Winterspell by Claire Legrand Read Free Book Online Page B

was her own?
    â€œI’m so sorry, miss,” Mrs. Hancock whispered as she peeled away the last bit of heavy green velvet trimmed with gold. She added the gown to the stack of discards and retrieved the next one. “I’m trying to go as quickly as I can.”
    â€œNot to worry,” Clara said brightly. Mrs. Hancock gave her a despairing look, and Clara flushed with shame at having to stand here so unclothed, even in the company of this perfectly harmless woman. Mrs. Hancock was looking upon Clara’s bare legs; she could see the gooseflesh along Clara’s skin. She could see the bruises on Clara’s body, the scabbed-over cuts, and as ever she tactfully ignored them, even arranged the gown to better hide them, though her eyes were heavy with concern.
    Clara’s mortification overwhelmed her from all quarters. Withdrawing from the horror of it, her thoughts leapt wildly to Godfather’s shop, to its warmth and oddness and safety. She thought of Godfather, crowing arrogantly after a successful clock repair; and she thought of the statue, tall and impassive in the shadowed corner—its full lips and narrow waist, its arms in their serrated armor. As she pictured this, the flush on her skin shifted from embarrassment to pleasure, despite the danger luxuriating in the next room.
    Mrs. Hancock prodded her to step into another gown, jarring Clara from her reverie. Guilty tears pricked her eyes—such atrocious thoughts! Apparently she could not help herself. She was a slave to her wandering mind. She was hopeless, depraved.
    Shameful, wanton, sinful girl.
    Why was she so plagued by such wicked impulses?
    A few more tugs, and Mrs. Hancock led her back before Dr.Victor, who sipped lazily at his cognac. Winter seeped in through the windows, making Clara shiver as she stood there before him, being appraised. She tried not to wonder what he might be thinking. The neckline of this gown was far too low-cut, the frothy sleeves too coy, the bodice too perfectly snug. It left little of her form to the imagination, and Clara found herself frantic to get away. The sight of her body in this disgraceful display would affect Dr. Victor adversely, as it always did, turning his eyes dark and his cheeks hot.
    â€œIs there anything wrong with this particular gown, Dr. Victor?” Clara struggled to speak, keeping her eyes on the floor. “These are such fine gowns, and this the finest yet. May we not choose it and be finished?”
    Beside her Mrs. Hancock tensed, and Clara’s stomach dropped like a stone. Dr. Victor’s stillness was too swift, too complete. She could have heard the ash from Dr. Victor’s cigar hit the plush rugs. Had her tone been discourteous? Had she somehow offended him?
    â€œLeave us,” Dr. Victor said at last.
    Mrs. Hancock hesitated for only an instant before obeying. In the maid’s absence Clara stood frozen by her own fear. Not for the first time in Dr. Victor’s company, she considered calling for her father. She could do it; she could scream for him. He had no doubt returned from his afternoon outings. He would be downstairs greeting Concordia gentlemen as they arrived for the usual midweek coffee and brandy.
    But then what would she do? Accuse Dr. Victor of . . . what, exactly? Looking at her? Smiling at her? And if she implied anything more, who would believe her? Her father would; even now, with his eyes always distant and cloudy and his breath smelling perpetually of drink, he loved her, and he would believe her. But the fury Concordia would turn upon them if John Stole accused the respected doctor of something so heinous would not be worth the relief Clara might feel.
    So she remained silent, self-loathing souring her mouth. Dr.Victor rose from his scarlet chaise in the corner, set down his drink, and approached her. He was a sinewy, looming man, the kind of man whose presence flooded a room with authority and menace. As he neared her,