Winterspell

1


One more hour and Clara Stole could turn criminal.

Could, that is, if she managed to stand her ground until then, for every eye in the crowd was watching her, waiting for her to say something impressive, something to commemorate the day. And she was so tired of fumbling through grand words that were never quite grand enough for such hungry, thirsty people. Hungry for food, thirsty for a numbing drink—but even hungrier, even thirstier, for hope.

Hope.

What would Hope Stole have thought of Clara, on this strange, wintry day? What would she have thought of her elder daughter? She would have been proud of Clara, surely, for the speech Clara was about to make, and for keeping the Bowery Hope Shelter project alive despite the gradual decrease in funding.

And, just as surely, she would have been angry at Clara for what would come after—the criminal part, the part that would involve sneaking, thievery, breaking and entering.

The part Godfather had unknowingly inspired.

Yes, Hope Stole would have been disappointed, and her eyes would have flashed in that famously fearsome way, and she would probably have railed at Godfather about responsibility this and safety that. She had always been worried about her daughters’ safety, even more so than most mothers Clara knew, as if the world were full of dangers only she could see. Funny, that, as without her mother’s influence, Godfather wouldn’t have been brought into their lives, and without Godfather, Clara might not have ever thought of doing something like what she would do in—fifty-seven minutes, now?

And anyway, the daughter of a New York City gang lord is criminal by her very blood. Being uncriminal, Clara had decided—being good—would have been like snubbing her heritage.

Somehow she didn’t think her mother would have been impressed with that line of reasoning.

But her mother was dead, and it was past time for Clara to find answers. If she could only, for this short while, manage to keep her head.

That was her credo these days, and an increasingly difficult one to follow: Keep your head, Clara, while everyone around you loses theirs, or already has.

And when you yourself are close to doing the same.

Beside her, Leo Wiley, her father’s secretary, cleared his throat. Her cue.

Clara approached the edge of the stone steps, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart. Anxiety nipped at her insides; as always, she shoved past it. There was no place for it here, not when she was playing the good, glamorous mayor’s daughter. A tangle of red hair came loose from its knot and fell across her eyes, as though it knew her true state of mind. Before her the crowd waited, shifting, eyeing her—blankly, skeptically, and, a few, with hope.

“My mother loved this city,” Clara began, “and the people in it.” Her voice wanted to shrink and crack, and her hands were shaking. She wasn’t good at this, but she had to be, so she pretended. She didn’t like wearing this fine gown; even with its many layers and her winter coat, she felt bare, exposed, too prettied up to feel safe. But she had to look the part, so she tolerated her raging discomfort. Not for the first time that day, she wished her father were up here instead. It should have been him dedicating this building in his wife’s honor. But her father was different now; he had changed over the past year. Everything had.

“She, er . . .” Clara’s voice trailed off. The crowd glanced around, uncertain. So many of them, so many mouths and fears and empty bellies, measuring her. Surely they could see through this lace and satin and velvet brocade to the shaking nakedness underneath.

Pull yourself together, Clara Stole. You can’t afford not to.

“Pardon me.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, fingered the ebony cross at her neck. “She would have loved to be here today, you see.”

Ah. The crowd nodded sympathetically, shared knowing glances, shifted forward to better see the dear, tenderhearted, motherless girl. Clara felt Mr. Wiley puff up with pleasure; he would be proud of her performance. There would be a warm, supportive summary of the event in tomorrow’s paper. It would be fantastic press for the mayor’s office.

Clara clutched the worn wooden podium. It was the only thing preventing her from running away to hide, preferably in Godfather’s shop. There, no one’s eyes were ever on her except his solitary, sharp gray one—and the stern black ones of the statue in the corner.

“Again, pardon me.” Clara cleared her throat; the sound of tears in her voice, at least, would be genuine. Fifty-five minutes now, perhaps. She clung to the estimate with slipping nerves. Only fifty-five more minutes. “My mother worked tirelessly for the betterment of our city,” she continued, addressing the bare black branches in the park beyond, avoiding the eyes in the crowd. “She dreamed of a place where the less fortunate could turn for shelter, warmth, and rest.”