Scissors at Midnight
Chapter 01 - Scissors at Midnight
Clara Hart had spent three months restoring gowns for the Bellmont Foundation’s winter gala, yet she entered the ballroom through the service corridor.
The invitation in her purse said GUEST, but everyone knew what she was: the red-haired seamstress from a rented studio in Brooklyn, wearing a blush-colored dress she had repaired herself. The gown had belonged to Margaret Hart, the woman who raised her. Its silk was old, its tiny pearls mismatched, and its corset laces had been replaced so many times that Clara could identify each stitch by touch.
At the center of the ballroom stood Vivienne Laurent in a silver gown, surrounded by cameras. Vivienne was beautiful, wealthy, and expected to be named the next head of Bellmont House that night. Her father, Marcus Laurent, had managed the company since Edmund Bellmont’s health began to fail.
Vivienne noticed Clara before the orchestra finished its first song.
“You were told not to wear that dress,” she said.
Clara kept her voice calm. “I was told the gala was formal.”
“That design belongs to Bellmont House.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
Vivienne smiled toward the guests. “Your foster mother worked in the Bellmont laundry. Taking discarded fabric did not make her a designer.”
The insult drew uneasy laughter. Clara turned to leave, but Vivienne caught one of the corset ribbons at her back.
“Let’s see what else your family stole.”
A pair of silver tailoring scissors appeared in Vivienne’s hand. Before Clara could move, the blades closed around the laces.
The ribbon snapped.
Clara grabbed the front of her gown as the loosened bodice shifted. A small gold pouch, hidden for years inside the lining, slipped free and struck the marble floor. Its embroidered crest faced upward beneath the chandelier: a crowned lion holding three blue roses.
The laughter stopped.
At the far end of the ballroom, Edmund Bellmont rose so quickly that his chair fell behind him. At seventy-nine, he walked with a cane, but now he crossed the floor almost at a run.
He knelt beside the pouch and touched the crest with trembling fingers.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
Clara could barely speak. “It was sewn into my mother’s dress.”
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Edmund looked up at her, his face drained of color.
“That pouch was made for my daughter Lillian,” he said. “She disappeared twenty-four years ago—with her newborn child.”
