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the skeleton were dancing — and now the skeleton shattered a second time. The skull rose in the air, floating high over the arms and rib cage. It landed center stage, the upper jaw jerking in rhythm with the tambourine. Clara pressed her fingers against her lips. She was shocked — and entranced — and tickled.
    The children giggled. The music grew softer. With another trill from the kit, the skeleton’s arms collapsed, making a pyramid of white bones. The legs buckled. Now it was only the skull that moved, clacking open and shut in a fiendish laugh. The white teeth gleamed. The spectacle was grotesque. It was —
    Clara heard a strange sound: a cry of laughter that was almost a shriek. It took her a split second to realize that the sound came from her own throat. Her fingers tightened; she covered her mouth with all ten fingers, but it was no use. If she didn’t laugh, she would choke to death. She opened her mouth for air. Another whoop escaped her. The children around her had stopped giggling. They were no longer watching the skeleton. They were watching Clara.
    There was a rustle from the back of the room. Clara turned. Her mother was on her feet, making her way to the door. Dr. Wintermute hastened after her. Horror stricken, Clara clamped her hands over her mouth. But the laughter within her was explosive, and knowing that she should stop —
must
stop — only made matters worse. Peal after peal escaped her. Tears blinded her, first warm and then cold upon her cheeks.
    The children shifted restlessly. The skeleton onstage was reassembling itself: rib cage on top of pelvis, head on top of spine. Clara whimpered, bent double. Her sides ached.
    The kit trilled its final note. In the silence that followed, the skeleton took a bow. The curtain fell. A few of the children clapped halfheartedly. Even the smallest child knew that Clara Wintermute had disgraced herself.
    Miss Cameron stood up. She went to stand in front of the miniature stage, facing the audience. Her face was stern. “I hope,” she said, “that you have enjoyed the entertainment.”
    There was a timid ripple of applause.
    “Clara,” said Miss Cameron, “you must thank your little friends for coming to the party.”
    Clara took a deep breath and got to her feet. Her cheeks were wet and scarlet. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. She could think of nothing else to say.
    Several of the children said thank you in return. Miss Cameron nodded toward the door and began to herd the guests downstairs to the dining room. A few soft thuds and rustles came from backstage. Parsefall and Lizzie Rose must be packing up the puppets. Clara followed her governess downstairs.
    The servants rallied around Miss Cameron. Coats were fetched. Gloves were sorted out, slices of cake wrapped up, paper cones filled with sweets for the children to take home. In the midst of the leave-taking, two footmen helped Grisini bring the caravan down the stairs. Lizzie Rose and Parsefall trailed after it. Clara would have liked to wave to them, but she forced herself to speak only to her guests. She stayed close to Miss Cameron, uttering stock phrases of hospitality. She knew that the other children would talk about her as soon as they were out the door.
    It was more than half an hour before the last guest left the house. Then Miss Cameron turned on Clara. “What on earth possessed you? How could you laugh in such an unladylike manner?”
    “I don’t know,” said Clara.
    Miss Cameron’s frown deepened. “Skeletons and cemeteries —! And in a house of mourning! Nothing could be in worse taste! You know how tender your mother’s feelings are, Clara! Did you know that — that vulgar skeleton — was going to be part of the program?”
    Clara lifted her chin, glad that there was one point on which she might defend herself. “No, I didn’t! Truly! That day in the park, I saw the show from behind. I didn’t know —”
    “Even so,” Miss Cameron interrupted, “you laughed. And