Chapter 177 - One Hundred-Seventy-Seven: The Thread

//CLARA//

My legs were practically vibrating by the time I slipped out from behind the hidden utility panel.

I took two steps onto the polished stone of the gallery, grabbed the edge of a marble display pillar, and just stood there for a second, willing my heart to stop pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Fix yourself," I whispered under my breath, smoothing my hands furiously down the front of my dress. "You are the lady of the evening. Try to remember that."

Yeah, right, lady my ass.

My face was burning hot, my hair was a complete disaster, and I could literally feel Casimir’s lingering mark trickling down my inner thighs beneath my emerald silk.

Speaking of the devil, Casimir stepped out behind me a second later, completely unbothered. He adjusted his cuff links with terrifying calm, his stormy eyes gleaming with the predatory satisfaction of a lion that had just devoured its prey.

"You look thoroughly wrecked, little bird," he rumbled, stepping into my space to lightly trace his knuckles against my flushed cheek.

"Shut up," I hissed, swatting his hand away and glancing frantically down the corridor. "Go back to the floor before someone sees you looking like a cat that swallowed the canary. I need to fix this."

He chuckled, leaning down to press a quick, chaste kiss against my burning cheek before turning on his heel and gliding down the stairs like he hadn’t just committed public indecency twenty feet from a police inspector.

I ducked straight into the private powder alcove near the east wing, praying to whatever transmigrator gods were listening that no one were inside powdering their noses.

The room was empty. Except for Hattie.

She was standing right by the vanity, sitting on a velvet ottoman, calmly threading a needle with dark emerald thread with a sewing kit sat open on her lap.

I froze in the doorway, my hand still clutching my ruined bodice.

"Hattie? What are you—"

Hattie didn’t even look up from her needle. She just tied a neat little knot in the thread.

"I saw the Master haul you behind the utility panel. I thought you might need assistance," Hattie said smoothly, cutting off her thread with a sharp snip.

My soul left my body.

"Hattie—"

"I have thread that matches the emerald, miss. And a spare hook for the shoulder. If we work quickly, no one will notice."

Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

Heat flooded my face, my neck, my entire body. I slammed the door closed just to eliminate the possibility of eavesdroppers.

"Hattie," I hissed. "How long were you standing there?"

"Long enough to know you would need thread." She held up the pouch. "And your hair is... disordered, miss."

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink into the marble floor and never resurface. I could still feel Casimir’s release trickling down my thighs, and yet Hattie—Hattie, who looked at me like I was still the respectable lady of the house.

"You are a saint," I croaked. "A terrifying, omniscient saint."

"I simply pay attention, miss."

She guided me into the ottoman and set to work. Her fingers were nimble, stitching the torn shoulder of my gown, re-pinning my disordered hair, dabbing at the faint smear of red on my collarbone where Casimir had left a mark.

"You have another mark on your neck, miss." She pulled a small tin of powder from her pouch. "I will cover it."

"You’re a life saver, you know that."

"I am simply doing my duty, miss."

I could have kissed her. Instead, I squeezed her hand, once, tight.

"Thank you."

"Of course, miss." She tucked her supplies back into the pouch and smoothed her apron. "Now. You have a ball to finish."

I walked back into the ballroom like I hadn’t just been fucked against a wall and nearly caught by an inspector.

The orchestra was playing a stately waltz. Guests drifted between the chrome sculptures, champagne flutes glittering. Everything looked exactly as I had designed it. The Horizon of Tomorrow fully realized in polished iron and glass and the confused faces of old money pretending to understand modern art.

I found Gary by the refreshment table, looking pale and slightly traumatized.

"How bad was it?" I murmured, grabbing a glass of champagne.

"I stalled him for three seconds," Gary hissed. "Three. Seconds. The man looked at me like I was a cockroach he wanted to squash. I think I’m going to have stress dreams about his face for the rest of my life."

"You did well."

"I nearly peed my pants, Clara."

"You did well anyway."

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Took a long sip of his champagne.

"Where’s Casimir?" he asked.

I scanned the room. Casimir had already returned to his role, moving through the crowd with that predatory grace. No one would ever know he’d been buried inside me five minutes ago.

"Working the room," I said. "As always."

Gary shook his head. "You two are unhinged. You know that, right?"

"Absolutely."

I spent the next hour in hostess mode. I smiled. I nodded. I made small talk about the sculptures, about the champagne, about the daring new fashion of modern silhouettes. I was the perfect lady of the house. Composed, elegant, entirely in control.

But beneath the silk, my body still hummed with every brush of fabric against my thighs.

I kept my eyes on Mr. Harding.

He had returned to the ballroom. He was circulating now, but he wasn’t socializing. He stayed near the edges of the room, still tracking Casimir’s movements.

At one point, our gazes met across the crowd.

He inclined his head, a small, polite gesture.

I smiled and turned away.

Midnight approached. The orchestra shifted into a slower, more melancholy tune. Guests began to gather their wraps, calling for their carriages. The ball was winding down.

I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. We had survived.

I found Beatrice and Oliver by the grand staircase, saying their goodbyes.

"You look flushed, Eleanor," Beatrice observed.

"It’s the champagne."

"Of course." She smiled, but her eyes were knowing. She glanced toward the corridor where Casimir had disappeared with me, then back at my face. "Well. I hope you enjoyed your evening."

"Beatrice."

"Goodnight, Eleanor." She kissed my cheek. "I’ll call on you tomorrow."

Oliver offered a tired grin. "The ball was a success. The sculptures were a hit. The press loves it."

"Get some rest, Oliver."

"I intend to sleep for a week."

They left. The ballroom was emptying. The press outside had already begun to disperse, packing up their equipment, filing their stories for the morning editions.

I found Casimir by the champagne table.

"Well," I murmured, coming to stand beside him. "I think that went well."

"One near-scandal, one investigation, and one ruined dress." He glanced at me. "I’d call it a success."

"High praise from you."

"It’s the best I can offer."

I smiled. "Then I’ll take it."

The last guests were trickling out. The musicians were packing up their instruments. The footmen were extinguishing the candles.

I allowed myself to breathe.

The bell of the grand clock began to toll. Twelve chimes. Midnight. The ball was over.

And then the doors opened.

The sound was sharp. A crack of wood against stone that cut through the murmur of the remaining guests like a blade.

Every head turned.

In the doorway stood a man.

He was leaning heavily on a cane, his body bent at an angle that spoke of bones that had been broken and had healed wrong. His face was a ruin. One eye swollen shut, his nose crooked, his lip split and scarred. His clothes were expensive, but they hung on his frame like a shroud, too large for the diminished body beneath.

He took a step forward.

The cane tapped against the marble floor.

Tap.

Another step.

Tap.

The sound echoed through the silent ballroom, louder than the orchestra had ever been.

I felt my blood turn to ice.

The man’s head lifted. His one good eye found mine across the room, and something that was not quite a smile twisted his ruined features.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He walked—limped—toward the center of the ballroom, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. No one spoke. No one moved. The footmen stood frozen, their hands hovering over the candelabras they had been extinguishing.

He stopped in the middle of the floor, directly beneath the chrome airplane, and looked around at the assembled guests. The few who remained, the ones who had stayed too late or lingered too long.

Then his gaze found Casimir.

And then it found me.

"Well, well." His voice was rougher than I remembered, scraped raw by whatever had happened to him in the weeks since I’d last seen him. But the venom was still there.

The arrogance. The cruelty.

"Looks like Mr. and Mrs. Guggenheim surely know how to throw a ball of the century."

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

I heard the whispers start. A ripple of confusion, of shock, of scandal.

"Mrs. Guggenheim?"

"Aren’t he and Miss Thorne supposed to be wed?"

"Who is Mrs. Guggenheim?—"

I felt Casimir go rigid beside me. His hand found my elbow, gripping hard enough to bruise.

Bartholomew smiled. That horrible, ruined smile.

And the room erupted into chaos.