The music was lovely, but Clara was barely aware of it. Nor was she aware of the fact that time was passing. At the moment, her awareness centered on the feel of Richard's hand on her back. Every time he readjusted it slightly, it felt like electricity danced across the surface of her skin.

One of the truths that Clara accepted about her life was that she was not a person capable of merely living in the moment. As she stepped into a bath and enjoyed sliding into warm soapy water, her brain was making a to-do list for the day, thinking about the book she was reading, or worrying she had forgotten something. It was the same when she swam in the ocean, or walked down the Boardwalk, or saw a play. No matter what she did, her mind busied itself by wandering down multiple different paths during all her activities, usually finding new things to worry about, or new mistakes to castigate herself over.

It was why at night she tried to read or write until it was impossible to keep her eyes open. Only complete exhaustion allowed her brain to stop listing everything she did wrong, to stop counting every mistake she had ever made, or thinking of all the things she could have done better long enough that she could succumb to sleep.

It was why she loved writing. When she wrote, her mind pushed the various pathways together so that all her thoughts flowed in the same direction, and she could just be in the moment.

The only other time that happened was when she was with Richard. It was as if he so filled her senses that her brain focused on the details of the time together, on the complex jumble of feelings he inspired, and her thinking slowed so that she could just be in the moment. Even if what she usually was in the moment was a shivery mess.

Right now, maybe even more so than usual. It was a rare time since he stopped guarding her when they were just...alone. She wasn't worried about managing Jimmy, or her father, or anyone else. She knew they were all out there, waiting to burst this little bubble that cocooned them from the reality that lay outside of this moment. Still, at this particular moment, the world seemed to be folding in on itself so that it was just his hand on her back, his other hand in hers, the nearness of him as they spun under the carefully constructed fake moonlight. She smelled the scent of his soap, of his aftershave, and behind it all, of his skin. He was looking directly at her-which was unusual enough—and combined with the overwhelming nearness of him caused butterflies to rush up from her stomach to her throat so quickly she felt almost dizzy from the accompanying breathlessness.

Finally, she braved meeting Richard's gaze directly. He looked frightened (a feeling she was highly empathetic with at the moment), but there was something else there. She hoped it was the something else in her own gaze. It felt like he was drawing her slightly closer to him. Clara thought she was close enough that she could almost feel the heat of his body behind his clothes. His eye seemed to be sweeping between her eyes and her mouth, and Clara tilted her head back by instinct. She watched him clear his throat, and his mouth twitched as they stop dancing. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest she was surprised that he, that the orchestra somewhere in their pit, could not hear it. Nervous energy swept through her, and she was trying to still herself enough that she could lean into him.

"Hey, there you are, Dollface," Eli's voice echoed around the empty Babette's.

The breath Clara hadn't realized she was holding came out in a rush, and she lept back, partly out of surprise and partly out of fear that if she didn't, the presence of Eli and June Thompson weren't going to stop her from finishing what she was about to begin.

Clara realized her uncle and aunt were staring at them, and that June looked vaguely scandalized. Damn, she thought, it must already be ten o'clock. Only Uncle Eli would be gauche enough to show up precisely on time. "Richard," she managed to get out, completely aware her voice was uneven, "I have to go greet the guests."

*******************

It was eleven before the party hit its stride. The Rothsteins had secured a small table where they could watch the drama of the ball unfold like a spring flower in the first morning light. From their table, they could see the dancers on the floor, the onlookers in the balcony, and Clara Thompson standing in the foyer greeting a never-ending flow of her father's guests. They could also see the masked man positioned in the ballroom where he could watch the door and see Miss Thompson.

"So, Arnold," Carolyn said in a teasing voice born from the knowledge that comes with almost twelve years of marriage, "I feel like you would enjoy speaking about Miss Thompson and her friend."

Rothstein sipped his tea and smiled at his perceptive wife. "Aren't they an unexpected delight? Tell me what you've noticed."

Carolyn let her gaze drift between the man and the young woman. "Well, he'd rather have been anywhere else than at that terrible dinner or here at this party in a dinner jacket. But he'd go anywhere she was, or she wanted him to go." She saw her husband nod happily (she loved Arnold for many reasons, but she found his busybodiness delightful. In a different time, he would have been an excellent matchmaker instead of whatever...well, she wouldn't think of that now). "And Miss Thompson, she'd rather be anywhere else, as well."

"Really?" Rothstein asked, astonished Carolyn picked up on something he had not. "You think her unhappy?"

Carolyn watched Clara Thompson going through the motions of enthusiastically greeting everyone in front of her while she considered her response. "I think her unsatisfied," Carolyn said slowly. "She's not actually all that interested in any of this."

Arnold leaned forward. "She writes books for young people. She broke off an engagement with the son of some New Jersey political dynasty, much to her father's disgust. She considers Jimmy Darmody her brother. And she seems utterly besotted with her father's hitman, whom, best I can tell, is a farm boy from Wisconsin. I don't imagine that's what Thompson has in mind for the girl he raised as a princess."

"I would ask if her father knows about Mr. Harrow, but I think the answer is no. I don't even think Miss Thompson and Mr. Harrow are fully aware of each other's feelings. And when the little Darmody boy came out to show them the picture? She couldn't resist putting her hand on Harrow's shoulder. She was smiling at him like..." Carolyn's voice drifts off, and she alters what she initially meant to say. "She smiled at him like she imagined an entire life with him."

After thinking for a moment, Carolyn adds, "Charlie dislikes her."

Rothstein looked sharply at his wife. "How do you know?"

"As we walked away from her at the hotel, she and Charlie were speaking Italian to each other. They were not pleasant tones of voice."

"I was not aware that Mr. Luciano and Miss Thompson were acquainted on a level that allowed them to have any opinion about each other. The last time we were here, even Meyer commented that Miss Thompson didn't even notice Charlie."

Carolyn almost pointed out how Clara had told Meyer and Charlie in an overload voice to call her Clara, almost as if she was covering up a deeper acquaintance than they were admitting to. She held back that piece of information for now. After all, it was Arnold who taught her never to play all her cards at once.

"Let me tell you about the first time I met them..." Arnold began.

Jimmy was attempting to dance with Angela to the best of his ability. The stiffness in his leg felt so foreign as he held her on the dance floor, and he felt a bit of wistfulness for the way they danced before he left to join up.

"That dinner was awful," Angela said softly.

Jimmy tried to think of a joke about Clara's parties before deciding limited honesty was the only way to go. "My father, he was just trying to get under Nucky's skin."

"By pointing out what a disappointment I am? At least that solved the question of what he and Gillian talk about."

Gillian is not a topic Jimmy enjoys talking about with his wife, so he changes the subject. "Why is Richard just standing there?"

Angela smiles. "He's watching Clara. He thinks it's unsafe that she's out there alone."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. "Yes, because Nucky and I and a host of other people aren't right here to watch after her."

"It's sweet. I mean...it's obvious they like each other. It's obvious it goes beyond friendship."

His leg is about to buckle, so he leads Angela off the dance floor. The pain is making him snappish and leaving him in dire need of a drink. "Nothing can come of it. But I don't understand why Clara doesn't do something if she has feelings, even if Richard can't."

Oh, Angela thinks, it's not just me. Part of her always assumed that Clara and Jimmy's long relationship meant he understood Clara in a way he had never been able to understand her, his wife. But he didn't. He saw Clara as she presented herself to almost everyone, not as she was. "She's terrified, Jimmy. She's bad at relationships. Having your mother kill herself after a string of miscarriages and dead infants and then having your father move you into a hotel where he has a new mistress every year or so might leave a person a little unsure about intimacy."

Jimmy stares at his wife but doesn't say anything.

"Here," Richard says, thrusting a cup of punch into Clara's hand after the last guest finally enters the ballroom, and her greeting duties are finished.

She drinks the cup down thirstily before she speaks. "Thank you. I've talked and smiled so much in the last...what time is it?"

Richard consults his pocket watch, a small action that always makes her smile. "It's. A quarter 'til one."

"Supper starts in fifteen minutes, and the VIP room will open. I should go check on everything." Clara doesn't move, though. She tries to think of how to recapture the magic of the dance floor, how to address what went on between them, how to put the tangle of emotions sitting her chest into words.

Meyer Lansky came in from the ballroom. He looked nervous. "Harrow, Clara, by any chance have you seen Charlie?"

Richard shook his head while Clara answered, "I've not yet left the foyer."

"We are all supposed to meet in the VIP room at one. Not only can I not find Charlie, but I don't see Mrs. Darmody on the ballroom floor either."

Clara closed her eyes. She could sense the upcoming catastrophe like a runaway train bearing down on her. "Meyer, Babette is standing inside the door. Tell her I asked you to check the observation boxes-one is set up for supper, the others should be empty. They would be excellent places for a rendezvous. Richard, come with me to the opposite side and check the dressing rooms and the VIP room?"

"I thought. Mrs. Darmody. Was with Jimmy's father?" Richard asked as they made their way through the dressing rooms.

Clara considers her words carefully. She judges Gillian for a lot, but she won't judge her for anything to do with the Commodore. If Jimmy wasn't involved, if Richard wasn't involved, if she wasn't worried about the possible damage to herself, to Angela, to Tommy, she would hope that Gillian took the Commodore for every red cent the old bastard possessed and, in doing so, caused him incalculable pain and humiliation. It still probably wouldn't equal 1/10 the pain he had visited upon Gillian. And, she knows, her father is also due a reckoning when it comes to Gillian. But the collateral damage of the current plan seems unbearable.

"I think there are things Gillian gets from the Commodore she can't get from Charlie, and there's things from Charlie she can't get from the Commodore," Clara looks up from the corner of her own eyes to Richard's good side to see if he caught her meaning. His mouth is twitching badly, so she assumes he has.

"But Mrs. Darmody. Is Jimmy's mother. And Luciano is our age."

Clara notices Richard's hand cupping and uncupping, a gesture she's learned means he's uncomfortable. "Gillian is more of an age to be our sister, not Jimmy's mother. I mean, I wish she'd look for her fun somewhere other than Charlie Luciano and not during my father's party, but..." Clara shrugs.

They hear the noise before they get to the door of the VIP room. Richard knocks on the door, hard, but the room's occupants either do not hear or ignore the banging.

"I'm afraid if we call through the door, other people may hear," Clara whispers. "Do you think you can get in?"

Richard looks at the door lock and then looks back at Clara. "Hmm. I'm going to need. A hairpin." He reaches over and pulls one from under her golden headband. He straightens it and inserts it to the keyhole. In a moment, he has the door open, and Clara sweeps past him before he can stop her.

"Gillian, Charlie..." she begins, but then stops talking and freezes.

Mrs.Darmody's pale rear end is in the air facing them, with the top Luciano's head visible between her legs. It takes Richard a second, but he realizes what they are doing. It strikes him he never realized that the two separate acts could be performed simultaneously. He grabs Clara's arm and twirls her around before turning around himself.

"You two need to get dressed RIGHT NOW," Clara hisses over her shoulder. "Jimmy, Rothstein, MY FATHER, they will all be here in just a moment." For the first time since she met him, she is afraid to make eye contact with Richard. She can see, though, that he's wringing his hands, so she knows he's at least as uncomfortable as she is. She can feel a hot flush start on her chest and spread up to her face. "I've read a lot of books, but I've never seen mention of that. I mean, I suppose I've read about the components, but never in the way they were putting them together."

Richard stares at the floor, rather wishing it would open and swallow him as behind him he hears the frantic sounds of Mrs. Darmody and Luciano dressing, and from the hallway, he hears the approaching footsteps of a group of men.