Although he was no longer the Treasurer of Atlantic County, the hoi polloi recognized their ruler when he arrived at the church. Dressed in his darkest summer-weight suit, Nucky Thompson hadn't forgone wearing his trademark red carnation even on this most somber of occasions. Slowly Owen Sleater cut a path through the well-wishers and escorted Nucky and Margaret to Nucky's preferred pew. As people, most of them traitors who had thrown their lot in with Prince James, lined up to pay their respects Nucky's eyes never stopped moving. Leander Whitlock sat with the remnants of the Yacht Club, suddenly looking very old. Well, Nucky thought, Leander was the only one who liked the old bastard.

A fucking joint funeral, Nucky reflected. The audacity. Gillian must have planned this, no way was James capable of it, and he couldn't imagine Clara wanting Angela's funeral sullied by the presence of the Commodore's remains. Although, hell, it wasn't like he actually knew his daughter. His eyes betrayed him by seeking sight of her among the crowd, but he didn't see her. Undoubtedly she and the freak were closeted with James and his son until closer to the start of the service. He did note Torrio's little troll Capone, and those puffed up children Arnold Rothstein doted on sitting in attendance.

When he told Torrio and Rothstein that their pups had grown fangs he hadn't realized his own daughter had been sharpening her teeth alongside them.

Clara. He'd like to get his hands on his wayward child. She'd called Margaret and asked if she could "beg a favor" and have her things sent to James's beach house. The house where Angela had been brutally murdered by some two-bit Yiddish gangster because James had no ability to attend to details and run his business like an adult. James, the bastard who had plotted his downfall, who had entrapped him in a legal nightmare. That's where Clara was, with James, his bastard child, and some cretin who had crawled out of the backwoods of Wisconsin.

Clara, taking the side of the man who betrayed him, who had sunk him into a legal nightmare. A legal nightmare that could end with him in the chair. Nucky forced his thoughts away from the murder and racketeering charges the bitch in the Post Office had hanging over his head.

At a time when he needed preserve what little capital he had left with people like Waxey Gordon and Arnold Rothstein, he had had to call in favors to make sure James's (James Fucking Darmody, who had betrayed him and sent an assassin after him) beach house was known to be off-limits so that some half-assed gunman didn't shoot Clara while trying to kill James. Like poor Angela had been shot. His jaw tensed. Had Clara thought about what she was asking when she called Margaret and blithely asked for her things? Of course not. Clara had just left with that remnant of a man to run to James's side and look after the boy. Why Clara couldn't leave it to Gillian to look after her misbegotten brood was beyond Nucky.

The music started and the two coffins were born up the aisle by flocks of altar boys. Behind them was Gillian, wearing the most ridiculous mourning veil Nucky had ever seen in his life. Beside her, James stared straight ahead, but his eyes were bright red. The little boy clung to his father's hand and looked dazed, like he wasn't sure what was going on around him.

That's the way Clara had been, he remembered. Standing in a little gray dress, because he couldn't bear for her tiny self to be clothed in black, her hands smoothing the skirt over and over as she stared straight at her mother's coffin.

Nucky pushed the memory away. This child was much younger than Clara had been. Just four, if he recalled correctly. He probably wouldn't even remember this day. Behind James was Clara, this time dressed in black. In fact, she was dressed in the black dress and hat Nucky had insisted she buy last spring. She'd shown up for a funeral in some pre-war relic and he had wasted no time sending her down to Belle Jolie for more appropriate mourning wear. Since she was a damn adult, he had no idea he should have told her to replace the dress this year. But there she stood, in a year old dress and hat she'd worn to countless other funerals and wakes. The girl had no sense.

Next to her was more proof of her lack of good damn sense. The freak stood next to her, although for once he wasn't wearing some terrible suit made of tweed from the Sears and Roebuck catalog that only a hayseed would dare wear. This suit was made of some sort of mid-weight worsted wool, Nucky decided. An improvement, even though it still looked like something a low-level clerk might purchase for his best suit. In one hand he held a proper hat instead of one of those silly caps he usually wore.

And in his other hand was Clara's. Nucky forced his face to remain still. He heard the murmurs go through the church, though, and saw Capone's smirk. Clara was upset-he couldn't fail to notice her red-rimmed eyes and pursed lips, like she was struggling to maintain her composure as they walked. Well, she had lost one of her little strays, hadn't she? Harrow looked like he always did.

Well, perhaps in part that was because Nucky was staring at the masked side of his face. But was there any difference, really, Nucky pondered.

When they neared the second pew, Harrow put his hand on the small of Clara's back. Nucky hissed but didn't realize until he noticed Margaret was staring at him. James turned and motioned them to sit in the first pew. Once more Harrow had his goddamn hands all over Clara's arms and back like Clara wasn't capable of sitting in a pew without his guidance. Like Clara wasn't capable of entertaining King George and Queen Mary, while the mere thought of having to talk to the milkman made Harrow scramble for a corner where he could hang his head and mangle his cap in his hands.

Gillian openly glared at Clara and Harrow as they sat in the family pew. How dare Gillian glare at his daughter? Wasn't Clara currently wrecking her life in an attempt to help James and Tommy? Gillian grabbed the little boy by the arm and led James and Tommy up to the dais where they stood between the coffins. Gillian looked like she was ready for her fucking coronation, like a warrior queen standing over the bodies of her vanquished enemies. She turned and said something to James, before leaning down and placing Tommy's hand on one of the caskets. Gillian was clearly whispering something in the boy's ear.

"Ma, enough," James said loudly enough for his voice to carry.

Nucky shook his head. James couldn't even behave properly at his wife and father's funerals.

Tommy started crying. Nucky saw Clara's shoulders tense, while Harrow looked back and forth between Clara and the scene on the altar.

Gillian suddenly grabbed hold of James, who pushed his mother away and stormed off towards the Deacon door. Gillian followed right behind him.

Tommy was alone on the dais, his hand on his mother's coffin as he wailed.

Clara and Harrow were both on their feet in an instant, racing to get to the boy. Clara knelt, trying to talk to the boy as he screamed for his mother. It looked like Harrow was perfectly calm while Clara struggled to retain her composure as Harrow knelt to whisper in Clara's ear-and considering that Nucky had never heard the man mumble any louder than a low growl Harrow getting close to Clara's ear to speak seemed excessive-but when Harrow turned the calmness of the mask was in sharp contrast to what even Nucky could see was anguish on the intact side of his face.

Next to Nucky Margaret reached for her handkerchief, and he realized most people around him were either openly weeping or trying to keep from doing so. Father Brannen stood uselessly next to the Commodore's coffin as the boy wept. Finally, Nucky saw the boy wrapping his arms around Harrow's neck.

If the kid was wailing now, Nucky thought, imagine when he realizes a half-faced remnant was carrying him. But Tommy buried his face in Harrow's neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Nucky felt the heat rising through him as he watched them sit back down in the pew, so close that the Darmody boy was basically sitting in both of their laps. Harrow pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped the child's face while Clara smoothed the child's hair and bit both of her lips. Then Harrow reached over and touched Clara's cheek. Clara tried to smile at him, but it was obvious she was fighting to hold back tears. Harrow moved his arm hesitantly, and for a moment it looked like the man was going to run, but then he settled around Clara who moved ever so slightly even closer to him.

Like he was a normal man. Harrow acted as if he had a right to touch Clara, or to comfort her when she was sad. And in front of all of Atlantic City, he put his arm around her. And now, Nucky thought, his own fucking crazy out of control daughter was leaned all over him.

"Dearly beloved..." Father Brannen intoned from the dais. Nucky barely heard any of the service, his attention totally taken by the three people sitting alone in the front pew. Finally the funeral mass concluded. The congregation was still as the two caskets started down the aisle. It looked like Clara was trying to convince the boy to walk with them, but finally Harrow picked him up and the boy hid his face again. When the masked remnant turned he faltered as he realized the entire church was gaping at him, Clara twisted her arm into his and nodded at him. She was reassuring him, Nucky realized and became even angrier at the idea that Clara comforted Harrow. And now, the funeral over, the people gathered didn't hold back. People were talking, people were laughing at Clara because of her ridiculous choices. And people laughing at his daughter meant they were laughing at him, that his own reputation was taking even more damage.

Damn Clara.

Margaret steeled herself before she allowed Owen to help her into the car. Normally she made sure Enoch helped her into the car when he was with her, but Enoch was so furious he had simply walked to his side of the vehicle, got in, and slammed the door. Owen's hand brushed her back and he squeezed her hand as he helped her up. Margaret swallowed hard. Luxuriating in Owen's touch was a sin she could not allow, not now. It didn't stop her breath from coming in faster as his hand clasped hers.

Enoch's fury came off him in waves.

"Could you believe the way they acted during a funeral?"

Margaret sighed. They acted like a couple mourning their friend and trying their best to help a young child who had just lost his mother. Poor little lamb, the boy was just a little younger than Emily. Fear gripped at her at the thought of her children being left in the world without her. Who would care for them, who would raise them? Out of the corner of her she considered Nucky. He'd keep them from starving, she thought. If he survives the legal quagmire he's in, that is.

Enoch needed to survive the upcoming trial. Obsessing over Clara's love life wasn't going to help him. She sighed and plunged in. "Didn't you say Clara was with Richard because of her knight in shining armor desire? Because she didn't want a normal relationship?"

Owen's shoulders tightened visibily, and Margaret knew he was fighting back laughter at the reminder of Enoch's ridiculous denial that Clara's relationship with Mr. Harrow was that of any a man and a woman in their twenties in love with each other.

Enoch didn't answer. It was a long drive off the island to the Atlantic City Cemetery in Pleasantville. When they finally arrived Enoch was out of the car in a flash. Margaret watched Harrow park the Ford, get out, and talk to Clara who was in the backseat with that poor little boy.

"Mrs. Schroeder," Richard said when Margaret approached.

"Mr. Harrow, Clara," Margaret replied. The little boy was asleep in the back seat as Clara sat next to him and rubbed his back. "How are you?"

"Tommy cried himself to sleep while we drove," Clara answered.

"Poor little thing. Do you wish to go to the graveside?" Margaret asked gently.

"I don't want to leave Tommy."

"I'll stay with him."

Clara hesitated and looked at Richard. Margaret felt the girl's anxiety. "Clara, I promise I won't let anything happen to him. If he wakes up I'll get you."

Leander Whitlock sat down gratefully on the wooden folding chair and pulled out his handkerchief to mop his face. Louis's funeral had turned into a debacle, thanks to Gillian and James's lack of decorum. James. They had fostered such hopes for that young man, but those hopes were quickly turning to ashes. The strike still raged across the Boardwalk. Everyone was losing money. And now James was falling apart.

Nucky Thompson stood over Louis's grave in triumph. Leander wanted nothing more than to push the man into the grave. The red carnation. Had anyone ever told the former Treasurer that it made him look like a floor walker at a department store? Nucky grimaced, and Leander looked over to see Thompson's latest mistress standing at the car with James's man Harrow and Clara Thompson. Clara finally took Harrow's hand and walked away, leaving Tommy with the woman.

Leander found Harrow disconcerting-who knew where to look, the fake eye or the real one?-but the man was loyal and efficient. And Clara Thompson, whatever Nucky's issues, the daughter was well-raised. She was equally loyal, and obviously loved Tommy. Tommy's mother was about to be committed to the ground. Gillian had been a disastrous mother to James, who was spinning out of control. Someone had to raise the boy.

Who better to protect Louis's heir than a princess and the assassin who loved her?

The burials were much less dramatic than the funeral, but Leander watched every moment. Clara and Harrow both watched the vehicle where Thompson's woman sat with the boy. When it came time to drop handfuls of dirt on Angela Darmody's coffin, for one moment Leander thought Clara might break down. When it was all over, he watched the girl take a deep breath, let go of Harrow's hand and walk toward her father.

The look on Nucky Thompson's face wasn't reassuring.

"Father," Clara said as she approached Nucky.

"Are you not done making a spectacle of yourself?" Nucky hissed at her.

Clara blinked rapidly, her left hand smoothing her black dress. "I wasn't aware I was making a spectacle."

"Showing up in a dress you've had for the last year, clinging to that thing, grabbing Tommy Darmody, what do you call it?"

Trying to make it through this week, Clara thought.

"Doing the best I can at my friend's funeral and trying to her help her child. I'm sorry I didn't think to go shopping. I'm not sorry about Richard."

"You aren't sorry that you've taken up with some backwoods thing that's not..."

"Stop. I love him," Clara's voice faltered. "He loves me. I've never..."

"You've never what? Acted like a whore in public..."

"I'm acting like a whore? Because Richard's my choice, because I'm not selling my body to win you political favors? You certainly don't chose your bedmates by what advantages they bring you, at least outside of the sheets! Lucy was so loud I heard her throughout the suite! Let's not even talk about her lack of social skills or breeding! What backwoods did she crawl out of? And Margaret, not being able to keep your hands off of Margaret might land you in the electric chair!"

Father and daughter stared at each other bitterly.

"I'd watch my words, Clara. You don't seem to understand that I'm going to let you go so far and then no further."

Clara closed her eyes. "Let's not fight. I just buried one of my closest friends. We just buried Jimmy's father. And the Commodore. Father, we need to talk about the Commodore, about what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Jimmy killed the Commodore, Father. He did it for you."

"James killed his father for me?"

Clara nodded. "Yes. The Commodore was recovering, and he was out of control. It was always the Commodore's idea to destroy you, it was always his plan. Jimmy made mistakes, but it was always the Commodore who was driving the attacks on you. And once he got better, it got worse. Killing him was the only way to save you, so that's what Jimmy did."

"Mr. Harrow," Leander called out. He watched the man look around uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure who could be calling him. "Come here, please."

Richard walked over to where Leander sat watching the gravediggers filling in the Commodore's grave.

"And how is little Master Darmody doing?" Leander asked.

"His mother died. Mmm. So he's not. Doing well."

Leander nodded. "I'm sure he's doing better back in his own home with Clara watching after him. Clara reminds me of her mother. Her grandfather, Mr. Jeffries, he was one of the wealthiest men in Atlantic City. Mabel was his princess, just like Clara is Nucky's. Mabel was independent and headstrong, just like her daughter. But nothing was going stop Mabel from marrying Nucky Thompson, and Jeffries was an indulgent father.

"Mabel was a modern girl, and Clara is an even more modern woman. However, the law hasn't quite caught up to society. The law doesn't see women, well, in the same way it sees men. Clara can't get a bank account or a loan. Her legal identity isn't as firm and absolute as, say, yours is. Until she marries she's very much under Nucky's control in some ways. Until she marries."

Leander had no idea what Harrow was thinking, but he wanted to drive the point home.

Someone had to raise Tommy Darmody. He was no longer laying bets that James would survive the month. Besides, Clara Thompson was an heiress in her own right. Jeffries had left his not inconsiderable fortune to his beloved daughter's child.

"If you care about Clara Thompson, you need to marry her. Tomorrow isn't to soon."

Clara collapsed into one of the beach chairs, her legs hanging off one arm. She was so tired her bones ached from it. Her face was sore both from crying and from holding back her tears. After the funeral they had driven back to the house, hoping Jimmy would be waiting. So far there was no sign of him. Tommy had woken up on the car ride back, so they all changed their clothes and went to the Boardwalk.

It was almost like a happy afternoon, Clara thought. Or at least, they tried their best to make it so and Tommy was young enough that distractions worked well. They'd spent the afternoon on the Steel Pier, riding the carousel, playing games...Clara smiled when she thought about Richard winning Tommy prize after prize at the shooting gallery, until they had attracted a crowd. Tommy had so much bounty that they had divided carrying it between them when Tommy wanted to walk holding both of their hands so they could swing him until Clara's shoulder felt like it was going to come out of its socket. She and Tommy had eaten Chop Suey and Richard had brought his back and eaten while she gave Tommy his bath. Richard had then told her he needed to get something from his place.

He's looking for Jimmy, she thought. Jimmy was probably with Capone, and while Capone wasn't her favorite person, she was glad Jimmy had someone to go get drunk with. Because, she knew, she needed Richard tonight. She was exhausted and her nerves were fraying quickly. Not twisting her hands into her hair was a constant battle.