The knock at her door startled Clara awake instantly. It wasn't Eddie's soft rap. He's the only one who approached her door these days, and usually only when she had a phone call or a delivery, or there was a message from her father. A wave of nostalgia hit her as she stumbled out of the blankets. She missed the days when the knock was just as likely to be Jimmy's fast knock accompanied by a 'Hey, Clara, open the damn door' or Richard's precise rhythm and his voice rasping 'It's Richard. Harrow' every time, like there was another Richard who regularly knocked on her bedroom door. She moved warily. She also missed living her life with less dread.

Margaret stood at the door. She took a deep breath as it opened, revealing Clara dressed in pink silk pajamas with her hair in a messy braid. She looked about fifteen. It made Margaret's sense of purpose waiver.

"Margaret?" Clara asked, worried about what circumstance could have possibly brought Margaret to the door to her room at this early morning hour.

"May I come in?"

Clara stepped out of the way, and Margaret walked into Clara's room for the first time. Suddenly it struck her that this girl grew up here, in a room on the eighth floor of the Ritz-Carlton. Bookshelves were crowded with pictures, keepsakes, and books ranging from children's novels to classic tomes. The door to the balcony was open, letting in both a sea breeze and the sound of the relentless beat of the ocean against the shore. The desk was covered with notebooks, a typewriter, and a stack of files.

"Is there anything wrong? Clara inquired, her voice heavy with sleep and concern.

"No." Margaret took a deep breath. "Clara, I wish we had taken the opportunity to become better friends before I came to ask you this."

Clara tilted her head. She owed Margaret a favor, so it mattered not what she was going to ask her, but now she was very curious." Margaret, you once did a very great kindness, and I am indebted to you. What do you need?"

"Oh," Margaret was startled, uncertain what kindness Clara could be speaking of. "Do you know who Marie Stopes is?"

This was an unexpected twist, Clara thought. "I've read Married Love. It was passed around between the women in the War Office like a dirty novel."

Margaret nodded. If Clara read the book, she wouldn't be terribly shocked by her proposal. "So, you've also heard of Margaret Sanger?"

Suddenly the conversation began to make sense to Clara. "Margaret, do you need a birth control device? I know there are underground clinics, I might know someone..." Because I'm in need of one myself, Clara thought, and have been writing letters all week.

"Yes, dear, I do. This doesn't seem a fortuitous time for your father and me to have a child."

Clara was thrown by the idea of her father having children with Margaret. It seemed wrong, somehow. It was the time in her life for nieces and nephews (Tommy would turn four over the summer), her friends' babies, and thinking about when and how she might have a family of her own. Not for baby siblings. But of course, she thought, Margaret was only five or so years older than she was. There was no reason Margaret and her father wouldn't have children.

"A friend in the temperance movement shares friends with Mrs. Sanger and has booked me an appointment today in New York. I made two appointments, Clara. One for myself and one for my stepdaughter. I lied and said you plan on marrying this summer."

Clara blinked hard.

"I know about your mother, dear, and I also know what it is to be a young woman. The world doesn't look kindly on ambitious girls," Margaret waved her hand at the desk covered in writing materials, "nor young women determined to carve their own path. If you think this would help you make your own choices in life, then I hope you'll accompany me."

Out of every possible thing Margaret could have come to tell her, this was the last thing Clara would have guessed. It didn't mean, though, that she couldn't recognize an opportunity when one was dangled before her.

"I just need to bathe and dress," Clara said.

Margaret used the time to look around Clara's room. The shelves had multiple framed pictures in front of the haphazardly stacked books. Nucky had dismissed the idea that Clara considered Jimmy her brother, but the pictures didn't lie. Clara and Jimmy as babies. Clara and Jimmy as schoolchildren. Clara and Jimmy as teenagers. Clara and Jimmy graduating from high school with a beaming Nucky standing between them, an arm around each. Jimmy, in his uniform, and Clara - both trying to look brave. Clara with Jimmy's wife and little boy, and more pictures just of the little boy. A picture of Clara, Jimmy, his wife, and Mr. Harrow. Who could miss the way the Tin Man looked at Clara, or the way her head and eyes tilted toward him like the Darmodys weren't even in the picture?

Whatever fortune had in store for these two, Margaret was sure of one thing. When Nucky finally-and at this point, she thought he might be the very last person to put it together in all of Atlantic City- realized the daughter he planned on marrying into a political dynasty was in love with Richard Harrow all of New Jersey would hear his fury. She felt a flash of sympathy for Clara. When Nucky told her about the conspiracy, she had considered Clara an unfaithful daughter who chose her friends over her father. But looking at pictures of the girl's life... Clara was well and truly caught between the people she loved best on all sides.

Clara came out of the bathroom dressed in a blue suit and cloche hat at the same time that her father walked into her room.

"Margaret, Eddie said you were here in Clara's room. Why?"

"Margaret very kindly asked me to go into New York with her to go shopping," Clara said smoothly.

"Thank God," Nucky said. "You wore that dress last summer in Chicago, and I didn't like it much then. Honestly, Clara, you've looked like a complete ragamuffin all year. Go to Bonwit Teller and don't leave until you've run up a substantial bill and look fit to be my daughter."

When Nucky left, Clara turned to Margaret and said with a sigh, "Now we'll have to go shopping after our appointments."

Sitting on the train Margaret's stomach was full of butterflies. Clara sat in the aisle seat reading The Age of Innocence. How ironic, thought Margaret, the way Clara sat turning pages you'd think she really was just going into the city for a shopping trip.

"I've heard these exams can be quite gruesome."

Clara turned to face Margaret with a wide-eyed expression. "Yes, I've heard the same."

"And for young women who perhaps don't have a lot of experience, they can be brutal."

"Thank you, Margaret. I'm aware. It's why I was reading to distract myself."

Margaret looked away. "I'm terribly sorry. It's just...you are a very difficult girl to understand." She wanted to ask Clara a multitude of questions. Why fall in love with Richard Harrow, instead of one of the rich boys her father intended her for? How far had she gone with him? Did he take the mask off? Margaret pushed down the desire to shudder at the thought of that damaged face looming over her during intimate moments.

She wanted to ask the girl who was almost but not quite her stepdaughter if she'd already experienced it. The quick flash she had of his face before Clara jumped in front of him the day he scared Emily was enough to make her realize she never wanted to see him again without the mask, no matter how badly she felt for him. Clara hadn't even seemed surprised, though, Margaret realized. Had she already seen him without a mask before that morning?

"Am I? I don't think I'm such a mystery." Clara smoothed her skirt. She wasn't sure if she could indulge in girlish confidences with Margaret. Not because she didn't want to, but because she wasn't certain how much she could trust Margaret.

"I'm not sure what kindness I showed you."

"I'm not sure I've ever shown you a kindness, yet here you are, doing me one today," Clara said softly. "You made the children love Richard. That was a true kindness, Margaret. If the children had remained terrified of him? I don't think he would have survived it."

"You love him terribly," Margaret said simply.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You announced it at dinner, dear."

Clara smiled sadly. "My father didn't hear me."

No, Nucky didn't seem to hear anything that daughter whom he claimed to love so much said to him, Margaret thought. Fathers not understanding their young adult daughters was, of course, a tale as old as time, yet Enoch seriously seemed to have no idea who is daughter was. He had described Clara to her as a society girl excited to marry Darcy Blaine. Yet, the girl who moved into Margaret's townhouse last year seemed only excited about writing articles and talking to her bodyguard. Margaret thought that Enoch needed to learn who Clara actually was before he lost all chance of actually knowing his child.

Suddenly she thought back to the picture of Nucky standing proudly with Jimmy and Clara in graduation regalia. Did Nucky understand Jimmy as little as he understood Clara? Is that what led to the conspiracy against him? He was so good with Emily and Teddy and seemed to love their family life, yet before Emily and Teddy, there was Clara and Jimmy. Enoch had described how he cared for Jimmy and nursed him through childhood illnesses. A twinge of worry for her children's future nudged at her. Did Enoch only love them because they were little and easy? Once they grew and developed their own ideas about who they were and what they wanted out of life, would he end up at war with Teddy and endlessly perplexed by Emily, like he was Jimmy and Clara?

After the exam was over and Clara had her dutch cap carefully hidden in her handbag, she stood outside the Lower East Side terrace house containing the secret clinic waiting on Margaret. When Margaret walked outside, she saw Clara, who looked pale, and as she neared her she saw that Clara had dug her nails into the palms of her hands, leaving half-moon shaped scratches. She should have insisted on being with Clara during the exam, she thought suddenly. Clara always seemed so self-possessed, but Margaret realized she had no idea if the girl was experienced at all, and what unexpected horrors the exam might have presented to an inexperienced girl.

"Are you all right?" Margaret asked. "I'm not sure how much of a girl you still are, but I found that exam difficult to endure, and I've birthed two children."

"I'm grown-up enough to be grateful. I'd been writing letters, trying to find the clinic for a week, so don't fear you've corrupted me. You've just made my life a little easier," Clara took a deep breath. "And now, you must let me buy you lunch.

Margaret smiled at Clara and then reached in her coat pocket to reveal a flask. "I thought we could both use this?"

It was Clara's turn to smile. "Well, if we go to the Colony they'll bring us empty teacups, and we can drink our whiskey like ladies."

"I can't believe your first book comes out tomorrow," Angela said as Clara folded herself into one of the large club chairs in the living room after giving Angela her present.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not incredibly excited, even if it won't have my name on it. Cashing that check was one of the greatest thrills of my life."

Angela smiled down at her with a hint of sadness in her eyes. "I'm a little jealous. I'd love to say my art brought in money. I am almost finished with a new piece, but I suppose it will only get added to the pile."

"Well, you know I want to see it."

Angela walked over to her easel and removed the draping covering her newest work.

"It's beautiful, Angela," Clara said as she examined it. "I mean, just her back displays so much...longing. And her hands are lovely."

Angela looked over at her friend. "Everyone wants to choose the right door to make a real connection. And thank you, I'm very proud of the hands. Also, thank you for the charcoal pencils. Why were you in New York?"

"Margaret made an appointment at one of Mrs. Sanger's clinics and took me to get a dutch cap." Clara looked straight ahead at the painting as she talked.

Angela looked into the sunroom, where Tommy was occupied with blocks, and then walked into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a bottle of whiskey Jimmy hid behind the flour bags.

"I feel like this conversation might go best with a drink?" Angela said lightly.

Clara laughed. They pushed the cocktail table away from the chairs and sat on the floor. Clara thought it was like they were back in the little Upper East Side apartment her father rented for them when Clara was working in New York, eating on the floor while baby Tommy slept in the bedroom.

"I have the information if you need..." Clara began.

Angela shook her head. "That won't be necessary."

Clara wanted to ask her if it was because she and Jimmy were trying for another, or because things were going badly between them. She hoped it was the former, but felt it was probably the latter.

"To be honest, I'm more interested in the fact you feel you need one. Things must be...progressing?" Angela asked.

Mixing the exact right ratio of lemonade to whiskey seemed to take Clara's full attention.

"I think you are smart if they are," Angela continued and lowered her voice even more. "I love Tommy and wouldn't trade him for anything, but I wish..." she let her voice trail off because she wasn't sure what she wished. Angela couldn't wish the child she loved didn't exist, but she wouldn't wish her life on anyone. "Although the war is over and Richard is so honorable that your situation would be very different."

"I don't want him to marry me because he's honorable," Clara said before downing half her drink. "Jimmy, I think, told him I'm afraid of sex. I'm not. I'm terribly afraid of pregnancy because how can I be sure I won't turn into my mother? But more than that, I'm not ready to be a mother. I want to have adventures. I want us to have adventures together. I want to work on my career and figure out who I am beyond being Nucky Thompson's daughter. And if- when- I have children, I want them to have a very different childhood from mine."

Angela knocked back her drink. "I wish I'd known who I was before I had Tommy. Hell, I wish I knew who I am now."

"You are a really talented artist, an amazing mother, and a truly good friend." Both women are quiet. "Will you send Tommy to kindergarten when he turns five?"

"Yes, he needs to be around other children."

"That means you'll have so much more freedom in just another year, Angela. You can devote more time to your art, and maybe even find ways to make money at it."

"I'm not going to pretend that doesn't all sound wonderful. Maybe I'll even try and get a job doing something artistic? Jimmy hasn't wanted me to work, but..."

"I love Jimmy, it doesn't mean I don't know he can be an absolute jerk," Clara said softly. "Tommy certainly hasn't interfered with Jimmy's ambitions, has he? Margaret told me that the world doesn't look kindly on ambitious girls, and she's right. We pay for our ambitions and desires in ways men never even conceive of. Even just being defined as ourselves or by own achievements and not simply as someone's mother, wife, daughter feels like the loftiest of goals."

They drink and watch Tommy, who builds towers and then throws his entire body onto them to knock them down.

"I can't imagine Richard propositioning you," Angela said musingly as she finished her second drink. She felt Clara's anger and laughed when she looked at Clara's face. "Sometimes it's hard to believe you and Jimmy aren't blood. Both of you, and Tommy, all make the same face right before you get irrationally angry and slide into a tantrum. I'm not making fun of Richard; he's just so timid."

Clara exhaled, the alcohol making her emotions brew close to the surface. "That's what makes it so meaningful. Every gesture, every reach towards me requires bravery. They all come at a cost. And then suddenly I can tell they require less bravery, that he just knows I want him to hold my hand or kiss me and it's a little easier for him, and that's even more meaningful, somehow."

Angela blinked at her friend's sudden confession, but before she could follow up, Tommy came up to talk to them, and then it was time for Tommy to be put to bed. After he fell asleep, Angela and Clara resumed their attack on the bottle of whiskey.

Richard and Jimmy heard the sound of laughter from the driveway.

"Having a party?" Jimmy asked when he saw the bottle on the table and the bright faces of Angela and Clara. He didn't miss the way Clara smiled at him versus the way she looked at Richard.

"We are celebrating," Clara said, waving her arm to show the remnants of the whiskey bottle and almost knocking over the table.

"Yes, we can see. What's so great?" Jimmy asked.

Angela sighed, her happy buzz already retreating. "I finished a painting, and Clara's first book comes out tomorrow. We went to see if any store had them out early, but..."

"I have. A copy."

Richard had braved the Woolworth on the Boardwalk. Being out among people like that always made his hands move like they were seeking a piano or a trigger, but he wanted a copy of Clara's book. He went around to the loading dock and offered the stock boy $5 to open the carton of books early. When he was handed a copy of Ruth Fielding in the Great Northwest he decided enduring a shopping trip was worth it. Later in his room, he read it, and looked for all the bits of Clara she left behind in the book with Alice B. Emerson's name on it. It was easy to find her in the adventurous Ruth, with her pretty outfits, and a plan for every occasion. He wondered where Clara learned about making movies in California, or what it's like in the Pacific Northwest, but then remembered her bent over a pile of books at the D.C. library, intently making notes. Ruth narrowly escaped death a few times, which made him think of Clara's kidnapping attempt and made him worry that it still bothered her.

Clara looked up at him and smiled. "You read it?"

"She's a lot. Like you. Bossing people. Around. Mmm. And usually minutes away from disaster."

"You're teasing me again," she says, trying not to laugh.

"Is he, though?" Angela laughed. "Oh!" She stands up and starts rifling through a drawer before handing Clara a pen. "You should write an inscription and sign it."

Clara caught his eye, and Richard nodded.

"I don't know how you got a copy early," Clara said as she tapped the pen against the cover as she tried to decide how to combine what she wanted to write with what she felt comfortable writing. Finally, she finished and handed the book back to him. He slid it in his pocket, not wanting to read her words in front of Jimmy and Angela.

"Congratulations, Clara. It really is an accomplishment," Jimmy said. "But Richard and I have to go out of town and won't be back until the morning, and we need to leave."

"Clara, you should spend the night, then. It will be like old times. Jimmy, can you help me with something before you leave?" Angela asked while getting up to walk into the kitchen.

Clara held her hands up, and Richard helped her clamber to her feet. He leaned down to kiss her. "Tomorrow. Mmm. When I get back, we..."

"Yes."

He looked down at her. "I didn't say..."

"It doesn't matter, I'm in."

Later that night, after Richard's considered precisely how he'd like to kill Mickey Doyle on five different occasions, he finally was alone, and there was enough street light for him to read Clara's inscription.

'My dearest, Richard,

Thank you for always respecting and never belittling my desire

to be an actual person with passions and thoughts and ambitions,

and for the myriad of ways you supported me.

Love always,

Clara'