//CLARA//
The morning drizzle had turned into a relentless, bone-chilling soak by the time I reached Pearl Street.
I replaced my dress with a grey cotton dress Hattie had dug from the bottom of a trunk. It was a drab, shapeless thing. The kind of garment that turns a woman into a shadow. With a dark wool cloak pulled low, I didn't look like a Guggenheim's future bride.
I looked like a widow who had run out of tears.
The stairs to Mr. Cromwell's office groaned under my boots, protesting every step. The air in the stairwell was a thick, nauseating soup of fresh yeast from the bakery below and the iron-scent of wet stone.
I didn't knock. I didn't have the patience for it. I shoved the door open and stepped inside, my wet cloak trailing a path of muddy water across his floor.
Mr. Cromwell wasn't alone.
