Free Winterspell by Claire Legrand Page A

if he said there was danger, he was right. But what to do with their guests? And what sort of danger was it? “Godfather’s already done a bit too much celebrating, it would seem. Haven’t you, Godfather?”
    He stared at her. “Oh?”
    She returned the look pointedly.
    â€œOh!” He forced a smile. “Yes. To be sure. I’m pissed as a pirate.”
    Some of the children, and not a few adults, giggled as Clara led Godfather toward the Christmas tree. The dirty street boys, eyeing the refreshments hungrily, followed them with the cloth-covered tower in tow. In their wake the orchestra resumed playing, and the murmuring crowd began drifting back to their party.
    â€œGodfather—”
    â€œTake your money and get far away, boys, as far as you can,”Godfather said, shooing the boys away with a handful of coins. “It won’t be safe here for much longer.”
    â€œGodfather.” Clara shook him. “You shouldn’t be here. I told you not to come. Dr. Victor will try to ruin you.”
    â€œThe good doctor is the least of our worries, my Clara.” Godfather crouched by his towering bundle and pulled the cloth aside a little to reveal a chiseled metal thigh, the iron boot tipped with spikes, covered in those savage symbols.
    Clara’s skin flushed with sudden smoldering awareness.
    The statue. As always, her hands itched to touch it. Her body swayed toward it. She had to fight the urge to sidle close to it, as she so often did, to whisper hello and tell it about her day in that embarrassing way she had of pretending that it cared, or even could. But her secrets were so safe, held tightly in the statue’s metal crevices. How could she resist? And there had been moments, she swore there had been, when the statue’s face had softened as she’d nestled near and chattered mindlessly about things too private to speak of to others, even to Godfather.
    She swallowed hard, tore her gaze from the statue’s armor-plated thigh. “Why is that here?”
    â€œI told you, my breakthrough.” Godfather raked silver fingers through his hair. “They’ve been after me for years, of course they have. She has. Trapping him wasn’t enough; coming here wasn’t enough. I’ve felt them jabbing”—he poked his fingers at her—“at the wards for years, but never getting any closer. Tonight, though . . . I’ve almost done it. Almost. ” He punched his palm. “Unfortunately, my work disrupted the wards’ protection.”
    â€œGodfather, for heaven’s sake, speak plainly.”
    â€œLook. I’ve done it, I tell you. It’s begun. Look. ”
    Clara followed his stained finger and saw it on the statue’s leg—a thin, jagged crack in the metal, a seam ready to burst, and it glowed with a pale, blue light.
    She stepped away, shaken. Years in its company, and she had never seen the statue do that . “You’ve got to get that out of here, Godfather. If Dr. Victor sees it, he’ll brand you for a devil—”
    Dr. Victor. In the chaos of Godfather’s arrival, she had forgotten him, her father, Patricia Plum. With a sick lurch of her heart, she whirled to search for them in the crowd.
    They were gone.
    â€œOh, God.”
    â€œI’m afraid that won’t help in these matters,” Godfather said, withdrawing a leather packet of tools from his greatcoat. “Believe me, I have tried.”
    Clara left him muttering and found Felicity’s red curls in the sea of children picking over Godfather’s toys.
    â€œFelicity, watch Godfather for a moment, won’t you?” Clara could hardly speak, her throat tight with fear. “Make sure he doesn’t have one of his fits.”
    Felicity wrinkled her nose. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”
    But Clara had already left her, weaving through the crowded ballroom toward the winding