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The man didn’t give her a chance to finish before he was hefting the crates toward her outstretched arms. Clara was just bracing

for what looked to be a very heavy, very wet and dirty, parcel, when Helma came in. Her maid stopped cold in her tracks, took

one look between the young man and her mistress in a soiled apron about to accept a delivery of splintering crates, and her

eyes widened.

“What is this? Come away this instant,” she hissed, pulling Clara away. “Here I thought you were baking bread and instead

you’re... Well I don’t know what you’re doing, but it certainly isn’t proper. And as for you...” Hands on hips, Helma

turned to face down the young man. Her words seemed to die in her throat, something like recognition flickering over her features.

She stood there for a moment, her mouth working compulsively before she found her voice. “Well, shame on you for trying to

pass off a delivery to a girl who clearly couldn’t lift so much as a Bible.”

Clara thought this rather unfair, as she was sure that she would have been able to manage it.

Well, mostly sure. She opened her mouth to argue, but Helma wasn’t having any of it, and took her by the arm.

Clara looked over her shoulder as she was marched away, Helma scolding her as she went.

Crates still in his arms, the young man stood there, one brow raised and a smile on his lips, his gaze following her until they’d rounded the corner.

“I don’t see your bread.”

Her mother’s look at the dinner table that night said that she wasn’t surprised in the least that her daughter had failed

at her little scheme.

Clara shrugged. “It didn’t come out, but Inka said it often doesn’t the first time. I’ll try again another day.”

In truth, Clara had no interest in getting her hands sticky and dirty again, and had already resolved to move on to other

domestic projects. But she liked the idea of proving her mother wrong. And besides, if she spent more time in the kitchen,

perhaps she would see him again.

“If only you were so zealous in your other endeavors,” her mother said with a faint scowl, and then turned her attention to

Clara’s father to complain about the vintage of wine that had been poured.

Clara wasn’t listening to them. She was wondering if she could carry on the ruse of pretending to be a scullery maid in the

kitchen again. When she was little, she had once pretended that she was a beggar child at church, drawing her shawl up over

her head and walking about with her cupped hands outstretched. Her parents had been mortified, her mother striking her across

the cheek as soon as they had gotten into their carriage. Later, when they passed an actual beggar girl, Clara had been sorry

and ashamed for her charade, and given her a coin as well as her shawl. But this was different, she reasoned. Just a bit of

a lark, with no one getting hurt.

Clara looked down at her plate and frowned. Atty was coming around to pour out more wine, when she slipped something into Clara’s lap. Clara stopped her with a low whisper. “What’s this?”

The servant looked at Clara and blinked. “It’s an orange,” Atty said, as if Clara had suddenly turned slow-witted.

“I know that. I meant, where did it come from?”

“The fishmonger’s man asked me to give it to you. Well, he asked me to give it to the ‘tall girl with the short apron’ and

I finally figured out he meant you.”

Atty finished pouring the wine, and Clara fought to hide her smile as she rolled the orange in her palm beneath the table,

relishing the smooth, cool weight of the dimpled fruit.

“Are you listening to me?”

The orange slipped from her hand at the sound of her father’s voice, thudding to the floor. “Yes, Papa?”

“I said, we have worked out the details, and you are to meet with Hendrik Edema tomorrow. It is a courtesy meeting, as he

has already agreed to the engagement.”

“Yes, Papa.” She would have liked to have seen a likeness of the man who had supposedly already agreed to take her for his

wife, but it didn’t matter, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Even if he was old and toothless, she didn’t have

to love him. But then, wouldn’t it be nice if he did turn out to be young and handsome? Perhaps with russet-red hair and clear

eyes, a face both wise and boyish?

“Shall he come here?”

Theodor nodded. “He is a busy man,” he said approvingly, “but has made time to come to meet you.”

“Do try to make a good impression,” her mother added. “Your father has better things to do than to parade eligible suitors

around for you.”

“Yes, Mama,” she said lightly. “I am sure I will find him most agreeable.”

Clara was dreaming.

If her nightmares of water were frightful, her nightmares of land were of an equally terrifying nature. But it was not a drowning,

nor a siren song that was haunting the dark place behind her eyes tonight.

Tonight, she was a child again, had done something that a child would do. She couldn’t remember what exactly had precipitated

her punishment, but it had probably been the sort of thing for which she was often getting in trouble, perhaps running through

the house in muddy shoes, or forgetting to say her prayers.

Whatever it was had caught the attention of her owl-eyed mother, who had swooped down from her silent observatory by the fireside.

Taking Clara by the ear, Katrina gave it a painful wrench. “You’ve tested my patience sorely this week,” she hissed as she

dragged Clara by the ear down the hall. “The sight of you aggrieves me.”

It was all Clara could do to keep her feet moving, to keep herself upright so that her mother’s grip didn’t tear her ear right

off. This was before Clara had learned the little tricks to save some of her dignity, the little jabs she could get in at

her mother. This was when she was still small and afraid and desperate to win her mother’s approval.

Katrina brought her to a skidding halt in front of a great cabinet. It had always stood in the hall, an Oriental design of

cranes and twisty lilies carved into the heavy doors, brought back by her father from some faraway land before she was born.

“In,” her mother commanded, wrenching the doors open and giving Clara a shove. A moment later, the doors slammed shut behind

her, and Clara was left in darkness with her heaving breath and a pressing heaviness. The clicking of shoes on tile grew quieter.

“Mother!” She pounded on the doors until her palms smarted.

Was the air always so close, or was it a product of the dream? Had her breath really come out so hitched and panicked that

it felt like she was dying? The darkness was thick and hot, heavy.

Wake up. Wake up.

But she couldn’t wake up, not yet. Not until the worst part was over, and it was only just now beginning. The part of the

dream where she realized that she was not alone in the cabinet, that something was sharing the tiny space with her.

Dripping water echoed through the cabinet as if it were a cave, the slurping sound heavy and wet as it came closer.

With a body-shuddering gasp Clara flew up from the bed, awake, blessedly awake. She wasn’t in the cabinet in the hall, and

there weren’t invisible little fingers poking at her, disembodied voices whispering. There weren’t slippery tendrils of something wrapping around her legs, pulling her down down down.