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“Hit me.”
    He laughed, eye dancing, and lunged at her.
    Clara met him halfway, throwing up her right arm to block his left jab. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, but he himself had taught Clara not to fight the attack but to move with it and turn it against itself. Become one with the shadows when you sneak, my Clara. Become one with the blow when you fight.
    So she gritted her teeth as he jerked her arm around, pulling her into a tight hold, and then she elbowed him hard in the stomach. Gasping, he staggered back. Clara pulled free and whirled on her heel, smacking him hard on his right ear. Disoriented, furious, he let fly a sloppy left hook.
    Clara dodged it with ease, grinning, enjoying this despite herself, for this—these moments flying about Godfather’s shop, the spiced air hissing past her bare arms, her skin stinging from Godfather’s strikes—was when she felt most unlike her usual self. She felt invincible, unencumbered by both fabric and anxiety. Bold. Brazen. Each blow she gave sent fire shooting up her arms; each blow she received, each stab of pain, stoked a strange pleasure within her. She was notnervous, fearful Clara here; she was shadow, fists and sweat and burning muscle.
    Still fumbling for her to his right, Godfather leapt forward, but Clara had already moved right, kicking out with her left leg. His own legs would catch, and he would fall, and Clara would win. So quick a match, she thought, disappointed, but Godfather grabbed her booted foot and gave it a vicious turn.
    Clara fell hard, turning to land on her arm and backside to save her knees. The stone floor jarred her, rattling her head. There would be yet another bruise on her body, which she would treasure; each purpling spot made her stronger, a talisman of pain and pride.
    Thinking of this, she sprang up more quickly than Godfather had anticipated, with a roundhouse kick to his back that sent him stumbling into his workbench, tools flying. He rebounded quickly, coming back at her with sharp jabs to her arm, neck, belly. She blocked them—elbow, forearm. She dodged him—left, right. He was fast, and she was faster; she was leaving the world far below her, flying high, knuckles stinging, lungs burning.
    Euphoric, she laughed and missed blocking the jab at her belly. Doubling over, she fell against the wall. Godfather followed with a body shot to her side, but Clara moved at the last second, and he clipped the stones.
    â€œDamn,” he gasped, clutching his hand, and Clara stopped. Hands were important to an artisan of his skill. She reached for his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
    â€œHa!” He spun around to grab her neck, but Clara had seen this trick before. She flung up her arm in time to catch his. They stood for a moment, panting, glaring at each other. Clara could smell the blood on Godfather’s scraped knuckles, though he had thrust the wounded hand into his pocket.
    â€œVery good,” he breathed.
    She smiled at him, and for a moment the worry in her heartvanished; there were no gruesome photographs, no vile markings. There was only her, and Godfather, and the statue watching from the corner.
    Then the door flew open.
    It careened into the wall, sending Godfather’s birds into a frenzy.
    And Clara knew, before he even spoke, before turning around, who would be standing at the door.
    â€œWhy, Clara, here you are. Mrs. Hancock was beside herself when she realized you hadn’t come home after your . . . Where did you tell her you would be? An outing in the park?” He scoffed, hardly more than an exhalation. “And all this time you were . . . Well. My, my. Clara, you appear to have lost your clothes.”
    Clara’s horror was an arrow to the heart, swift and deadly; the elation of fighting vanished. She had taken too long getting home, and now—after a year of these sparring sessions with Godfather, a glorious year of successfully keeping