When Godfather Drosselmeyer presented his exquisite gift for her, all of the happiness that arose within Clara's breast immediately vanished upon his manic, eager expression. She almost felt ill, yet she knew not why.
He persisted in offering her the key to this gift, a doll's palace - one so splendidly made it took her breath away. She longed to claim it for her own, to accept his generosity, but she could not. The scope of detail and passion in her present was so far beyond any others the rest of the children at the party had received...which could only mean that she was the one nearest and dearest to his heart.
Of course, with her age signifying her fast ascent into womanhood, that fact alone made her distinctly uncomfortable.
Mama and Papa had always spoken about Drosselmeyer; how he would shut himself away in his infamous workshop for far too often, how he preferred to dress in stylish yet horridly mismatched clothing, how he looked ages older than he really was with his powdered eyebrows and that unkept white wig he wore, and how it was high time he considered matrimony life and start a family of his own. After all, as he was their godfather, one could not expect him to care for her brother Fritz - and perhaps even Clara, but by then she should be married off herself - without a wife. And then, when Mama and Papa found her to be listening in on such clandestine conversations, they began a habit of deflecting her questions and slightly envious protestations. She had no wish to share Godfather with another lady. It was annoying enough that she had to share his attention with her incorrigible sibling.
However, those inclinations of hers long held close to her heart were now wavering rather a lot. Furthermore, once her parents initiated their covert discussions about Godfather, Clara noticed that he began to act even more strangely. Particularly around her. Whenever she visited him in his townhouse or in his extremely lavish toy-shop it was as if, sometimes, she were a different person to Drosselmeyer, not Clara at all...and she did not know if she liked it or not.
Finally emerging from her thoughts, Clara smiled awkwardly and shook her head as her godfather still held out the simple metal key that would enliven her gift.
But she did not want it - was that so incomprehensible to him? It was not that she did not appreciate such a kind and wonderful present, but to accept such a thing was almost like...accepting his peculiarly heightened regard for her. He was the one always talking to her, telling her stories and teaching her things...he was the one with the amusing jests, who found no fault with whispering them into her ear during mealtimes...he was the one who invited her over for tea much more frequently than her parents or Fritz. He was the one friend whom she loved the most to be around.
And yet, he distributed behavior that frequently confounded her. He would lean in unnecessarily close sometimes, or touch her elbows when guiding her how to use his tools, or he would speak to her with a certain inflection in his voice which she found oddly wonderful, but repulsive all at once. He would be the knowledgeable genius she adored one moment, and in the next, would revert to an insufferable little boy who loved to tease her the next - especially when her awful brother was present. It annoyed her to no end that he would pay such attention to Fritz. It only encouraged the child to be even more terrible.
Oh! Oh, dear - Godfather put his hand on her shoulder. His thumb tended to press right against the underside of her collarbone, tickling her. He still insisted that she have the key, and accept his gift. But she refused, backing into the large Christmas tree, now very unnerved indeed. She had refused some of his presents before, without this much fuss. Sometimes he would test her judgement that way. And he always had another better present waiting for her. Why was he so immovable now?
Drosselmeyer smiled a bit desperately, never retracting his hands, until the Christmas tree behind her shuddered, as if someone inside were jiggling it. A lavender bulb ornament slipped off the branches and bounced off his head. While he looked up in dismay, she directed her attention to the entrance doors of the ballroom, where three of the dancers Mama had called upon to entertain the party had at last made their grand entrance. The new trio then began a lovely performance to the operatic number contributed by Mama and Lady Huntington.
Clara rubbed her eyes tiredly as her godfather - at last! - made a reluctant retreat and straightened his wig, his unhappiness undisguised. She had not meant to cause him pain, but she had no desire to be trifled with at this late hour. She did not wish for the doll's-palace, marvelous as it was, and that was that.
But suddenly, feeling overwhelmingly childish for her ungrateful thoughts, she glanced back at him and as if sensing her gaze, he returned it with his own, his face brightening marginally as if he were hoping that she would change her mind.
She did not. Determinedly pressing her lips together, she proceeded to watch the dancers again. Unfortunately, she could not keep up her show of confidence, for a gentleman ballerina with a rat-mask advanced towards her, causing her to press herself against the tree in revulsion.
Clara hated rats, and yet, they seemed to be following her everywhere recently - in her dreams, in the corners of the ballroom at night, in Fritz's horrible puppet gift...and now the masked dancer. Eugh!
And then, out of nowhere, something else inside the tree must've detached itself, and fell to the base right behind her. She peered through the evergreen boughs, and retrieved the most handsome nutcracker toy she had ever seen.
Hmm. Was it a surprise present from Drosselmeyer? She shot him a quick look. Ah, no. He merely seemed confused. And oh, what was he doing? He slid one long finger daintily near his lips, looking thoughtful.
It infuriated her.
Well, he was certainly attentive to her tonight. So far he had eyes for nobody but herself. Did not the dancers interest him more than her affairs with toys?
Apparently not. And unconsciously, she held the feeling that such a magnificent nutcracker would serve to protect her from the mice...and from her godfather's strange antics. With that scrumptious idea, she clutched the wooden soldier closer to her heart, smug and smiling.
Oh.
But oh dear...the look on her companion's face. He appeared distressed and bewildered, turning away from her and swallowing forcibly, as if holding back something. For the rest of the show, he either stared morosely at the beautiful creation he had made, or earnestly at her. And when the dancers bowed, removed their masks and left in a lovely fashion, one after the other, Clara was happy for an excuse to remove herself from her godfather's side.
With exaggerated enthusiasm, she held out her fortuitous discovery as though it were part of King Midas' golden hand. The nutcracker's bright colors and big bulging eyes caught the light from the chandeliers in the most pleasing way. He was perfect. And he was hers.
Fritz, in that instance, decided to quit giggling at her with his friends and tried to snatch her darling soldier, but she whirled away from the boy's grubby, fat, grabbing fingers; clipping the ones that made contact with the nutcracker's sword. Take that, hateful little scamp!
She presented the nutcracker to her friends, and then flounced over to her Mama and Papa, displaying the precious squat soldier in her outstretched arms. She showed him to everybody, her affected happiness becoming a real happiness as she continued. And between leaps and whirls that ruffled her elegant gown, she snuck glances at her godfather, perversely pleased with his pained and confused stare that was ever fixated upon her active figure.
But then, disaster!
Fritz, the fiend, attempted once more to snatch her nutcracker, and somehow succeeded. He ran with it to the other side of the room, flung it on the marbled floor, and hurled his pretend sword in its face with all his might, splintering the perfect, polished wood of the Nutcracker's jaw. Her brother was an idiotic pig. She hated him.
She hated him.
Clara drew in a frightful, shaking breath, and screamed, "Fritz! How could you? You dirty, rotten little brat!" all the while stepping backwards in horror, exclaiming, "How could you...how could you?"
She continued to step away, her eyes stinging and vision blurring with tears, until her back collided with something solid and warm. Oh, it was Drosselmeyer. Oh, thank heavens. He was the only one who understood her. He was the only one who comforted her...
He was...there.
And with that quick realization, combined with his capable hands gently cradling her arms, and his warm waistcoat against her back, and his concerned, one-eyed gaze upon her and only her, Clara fell apart, tired and upset, crying into his peach-colored jacket lapels.
And he immediately brought her further in, his hands rubbing soothingly over her back and arms, his lovely long fingers, the pads strong and rough from handling wood and metal, feeling marvelous against the back of her neck...
Wait a minute. He was doing that again. Or...perhaps...she was doing it again...But there it was.
That...strangeness.
Oh, why wouldn't it stop?
Clara drew away with mild alarm, stepping away from him, her look one of subtle accusation.
What would he do? Oh, he was following her, his hands trailing off her person, his eyes so sincerely sympathetic and wonderfully virescent...
And he glanced back and forth from the fallen nutcracker and herself, seeming to put two and two together, and he headed towards the damaged item with a newfound determination. He picked it up, inspected it, and Clara approached him again, peering over his shoulder. This was safer. Much better. She delighted in watching him work. She adored to see him solve things and make things.
This was the part of him that she loved.
He made quick work of the repairs, securing the broken jaw with his clean, laced handkerchief and returning it to her with great care, as if it were a baby, and she the mother. In that moment, there were no two people on earth as connected as they were. And she felt so overcome that he would always attend her - and help her, that Clara stood on her tip-toes and tenderly kissed Drosselmeyer's cheek.
The beam that split his face was one she would never forget. He looked ten years younger, carefree and joyful, as if he were waiting for that certain bestowment of her lips his entire life, for she realized that she had never kissed him anywhere before.
But just as she was re-admiring her soldier, it was taken from her yet again, this time from its own repairer, who was still grinning ear-to-ear, his white wig more mussed than ever. Drosselmeyer marched off with her darling nutcracker just as she was embraced breezily by her beautiful, social mother.
Relieved to see Mama, Clara smiled at her warmly, and the lady did the same, before whispering into the girl's ear, "Darling, would you be a dear and be your godfather's dance partner? I'm afraid I'd assigned everyone else."
Clara withdrew petulantly. "But what about Papa? Or Master Huntington? Why Godfather?"
Mama would not be swayed, and she seemed to know something Clara did not, for her fascinating brown eyes were glittering like bronze Michaelmas bulbs. "Please, dear. Do as you are told. Do not worry. He will take care of you." and with that rather ambiguous reply and a pat on the arm, the woman left the girl with a flutter of lacy cream silk.
Then, Drosselmeyer returned, still smiling widely, as if this were the happiest day of his life. Clara turned on her heel to face him, wearing her own smile, howbeit one borne of awkwardness, of course...she seemed to be nothing but awkwardness with her godfather this , dear.
"You look marvelous, darling Clara." he complimented happily, bowing unnaturally low for the start of the dance.
She kept that ever-present grin on her face, even though her cheeks were beginning to hurt. The girl just did not see how else to reply. She curtsied in return, and then hesitantly took his hand for the duration of the dance. They both said nothing else for awhile after.
He was not a correct dancer - his feet were clumsy and he did not know all of the steps. But what little he did know was emulated with such fun and passion that Clara could not help but laugh in relief. Perhaps this business was not so awful after all.
Indeed, when the down-the-lines segment of the dance arrived - her favorite - Godfather was a most wonderful partner. He was also quite into the step, and the way his hand tightened on her waist merely accelerated her own excitement of the whole thing. Oh, dancing was glorious sometimes. She felt so grown-up, like Mama...like a proper lady.
"Isn't this delightful?" Drosselmeyer said in her ear when the little sprint was over. "I haven't danced in the longest time."
"Poor Godfather!" Clara answered playfully, assured that he would not be offended by her banter as perhaps Papa or Mr. Huntington might. "You are satisfactory at it - but I shall have to teach you the particulars. You can't live your life without knowing how to dance."
"Indeed not." he agreed, another beam lighting up his face. Goodness, she had never seen him so animated. And whilst with him, she could always be herself...she could smile and expose all of her teeth - even the slightly crooked ones, and he would be pleased all the more for it. It was all so...excellent.
But then she remembered where she was. She remembered that Mama and Papa were dancing right next to her, and that there were many proper ladies and gentlemen and gossiping children and servants around, observing everything. 'Do not forget yourself,' Mama always said. 'You never know what others see in you or may use against you. As a proper lady, you must act with proper decorum at all times.'
With a start, Clara whirled around so that she could see everyone outside of her partner, and realized that the dance was over, and that they were all adjoining to their groups once more. Only she and Godfather were left in the center. And oh! There was his hand again, on her shoulder, his thumb creeping into the dip between her neck and collarbone. Oh, that tickled. But...no!
She removed herself from him yet again, backing away and retreating to her friend, Jemima, who was waiting for her on the other side of the room. Yes. Over there was where she belonged. Over there was safe.
Only...she could not help feeling strangely bereft of Drosselmeyer's presence...his warm coats and the smell of powder from his wig...his lovely, coarse hands...and his genuine delight in seeing her all the time. It was bliss to be so longed for by such an esteemed individual...
As she left, the betrayal on his face only intensified the feeling. She felt sick inside. But propriety demanded that she leave him there. It was not behavior of a lady to stay so long on an unmarried gentleman's arm...was it?
Oh, dear.
Oh, dear.