Clara smiled so brightly it hurt Margaret to look at her.
Then Margaret walked directly onto the dance floor.
“Stop.”
The word cut through the applause.
Clara turned.
Julian did too.
Margaret’s attention fixed on Clara’s wrist.
“Where did you get that bracelet?”
Clara instinctively covered it.
“Excuse me?”
“The bracelet.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“Where?”
Clara’s smile vanished.
Julian moved slightly between them.
“Ma’am—”
Margaret did not look at him.
“Please.”
Her voice broke.
“Please tell me where you got it.”
Clara stared.
People around them began whispering.
She hated this.
Suddenly she was spectacle again.
“I’ve always had it.”
Margaret swayed slightly.
Caroline reached them.
“Margaret, we need to leave.”
“No.”
“Now.”
Margaret turned.
“You knew.”
Caroline’s face tightened.
Clara looked between them.
“What is happening?”
Julian’s expression had changed too.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Clara noticed.
“You know her.”
He did not answer quickly enough.
Her stomach dropped.
“Julian.”
“I know who she is.”
Clara released his hand.
“What?”
Margaret stared at him.
“You.”
Caroline whispered:
“Oh God.”
Clara looked from one face to another.
Everything about the evening suddenly felt staged.
The invitation.
Julian approaching.
The dance.
The bracelet.
“What did you do?”
Julian stepped forward.
“Clara, I didn't know you would be here tonight.”
“You just said you know her.”
“I do.”
“How?”
He reached inside his suit jacket.
Clara’s hand moved to her wheels.
Ready to leave.
Julian withdrew an old envelope.
The paper was worn at the corners.
He opened it.
Removed a photograph.
Clara did not want to look.
She did anyway.
The photograph showed a much younger Margaret lying in a hospital bed.
Her hair damp.
Face exhausted.
A newborn baby rested against her chest.
The infant’s legs were partly covered.
On one tiny wrist was a silver bracelet.
Crescent moon.
Clara felt the garden tilt.
“No.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
Tears appeared instantly.
“No…”
Julian held the photograph out.
Clara did not take it.
“Who is she?”
No one answered.
Clara’s voice rose.
“Who is she?”
Julian looked toward Margaret.
Then back.
“The woman in this photograph is Margaret Vale.”
Clara shook her head.