Page 23 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

Pim wasted no time in leading Clara into the shadowed alcove. If it had been the Old Church, then some forgotten saint’s jawbone or clavicle would have been turning to dust in a golden reliquary. But because it was the New Church, it was simply an echoing chamber, empty but for a hard wooden bench.

Except that it wasn’t empty.

“Helma!”

Clara rushed to her old nursemaid, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she threw herself into her arms.

Pim stood guard at the entrance as Helma returned her embrace, squeezing Clara tight like a little girl. How the dog had found Helma was beyond Clara’s understanding, but she was so glad he had.

“My little sparrow,” Helma said, soaking Clara’s shoulder with tears. “How I’ve fretted over you.”

Clara drew back. “You aren’t angry with me?”

“How could I be, sparrow? You are near to me as my own flesh and blood.”

If Clara could have felt any heavier with guilt, she would have sunk down right into the tombs that lined the floor below them. “My mother wouldn’t have sent you away if I hadn’t been so careless and ignored your warnings.”

Even in the dim light from the hanging candelabras, Clara could see the frown touching Helma’s brow. “You always were a willful girl, stubborn and independent. I suppose it was my fault, I ought to have taken more care to—”

Clara stopped her with a weepy smile. “No, Helma. You are perfect as you ever were. My faults are my own and I should never have drawn you into my plots and schemes. I’ve regretted it every moment of every day since then.”

Helma reached up and wiped a stray tear from Clara’s cheek with her thumb. “There now. There’s no need for tears.”

It should have been enough that she had seen Helma, that she’d had her chance to apologize. But there was an unsettled air in the transept, only heightened by Helma’s fingers fidgeting in her lap. Pim was still standing guard, occasionally cocking his head in her direction, as if he could discern what they were talking about.

“I don’t know how much longer we have. Nela will be back any moment, and I will get a thrashing if she catches me talking to you.”

“Stay a moment. There is something you should know.” Helma swallowed as she worried at the lace of her cap under her chin. “Something I should have told you long ago.”

“Tell me what?”

The church bells rang the hour, sending birds scattering. Helma was despondently twining her hands together, staring down into her lap.

“Helma?”

“You had a brother, a twin. You were but babes when he died.”

Clara stared at her old nurse for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

Helma’s hands were still working, her knuckles white. When she met Clara’s eye, there was a wariness, like a dog that isn’t sure if it’s about to be struck or petted. Helma was scared, Clara realized, scared of the truth and how Clara might react to it.

A pigeon waddled by, cooing hopefully in its search for crumbs. Helma’s revelation sat heavy in Clara’s chest. It was impossible. There had never been mention of a brother, nor portraits or any other trace of a sibling. But then she thought about her parent’s coldness, the constant disappointment she was to them. Swallowing, she forced herself to ask, “Is that why my mother hates me?”

Helma let a slow sigh escape her. “Your mother doesn’t hate you, not truly. But I suppose some of her coldness has something to do with the grief she feels for losing her son.”

Clara’s thoughts were as fast and tangled as unspooling threads. She should have grown up with a playfellow, a friend. She wouldn’t have been alone for so long. Her parents would not have resented her. Who knew how her life might have been different?

Helma placed a warm hand on her arm and squeezed. “There now, little sparrow.I know it’s a lot, but you can bear it.”

“I... You never told me,” she said feebly. “Why did you let me go all these years never telling me the truth?”

“Your brother was not to be spoken of in the house; your parents made that very clear after his death. And you were so young, and then Fenna died...” Helma trailed off, her lips tugging downward. “When your mother dismissed me, I thought I might never see you again, and you deserved to know.”

“What was his name?”

Helma hesitated. “Frederick. Your parents called him Frits.”

Clara could not imagine her parents using a diminutive name, but then they must have loved him very much. He would have been the heir her father always wanted, a doting son to her mother. “How did he die?”

---