she tried to say, but the pillow had released a cloud of dust, and it sent them both into coughing fits.
Nicholas collapsed beside her, laughing. “Oh, the look on your face!”
She sneezed, disgruntled. This had been so nice—a kiss, and she’d been able to enjoy it and not be afraid or ashamed, or worried for her life, and he had ruined it. “What about my face, you idiot?”
“It looked like it used to when you’d be in the shop with old Drosselmeyer and couldn’t get a punch right.” He wiped his eyes. “You’d be so furious, and your face would scrunch up like that—yes, like that—and I’d think to myself, Oh, I would give anything to be able to laugh right now. You always made me want to laugh. You brought me such rare joy, Clara.”
Touched, Clara leaned over him, cherishing how his eyes softened at her nearness. “My face made you want to laugh? That’s . . . mildly insulting.”
“Not the most gallant of observations, is it?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“And what if I said that your face was a gift? That it saved me?”
“That,” she said, “is much better.”
As he slid his arms around her, gathering her down into a kiss, a gentle wind shook the windows behind them and brought with it a light whirl of snow.
* * *
Later they lay in contented quiet. Snow was falling steadily now, and though the bed did leave something to be desired, it wasn’t so bad, with Nicholas’s cloak beneath them and Godfather’s greatcoat draped over them. Clara closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into Nicholas’s arms.
“You promised you would tell me a story,” she said after a long while, lulled almost to sleep by the rhythm of his thumb caressing her shoulder. “About everything that happened before. About you and Mother.”
“So I did.”
She looked up at him fuzzily. “Tell me now?”
“Demanding, aren’t you?” He smiled down at her.
“Please.”
“Anything for my Lady.” He twined her hair around his fingers. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. You may know some of it already, but there’s something to be said for hearing it in the right order.” He breathed in and out; his hand settled at her waist. “Our oldest stories say that when the human world was first made, not all of it fit. . . .”
The first time you noticed me, you were tiny and quiet—a serious little thing with red hair and sharp eyes that noticed everything. You held your mother’s hand, and you wore a ribbon in your hair, and when Leska sat with the old man to chat in hushed whispers over tea, you wandered the shop.
Your skirts and boots and miniature lace gloves were so prim, the very picture of propriety. But your face was more curious than any I’ve ever seen as you looked through the shelves of trinkets and toys, delicately fingering the curved dancer figurines and the goblins’ sharp tails. You puffed out your cheeks and blew the wooden pinwheels into a frenzy; you stood before the wall of clocks and watched them tick.
Then you found me.
I think I startled you. You paused midstep and stared. You looked to your mother and your godfather, as if to make sure they weren’t watching.
Then you came to me.
I was so glad for company, I could have danced. But of course I didn’t. I could only watch, and as I did, the faery queen’s voice that curled insidiously in my ear seemed to vanish.
I wanted to bow before you and tip my hat. I wanted to act ridiculous and make you smile.
But of course I couldn’t.
You stood before me for a long while, frowning. Your eyes traced every inch of me, from the jagged mockery of a crown on my head to my ribbed metal armor down to my spiked boots. Then you found a stool, nearly as tall as you were, and struggled to drag it over to me without drawing the others’ attention.
Laughter lodged in my frozen throat, unable to escape.
You climbed onto the stool, so close I could see the freckles on your skin. You put out your hand and touched my face with one finger. You touched my forehead, my cheekbones, my chin.
You traced my lips.
Then you smiled, Clara, and cupped one hand around your mouth, and leaned close to whisper, “Hello.”
PART FIVE
* * *
The Lady
She heard a strange singing and whirring and buzzing, which ebbed away in the distance. Higher and higher she rose, as though on mountain waves— higher and higher and higher.
48
Clara awoke in a room of dark rosewood and lace curtains. A mahogany vanity stood nearby, upon which rested a porcelain frame with a photograph of her mother’s face inside it.
Her bedroom. Her bedroom at home.
She bolted upright and scrambled from the bed, wobbly as if on new legs.
The hearth was dark, the wood floor covered in plush floral rugs. In the corner next to the open window hung the mobile Godfather had made for her.
Only now did she recognize the creatures dangling from it for the symbols they really were.
Or had it all been a dream?
The memory of Nicholas’s hands on her body and his lips on her skin told her that it was anything but, and the words of his story—of him and of Godfather and her brave mother—were still fresh in her mind. And yet she felt entirely normal, entirely as she had been before. Before the battle in the ballroom on Christmas Eve, before Cane and the Summer Palace, before her time in the broken black city.
Before Anise.
Before Nicholas.
She put her fingers to her lips. If she closed her eyes, she could hear him whispering her name as they’d moved together. She could remember the surge of magic in her blood when she opened the Door that had helped her defeat Anise.
But when she tried to summon that same magic now, when she moved to the open window and stuck her head out into the cold and breathed deep, she felt nothing. No answering pull at her fingertips, no vitality in her blood other than the knowledge that she was breathing and alive.
The loneliness of it tore at her. She put her cheek to the frozen pane and remembered the Door that had carried her here. The effort of creating it had been so intense that the other mages had had to help her. An oppressive darkness had tugged her through, throwing her against unseen boundaries that had resonated through her like thunder. She remembered falling into her bedroom with her half-conscious father in tow, helping him down the hall to his own room, and then—weak, heartsick—pulling herself to her own bed.
She looked around frantically. Yes, there it was—the tangle of wires on her bedside table.
Bo’s headset.
“You never know,” Bo had said, grinning her cheeky grin and shoving the thing into Clara’s hands. “You might want to visit someday.”
As they’d embraced, she’d looked over Bo’s shoulder at Nicholas and blushed at the look on his face. There’d been no need to say good-bye out loud, not now. There’d been only one heated kiss, a lingering of his fingers at the small of her back. A low murmured, “Good luck, Clara Stole.”
Footsteps racing down the corridor outside brought Clara out of her memory. She hurried for the headset and shoved it into a drawer just as the door opened.
“Where have you been?”
Clara turned. A choked sound burst from her. She hurried toward her sister and threw her arms around her. “Felicity. Felicity, oh God, you’re all right.”
“And no thanks to you.” Felicity shoved Clara away, her face scrunched up in fury. “I don’t know what you and Father have been up to, but first he turns up with scars and scabs all over him, and then I hear this giant crash and come in here to find you sleeping away like you’d never left, and—and you both left me here alone for this entire week, with Mrs. Plum and Dr. Victor breathing down my neck, and I can’t even find horrible old Godfather, and—” She broke off, dissolving into tears. “Clara, I don’t understand what’s happened!”
Clara pulled her close, wiping her face. “I’m sorry, so sorry, darling, about everything, but Father got scared, you see? Big, dangerous things are happening in Concordia, and—”
“Oh, hang Concordia!” Felicity cried.
Clara smiled a secret smile. “Soon enough.”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Just know that Father got scared and went off to try to make things better, but it didn’t work, and I had to find him and bring him back.”
Felicity sniffed. “And now you’ve returned for good?”
Something bittersweet stabbed Clara’s heart. “For good.”
“And where’s Godfather? Not that I blame him for not showing his face here after that embarrassing display at the party. But he could have at least stopped by to make sure I was all right, for goodness’ sake.”
“He’s . . .” Clara looked away, fighting through a wave of sadness. “He’s gone away now. He finished what he needed to do.”
“You mean he’s closed his shop?”
A thought struck Clara and filled her with swift, unexpected joy. “Well, not quite. It’s complicated.”
Felicity was watching her strangely. “Clara, what’s happened? You seem different. Odd, somehow.”
“I’m odd now, am I?” Clara teased, suddenly nervous. Would her transformation be noticeable here?
“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean . . .” Felicity shook her head. “Never mind. Come have breakfast with us, will you? George brought it up to Father’s room, and we’ve got to get ready soon. The ceremony’s tonight, and positively everyone will be there.”
Clara grabbed her dressing gown from its hook and followed her sister down the familiar corridor, with its dark panels and wainscoting and rich red wallpaper. “The ceremony?” she said carefully.
Felicity pursed her lips. “The New Year’s Eve ceremony, Clara. Honestly, you and Father have both lost your senses.”
“Of course. How silly of me.” But Clara knew very well what tonight was, and what it would bring.
John Stole’s bedroom was warm and dark, with forest green walls and thick burgundy curtains. He sat in his high bed with a tray of food beside him, deep in thought. Someone had tried to shave him and had left various nicks on his face; those combined with the traces of injuries from Cane made him look frightful.
Felicity climbed up onto the stool beside his bed to comb his hair. “His hair won’t lie straight anymore. I don’t know where you went, Father, but it seems to have disheveled you completely, inside and out. Did you know, Clara, that he won’t eat his toast? He says it leaves a strange tang in his mouth!”
John Stole looked up with relief. “Ah, Clara.”
She came to his bedside. “Hello, Father.”
“Fear not, Father,” said Felicity. “I’ve already reprimanded Clara quite forcefully about how the two of you left me here, and even if it was to do something to hang Concordia, I don’t much care at the moment. I bet if you thought about it for the rest of your life, you couldn’t understand how frightened I was.”
“Something to hang Concordia?” He looked at Clara, a keen, cutting look in his eyes as he examined her head to toe.
She swallowed hard. “Oh, a joke I had with Felicity.”
Felicity harrumphed and took a rag from the washbowl. “Your arms are filthy, Father. What did you get yourself into?”
“A good question,” John Stole said. “Tell me, Clara, what are these cuts on my arms? And these bandages on my face? Do you know?”
Clara drew in a deep breath. “When I found you, you had gotten drunk and fallen through a window. You were unconscious. I bandaged you and tended you myself, and brought you back here last night, very late.”
His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember. “And . . . where did you find me, exactly?”
“In some hideout of yours or other, uptown. I shouldn’t say specifics; we wouldn’t want innocent ears to hear.” She gave him a calm smile. “Would we?”
“Indeed not.” He frowned even more deeply. “And what was I doing there? In this . . . hideout?”
“You were in the midst of documents and papers. I couldn’t make heads or tails of them, but you kept babbling on about some great plan to leave Concordia forever.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry. I collected your things and put them in your study. They should be right where you left them.”
He rubbed his chin, his eyes never leaving her. “Indeed.”
She turned and said lightly, “Well, I should go check on the household, see what havoc the servants have wreaked in my absence.”
“Fine, fine,” her father muttered, and as Clara passed out the door, she heard him say, “Felicity, pet, I believe I have had the strangest dream. . . .”
“And I’d like to hear all about it someday,” Felicity said briskly, “but right now it’s time to get dressed. After Christmas Eve, you’ve simply got to make a good impression.”
49
At the bottom of the stairs, their butler, George, saw Clara hurrying down and nearly dropped the coats in his arms. Behind him Mrs. Hancock let out a great bubbling cry.
“Miss Stole,” George gasped. “It’s true. You have returned!”
“Yes, George, I’ve returned, and I must apologize for all the confusion.” She walked along the room’s perimeter, noting that the servants had done much to clear away the wreckage. The windows had been boarded up to keep out the cold, presumably until new glass arrived. The torn drapes had been disposed of, leaving the room looking as though it had lost its hat. Great clawed slashes marked the floor, and in the corner, where the Christmas tree had stood, sat the ruined grandfather clock, in pieces. Clara shivered, remembering.
George was aghast. “Miss Stole, I assure you, we’ve been working day and night to—”
She smiled to comfort him. “I trust you have taken stock of the damage, ordered new furniture?”
“Well, of course, but—” George hurried close, his eyes afraid. “Miss Stole, I should warn you, now may not be the best time to discuss it. They’ve been here every day—”
“Ah. Clara. There you are.”
The voice was unmistakable, the anger within it palpable, but Clara noticed as she turned to face it that she was not afraid. Not after what she had seen, and not with Godfather’s last words lingering in her mind.
She smiled meekly. “Mrs. Plum. How good of you to call.”
Through the ballroom doors, their fringed drapes askew, glided Patricia Plum, hair pinned up with jewels glittering as coldly as her eyes. She wore a silk gown, a smart coat of deep burgundy, and a shawl trimmed with ermine. Dr. Victor, lean and tall in his dark coat and hat, was right on her heels. Snow dusted their shoulders.
Clara curtsied. She did not have to delve far to find the remnants of fear from Christmas Eve, when Dr. Victor had gripped her so cruelly on the dance floor. She hoped it showed on her face.
“You don’t fool me with that demure facade, Clara,” Patricia Plum hissed, and when Dr. Victor grabbed Clara by the elbow, she let it happen, let her body go limp and allowed tears into her eyes.
“You’re hurting me.” She trembled for good measure.
“It’s nothing compared to what I will do to you tonight,” Dr. Victor whispered, his cold lips at her ear. George and Mrs. Hancock had hurried out. Clara was alone.
“Where have you been?” As Clara struggled in Dr. Victor’s grip, Plum’s face was impassive but her eyes were furious. “Clara dear, you nearly missed our deadline.”
“Yes, Mrs. Plum,” Clara said, “but we’re back now. Father, too. He’s upstairs with Felicity, eating breakfast and preparing for the ceremony tonight. You can see him for yourself.”
Plum jerked her head at Dr. Victor, who released Clara to hurry upstairs. The Concordia glove glinted on his left hand; it had left indentations in Clara’s skin.
Once they were alone, Plum floated closer. “Let’s try this again. Tell me, Clara, where have you been this past week?”
“Father was afraid.” Clara looked up, biting her lip, wringing her hands. It occurred to her that no one in Cane would believe this timid front for an instant. The thought cheered her. “He knew how terribly angry at him you were. He ran off, went into hiding. But I know him well. I know all his little hideouts.”
