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Clara frowned. “The church?” She had lied about going to church, but it seemed she might end up there all the same.

Pim was insistent. She instructed the driver to stop, all the while with Nela’s suspicious eyes on her.

Inside, birds congregated on the vaulted ceiling, a pulpit from which they preached airy sermons. Men stood about in clusters

of dark capes and tall hats, voices echoing, their self-importance greater than even God.

Pim snuffled softly, drawing Clara’s attention toward a bench in the outer wing of the transept.

She turned quickly back to Nela, pressing a coin into her hand. “I would like to pray, and shall need a taper.”

The maid looked skeptically at the coin in her hand, which was more than enough for a taper plus money left over. Clara held her breath until Nela finally turned on her heel and stalked off to the nave.

Pim wasted no time in leading Clara into the shadowed alcove. If it had been the Old Church, then some forgotten saint’s jawbone

or clavicle would have been turning to dust in a golden reliquary. But because it was the New Church, it was simply an echoing

chamber, empty but for a hard wooden bench.

Except that it wasn’t empty.

“Helma!”

Clara rushed to her old nursemaid, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she threw herself into her arms.

Pim stood guard at the entrance as Helma returned her embrace, squeezing Clara tight like a little girl. How the dog had found

Helma was beyond Clara’s understanding, but she was so glad he had.

“My little sparrow,” Helma said, soaking Clara’s shoulder with tears. “How I’ve fretted over you.”

Clara drew back. “You aren’t angry with me?”

“How could I be, sparrow? You are near to me as my own flesh and blood.”

If Clara could have felt any heavier with guilt, she would have sunk down right into the tombs that lined the floor below

them. “My mother wouldn’t have sent you away if I hadn’t been so careless and ignored your warnings.”

Even in the dim light from the hanging candelabras, Clara could see the frown touching Helma’s brow. “You always were a willful

girl, stubborn and independent. I suppose it was my fault, I ought to have taken more care to—”

Clara stopped her with a weepy smile. “No, Helma. You are perfect as you ever were. My faults are my own and I should never

have drawn you into my plots and schemes. I’ve regretted it every moment of every day since then.”

Helma reached up and wiped a stray tear from Clara’s cheek with her thumb. “There now. There’s no need for tears.”

It should have been enough that she had seen Helma, that she’d had her chance to apologize. But there was an unsettled air

in the transept, only heightened by Helma’s fingers fidgeting in her lap. Pim was still standing guard, occasionally cocking

his head in her direction, as if he could discern what they were talking about.

“I don’t know how much longer we have. Nela will be back any moment, and I will get a thrashing if she catches me talking

to you.”

“Stay a moment. There is something you should know.” Helma swallowed as she worried at the lace of her cap under her chin.

“Something I should have told you long ago.”

“Tell me what?”

The church bells rang the hour, sending birds scattering. Helma was despondently twining her hands together, staring down

into her lap.

“Helma?”

“You had a brother, a twin. You were but babes when he died.”

Clara stared at her old nurse for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

Helma’s hands were still working, her knuckles white. When she met Clara’s eye, there was a wariness, like a dog that isn’t

sure if it’s about to be struck or petted. Helma was scared, Clara realized, scared of the truth and how Clara might react

to it.

A pigeon waddled by, cooing hopefully in its search for crumbs. Helma’s revelation sat heavy in Clara’s chest. It was impossible.

There had never been mention of a brother, nor portraits or any other trace of a sibling. But then she thought about her parent’s

coldness, the constant disappointment she was to them. Swallowing, she forced herself to ask, “Is that why my mother hates

me?”

Helma let a slow sigh escape her. “Your mother doesn’t hate you, not truly. But I suppose some of her coldness has something to do with the grief she feels for losing her son.”

Clara’s thoughts were as fast and tangled as unspooling threads. She should have grown up with a playfellow, a friend. She

wouldn’t have been alone for so long. Her parents would not have resented her. Who knew how her life might have been different?

Helma placed a warm hand on her arm and squeezed. “There now, little sparrow . I know it’s a lot, but you can bear it.”

“I... You never told me,” she said feebly. “Why did you let me go all these years never telling me the truth?”

“Your brother was not to be spoken of in the house; your parents made that very clear after his death. And you were so young,

and then Fenna died...” Helma trailed off, her lips tugging downward. “When your mother dismissed me, I thought I might

never see you again, and you deserved to know.”

“What was his name?”

Helma hesitated. “Frederick. Your parents called him Frits.”

Clara could not imagine her parents using a diminutive name, but then they must have loved him very much. He would have been

the heir her father always wanted, a doting son to her mother. “How did he die?”

“Fever,” Helma said, a little too quickly. “He died of a fever.”

Little wonder that her parents resented her; two babies, a girl and a boy, and it was the preferred child that succumbed to

sickness. Every day they lived with the reminder that their son was stolen from them, and all they were left with was an unsatisfactory

daughter.

Voices echoed beyond the transept, the clicking of men’s boots on stones. “Whatever became of your young man?” Helma asked

presently.

Clara traced a faded death’s head on a slab with the tip of her shoe. “I have not seen him again. I suppose that I was never more than a passing fancy for him, just as you warned me.”

Pim raised his head from where it had been lolling on his paws, and regarded her with intense interest.

Clucking her tongue, Helma gave a brisk nod. “It’s for the best.”

“I had best go,” Clara said, standing and smoothing her skirts. Pim jumped to his feet. “Nela will be back presently and I

won’t bring down reproof on you again.”

Helma had just parted from their embrace and disappeared out the side door when Nela came sweeping into view, her mouth pressed

into a scowl.

“Who were you speaking with?” she asked, craning her head around Clara to the door as it swung shut.

Clara shrugged. “Just a beggar woman.”

Nela’s scowl only deepened. “I’m going to tell your mother.”

“I’m sure you will,” Clara said. “I am done. Let us return to the carriage.”

“What about your taper?”

Clara waved her off. “Upon meditation, I have found that I do not wish to pray after all.” Turning abruptly on her heel, she

left behind the mournful bells and gaping death’s heads of the church, Pim at her heels.