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sort of joke, but then she herself had started calling him Godfather Drosselmeyer, and the whole idea had stuck. To the Stole girls he was always Godfather; and to Clara he was all mystery and strangeness with his eye patch and his muttering, but perhaps she would not have grown to love him so much had he been more ordinary.
    â€œYou said you were close.” Clara put a hand on his shoulder. “Close to . . . what, exactly?”
    Godfather turned to smile at her, his wry, unnerving smile. “To undoing it, my Clara.”
    â€œUndoing what ?”
    For a moment he looked close to telling her. Then he shook his head and backed away. “Soon enough,” she thought she heard him mutter. “She’ll know soon enough.”
    Clara glanced at his wall of clocks. A hundred hands, approaching five. “But what does any of this have to do with Mother?”
    A darkness flickered across Godfather’s face. His hair, too long to be in fashion, had come loose from its ribbon.
    â€œI think—I think they are—” But then it was as though something inside him switched off. He shook his head and moved about theworkshop, lighting lamps. “I think,” he said gaily, though to Clara it seemed strained, “that it’s time we have a nice spar.”
    â€œBut, Godfather,” Clara insisted, watching in frustration as he threw off his greatcoat and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms as finely chiseled as the creations he crafted, “you haven’t answered my questions.”
    â€œI’ve answered some of your questions. Not all, but some.”
    â€œAll but one.”
    â€œDon’t insist, Clara.” He cleared a space for them on the floor, gestured for her to strip off her gown. “Don’t insist I answer what I cannot answer.”
    â€œAnd don’t insist I give up on an answer I must have.” She hurried to him and caught his arms. “Godfather, please. What do you know? Are you telling me stories to amuse yourself? Or do you actually know what’s going on with these markings, these killings? These beasts ?”
    At that, Godfather stilled. “Beasts?”
    â€œThe word fills the reports I found, from detectives investigating the murder.”
    â€œBeasts,” he whispered. “Yes. Yes, I remember them.”
    Clara held her breath; she was close. Godfather’s eyes were wide and distant, searching—through memory, through his own lunacy? Either way he would soon tell her, and maybe it would be nonsense, but at least it would be something, and she could mull it over in her bedroom that night.
    But then, as quickly as the quiet had overtaken him, it was gone, and he gestured impatiently at her. “Well? Get on with it. Unless you’re too tired from your many covert exertions.”
    Clara bit back her protests. Long ago she had learned it was better to indulge his moods, for a happy Godfather was a more generous Godfather. Perhaps if she wore him out thoroughly enough, he would be more likely to talk.
    So, with a few flicks of her wrist, she stripped off her skirt andpetticoats. Months ago Godfather had started ripping apart her dresses and fashioning them to be easily removable; it would not do to become entangled in one’s own underthings during combat, if such a misfortune should befall her on the city streets. Clara therefore brought every fine new gown to him for dismemberment, and found immense pleasure in watching him remake them as more useful versions of themselves. Sometimes she found herself wishing he could do the same for her.
    In her chemise, corset, breeches, and boots, Clara circled toward him with her fingers curled, her arms poised and steady. If this was what it would take to pry information out of him . . . well, there were worse sacrifices to make.
    â€œCome, Godfather.” She made herself sound playful, even though she felt far from it. Indulge him, indulge him.