The Firekeeper's Daughter
The Savoy Ballroom smelled of sweat and brass and something that might have been hope. Clara Thompson stood in the shadows behind the stage, her bare feet pressed against the wooden floor, her eyes fixed on the band through a gap in the curtain. They were good. Not great. But good. And in Harlem, in January 1925, good was almost enough. She was fourteen years old and she could hear everything....
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