"She's basically my sister," Jimmy tells the assorted gathering. "What happened to Clara can't be allowed to stand."

"I think the deal between Mr. Rothstein and myself addresses the violence against Clara," Nucky retorts.

"Gentleman, no one in this room wants our enemies to believe that going after daughters, sisters, mothers, wives is acceptable. We all have things we do not wish to lose," Arnold Rothstein said smoothly. The other men in the room nodded. "In fact, Mr. Thompson, I would like to apologize to the young lady personally for my part in her ordeal."

"That won't be necessary," Nucky replied.

"I'm afraid I must insist," Rothstein said.

Nucky nodded. It wasn't worth arguing over. He rang the bell, and when Eddie appeared asked him to fetch Clara and Harrow.

Minutes later the most interesting pairing Arnold Rothstein had ever feasted his eyes upon-and he was a man who sought out the interesting, the absurd, and the unusual the way most men seek out breakfast-walked into the room. The girl was lovely. The man...it struck Rothstein that the man had been lovely. That mane of dark hair, the chiseled jaw, the height, the build. But the strange metal mask he wore destroyed the illusion, and something made the uncovered part of his mouth pull strangely. The war, he presumed. What else could destroy such a young man? He barely looked older than the girl. For all their differences-his cheap but immaculate clothing, her simple but expensive dress; his destroyed beauty versus her lovely wholeness-the electricity between them was almost palpable.

"Frankenstein! How ya' doin'?" The tubby little man from Chicago called from his corner, Al...Something. Rothstein couldn't recollect. He hadn't seemed important enough to commit to memory. Torrio shook his head at Capone's inability to control his mouth.

Rothstein was busy watching the main event. Clara Thompson walked into the room wearing a carefully composed social face, one he assumed she had honed since childhood. One Rothstein imagined rarely slipped. Yet when the Chicagoan spoke for one moment the mask fell and the look Miss Thompson shot him was pure ice. She also took the smallest of steps towards the man in the mask. Their hands weren't touching, Rothstein noted, but they could be.

"My apologies, I don't believe anyone has ever referred to me in that way?" Clara said, refusing to break eye contact with the odious little man with the potato face.

The man in the mask spoke. "He knows me. From Chicago. He calls me. Frankenstein." The low growl was almost inhuman, made worse by a clicking noise that followed some words, Rothstein thought.

Jimmy looked down at his feet. Nucky had once told Jimmy to stop fighting at school (Gillian was having an affair with the father of one of their schoolmates; Jimmy couldn't walk down the hall without someone saying something about his ma). One kid, though, one kid needed it. Jimmy had been considering risking Nucky's wrath one afternoon on the playground when the kid wouldn't shut his mouth, but before he could act Clara jumped down from the top of the monkey bars on top of the little bastard and proceeded to blacken his eye before anyone could pull her off. She had the exact same look on her face now.

"He thinks you a mad scientist, or simply a physician?" Clara asked, and slightly turned her body so she was making eye contact with the masked man's good eye. Ah, Rothstein saw, she still thinks him lovely and it grieves her that others don't see it.

Rothstein snorted out loud, saw Meyer Lansky and Jimmy Darmody fight to hide laughter, and Thompson briefly close his eyes at his daughter's retort. The girl's literary critique went over the heads of the rest. The masked man allowed himself a slight smile, or what Rothstein assumed was a smile.

"I think it safe to assume that our friend from Chicago has not read the book," Rothstein replied. "He is simply being unforgivably rude to, if I presume correctly, the man who saved your life?"

"My daughter, Clara Thompson, and Richard Harrow, who works for me. Mr. Harrow did save Clara," Nucky interjected. Jesus, why couldn't Torrio control that little troll? Of course, it was Nucky's daughter who refused to ignore the insult. Nucky knew controlling his young wasn't one of his strengths, either.

"Miss Thompson, I wanted to apologize for what happened to you. I had no idea, of course, that the people I was doing business with could be capable of such savagery. However, I did go into business with them, and unknowingly played a part in the chain of events that led to your attack," Rothstein said in his most charming voice.

The social mask was back, Rothstein saw, and she turned a charming, practiced smile towards him. "Mr. Rothstein, no one is responsible for the actions of others. Who was it that said 'we are too much accustomed to attribute to a single cause that which is the product of several, and the majority of our controversies come from that.' I'm sure there were many contributing factors that led to those men deciding to attack me."

"Marcus Aurelius," Rothstein replied. "Which I'm sure you know." Clara smiled again, less practiced.

"That will be all, Clara. Harrow, stay," Thompson directed.

Rothstein watched the million microscopic ways Harrow and Clara parted from each other. He made a mental note of this delicious find, made sweeter by the fact that no one else-not the man that spoke of Clara as a sister, not her father-seemed to notice what was going on before their eyes.

Later, Meyer Lanskey drives Rothstein to the station to catch a train to Chicago and comments that most girls find Charlie Luciano attractive but Miss Thompson never even looked at him. Little Meyer, Rothstein reflects. He might turn into a fine collector himself someday.

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When Clara returns to her room she sees her mail stacked next to the typewriter. The return address on the top letter is 17 Madison Avenue. Her heart skips a beat when she realizes the envelope is fat.

"Clara," Richard says from the door. When she turned to face him he thought something was wrong. Her eyes were incredibly bright.

"I got it. I got it. I wrote a Tom Swift book on speculation, and they liked it well enough that they've assigned me a Bobbsey Twin novel and a Betty Gordon novel to write! I'm a real writer. I'm going to make actual money," she actually laughs a little out of sheer happiness.

"You wrote. A Tom Swift book?"

Clara nods. "Jimmy and I used to love them. When he came back from Chicago he gave me Tom Swift and His Undersea Search. I read it, and thought, I can write that. Once I understood how it all worked, I wrote one and sent it to this place called the Stratemeyer Syndicate. They liked it! Not enough to let me write Tom Swift, but they've assigned me books from two other series."

"Mmm. I thought. Victor Appleton wrote. Tom Swift," Richard replied, still confused.

"Victor Appleton is just a name ghostwriters like me write under," she replied.

"I gave. Jimmy that book," Richard tells her.

Clara smiles, "Well, thank you, then! I would have never, ever thought to consider writing children's books without reading it. And now? I might have a career."

"I'm leaving. For Philadelphia. I won't be back until tomorrow. Then you won't need protection," Richard said. Clara's face fell. She turned back towards her desk, pushing down a cascade of emotion.

"I'm going to miss you. You have to promise you'll still be my friend," Clara said, already grieving the lack of him that her life about to be defined by.

"If you want to. Be friends with me," Richard answers. "You were very plucky. And adventurous taking on. Capone."

She smiles as best she can. "It's easy to be brave when I have you with me," Richard is twisting his hands nervously as she speaks. "Just...I'm the daughter of this house. I know what's about to happen. Please be safe, and let me know when you are back in Atlantic City and are okay, because," Clara blinks rapidly to hold back the tears. "I'm going to worry about you until I know." She leans up to kiss his cheek but doesn't move away quickly. She holds her face against his, letting herself have this moment to know what his skin feels like under her mouth, what his beard feels like against her skin, what his skin smells like up close. Richard can't move, can't breathe, can't think while Clara is pressed against him. He wants her to move right now, and he wants her to stay there forever.

When he leaves, she sits down, pulls out the information from the Stratemeyer Syndicate, and starts planning her first novel. It's hours before she lets herself get up, and then it hits her.

At some point, when she was very young, she realized that Jimmy's life with Gillian wasn't normal. She's always thought that was the moment that a thread tied with knots and made of lava embedded itself into the very core of her being. That thread was always just under the surface, weaving worry and concern for Jimmy into the texture of her days. When he left for the war it grew from a thread to a heavy rope that some days felt like it might consume her, as it encircled her thoughts and her feelings. Was he safe? Was he scared? Was he cold? Was he hungry? That lava rope is why she left college and got a job working for the War Department in New York, so that at least every day she knew was doing something to make it more feasible that Jimmy could come home.

Now she knew she had another molten cord melting into her soul. This one felt like copper, always giving off little bits of electricity, never quite letting Richard drop from her mind. Those copper threads were pulsating in fear. Clara took a deep breath. He was a sharpshooter. She had seen his deadly aim, she reassured herself. He'd be okay.

The young face of the boy, really, who tried to pull her into the car floated through her mind's eye, but Clara resolutely pushed it back. She simply could not allow herself to think of it.

Instead, she let herself wander into Richard's room. Tomorrow or the next day he'd come for his things, and this room would go back to storage for trunks and suitcases. She could feel the loneliness that was waiting for her, feel the Princess of the Tower once more becoming her identity. A life full of people but devoid of friends.

His room was so neat. No stacks of books and papers, or hairbrushes randomly laid down like her own room. He straightened it up with military precision. She gave in and laid down on his bed, sick with worry about whatever deal with the devil Jimmy and Richard were carrying out.

Something struck her thigh. She reached under the mattress and found a book. That's taking neatness a step too far, she thinks. She idly opens it, curious as to what Richard reads.

The book has had almost every page pasted over with a variety of pictures cut from magazines or newspapers. Each page represents some carefully constructed vision of family life or romantic relationships. One particularly beautiful page has several different pictures overlapping to display a field with bluebirds. A few more pages in, and she finds a picture of Richard. It's his enlistment picture. She runs her finger across the left side of his face. The loss is almost unimaginable, she realizes. He was so incredibly handsome. How could anyone's psyche deal with the sudden change from being good looking to being someone whose face makes children scream? When Clara says his face doesn't bother her, she means it. She can see this man in Richard every time she looks at him, maybe because she first saw him in profile. Never, though, has she so clearly understood how it must torture him.

Careful not to get tears in the book, she keeps turning pages. That's when she finds a layout devoted to her. The Good Housekeeping article from the magazine she left in Jimmy's room, other articles she's had published since, a paper napkin from the hotel, a drawing Margaret's son Teddy made, showing the Tin Man next to a stick figure with yellow hair (Clara assumed that was her).

Later that night Clara will think of the scrapbook. It's heartbreaking, she thinks. He's imagining a life he believes he'll never have. He's reaching for something lovely in only the way he thinks he can. Part of her, though, thinks about Richard might be the first man she knows who actually sees such mundane things as wives and children and beauty as a vital part of a man's existence.

Richard does come back to tell her he's fine, he does get his things, and her life somehow becomes much quieter. How was the possible, she wonders, when Richard barely spoke?

It's not quiet the next night at the Ritz-Carlton. Her father is throwing an election night preparty, but everyone is clothed so she is playing hostess for a bit. She's feigning interest in something a ward boss is saying when she sees Jimmy, who is obviously drunk, being dragged into the hallway by her father. She smilingly steps away.

It won't be the first fight between the two Clara's mediated; she doubts it will be the last.

The way Jimmy's talking, though, makes her pause to listen out of sight. Slowly, slowly Jimmy's words start to coalesce in her mind.

Her father. Gillian. The Commodore. Jimmy. It all starts to come together to form a complete picture. She thinks she's going to throw up. She thinks she's going to start running and never stop.

The first clear memory Clara has of Gillian, was when she and Jimmy were only about three. She thinks of how young Gillian seemed at sixteen. Now she imagines her at thirteen. She imagines the Commodore, who must have been in his fifties, touching her. The horrible wet, heavy feeling of Darcy's hands on her comes back. The way that when he kissed her she felt like the weight of his face on hers was going to suffocate her. Clara was an adult woman; how much worse would it be for a child. How much worse if it didn't stop at unwanted kisses and touches.

"Jimmy's right, isn't he?" She finally speaks, startling her father, after Jimmy walks away. "You would sacrifice anyone for an advantage. You were willing to see me married to someone I find repulsive. Gillian was a child, and you just handed her to that old man. And how could you tell Jimmy you don't love him? Jimmy...you raised him just as much, maybe even more, as you raised me. How can you not love a child that you raised?" Clara blinks back tears. "Do you even love me, or was I just another obligation?"

Nucky sighs. "You and Jimmy talk a lot about being adults, yet you revert to childishness..."

Clara shakes her head. "No. You don't get to treat us-and not just us, but Eli, your own brother like this." Eli has been quietly watching and starts when he realizes that his niece realized her father's perfidy against him, "You think because we're family, you can just treat us like pieces on your chessboard. We only exist to you as potential sacrifices or advantages to the game you play." Clara walks away. Her father calls her, but she doesn't look back.

She wraps her heaviest coat over the green velvet party dress she'd meant to wear to the election night party at Babette's and takes to the Boardwalk. First, she wanders aimlessly, her entire life replaying in front of her eyes. The money behind every luxury, every treat traced back to her father's betrayal of a child. Again, the boy who tried to pull her into the car flashes in front of her eyes. She had told Richard she was her father's daughter, that she understood the ugliness that powered the prettiness of her father's life.

What she hadn't known was the original sin that made it all possible.

Jimmy is aimlessly wandering the beach near dawn when he sees a girl asleep on the steps down to the beach. Clara.

"What the hell?" he asked her as he woke her up.

"I knew you'd come this way," she answers, rubbing her face. Jimmy sits facing her on the step below her, his bad leg straight out in front of him, each of them leaned against the railings. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and hands it to her. She takes a slow drag.

"It's not that he doesn't love you, Jimmy. I think he doesn't love any of us. Maybe my mother? Maybe if Enoch Junior had lived? But the rest of us? I'm not sure he thinks of us as fully human. He's shown these last months that we are all disposable-you, me, Eli- if push comes to shove." Clara's tone isn't even bitter, Jimmy thinks, just resigned.

Clara reaches forwards and puts her hands on his wrists. "I love you," she says, and Jimmy knows its true. Clara might be the only person whose love doesn't hurt, doesn't cost, or come with a contract's worth of stipulations.

"I love you, too," he says and means it. They look at each other in the dawn. Clara thinks that Jimmy might the only person who loves her, really.

"Whatever happens," Clara says. "I'll be on your side, for almost anything. I just...Please don't put me in a position where I have to make an unbearable choice. But if that's going to happen, please tell me so that I can be the one who makes it."

Jimmy nods, slowly. It's a promise he means to keep. It's a promise he will inevitably break.