by Renee Ahdieh
Signs of motion caught her eye. She froze, though the rain continued bearing down on her, soaking through her hair, seeping through to her skin. Celine blinked back the drops. It looked as though a figure hovered in her periphery, positioned beside a pillar near the gate of the convent’s wrought-iron fence. She blinked again.
The silhouette vanished.
Celine’s heart crashed through her chest, the blood thinning in her veins.
She yanked the shutters closed, latching them together in a seamless motion. Then she reached for a length of thick cotton. The blood continued pounding in her body as she stripped off her nightshift and pulled a clean chemise from her meager chest of clothing.
One thing was certain: something had shifted tonight.
Ever since that evening in the atelier nearly six weeks ago—when evil had taken refuge in her bones—Celine had felt torn. Certainly, between right and wrong. But more than that, between who she was and who she thought she should be.
Celine Rousseau was a girl who believed in justice. That young man had meant to rape her—to destroy her, body and soul.
Was it wrong for her to destroy him instead?
She knew the right answer. The one the Bible taught. Because Celine was also a girl raised on the Ten Commandments, and it was wrong to kill.
But were there ever times it could be right?
Could Celine Rousseau be a girl who valued life, as well as a girl who had taken it from someone, without a shred of remorse?
It was like walking the edge of a cliff. If Celine fell to one side, she would be good evermore. If she fell to the other? She would be consumed by evil and lose all chance at redemption. Celine knew it sounded silly, but to her it felt true.
It wasn’t possible for good and evil to reside in the same person.
Was it?
Celine blinked hard into the damp darkness. After the events of this evening, she shouldn’t be concerning herself with such things. She should be trembling in her nightdress, poisoned by a different kind of worry.
Tomorrow—despite her best efforts—Celine’s world could crumble like a castle made of sand. In the afternoon, Detective Grimaldi would come to the convent to finish questioning them. It had been his favor to the Mother Superior, a woman well acquainted with his family. Celine had watched in quiet shock as the elderly matron had advocated for her and for Pippa. Begged the young detective’s forbearance.
“Miss Rousseau and Miss Montrose are fine, upstanding young women,” she’d said. “They will be more than happy to cooperate. Of course they will answer any question you pose to them. But please grant them this night to mourn the loss of their friend. To reflect on the actions that brought about this unfortunate turn of events.”
Celine had looked away when she heard those words, her shame a dagger through her heart.
Not a trace of guilt could be found on the Mother Superior’s face. But the wizened woman had spared Celine. Offered her a pardon on the steps of the gallows.
Tomorrow Michael Grimaldi would renew his inquiries. What if the detective looked into Celine’s past with his eerie, colorless eyes? What if he asked why she’d journeyed across the Atlantic?
What if he learned she was a murderess?
It could be her undoing.
Celine’s hands shook as she wrapped the length of thick cotton around her hair, trying in vain to wring the waist-length strands dry. Her dreams taunted her. Her memories failed her. Her desires had become reapers in the dark.
She struggled to marshal her emotions. If she did not take control of her life—of these fears—they would be sure to control her. She could not allow this to happen. Succumbing to fear was the surest way to lose her footing.
Celine made her way back to her narrow rope bed, determined to fight for a measure of peace, so that she could prepare for what tomorrow might bring. When she reached for the coarse linen sheets at the foot of her mattress, she froze in her tracks. The golden petals. The embroidered handkerchiefs.
She blinked once. Twice. The length of thick cotton wrapped around her hair unraveled to the stone floor at her feet. Her body trembled.
Bastien had tucked away a folded piece of fabric in his trouser pocket. In the warm glow of the gas lanterns, it had looked like a buttery silk handkerchief.
In the bright light of day?
It would be yellow.
Like the ribbon missing from Anabel’s hair.
A SURPRISE VISIT
Celine’s dreams continued haunting her well into the waking hours. For the rest of the night, her sleep came in fits and starts. Amid the disquiet, she imagined she saw the silhouette outside her window draw closer, a splash of black in a sea of grey.
As a child, these kinds of indistinct dreams came to her in waves, often in times of turmoil. In them, everything seemed vivid and alive and possible, even her most twisted nightmares. Twice, she imagined her mother had visited her in the dead of night. Once, she’d been cloaked in lambent fox fur, her eyes aflame. The following occasion, she’d been accompanied by the briny scent of the ocean, a pearl glowing between her teeth.
Tonight Celine dreamed her mother whispered in her ear. She felt her draw near, the scent of safflower oil and incense thick about her.
“Kah,” she said, her breath a cool wash on the shell of Celine’s ear. “Bhal-ee.”
Celine shouldn’t know what these words meant. But her body froze, her eyes wide.
Flee. Her breath came in a gasp. Quickly.
* * *
As luck would have it, the next morning brought with it the clearest sky Celine had beheld since coming to New Orleans two weeks prior. As a result, the sun’s rays seeped unfiltered into every nook and cranny.
By ten o’clock, the temperature had become sweltering.
On top of that, one of Celine’s worst fears had come to pass.
She was stationed at the front of a classroom, gazing down at twelve smiling young faces, the eldest no more than ten. To her right stood Catherine, her hands folded before her, the bespectacled epitome of a genteel young woman.
Celine was expected to assist Catherine in teaching the young girls about proper comportment in society, in addition to instructing them on correct French pronunciation. S’il vous plaît, merci beaucoup, je vous en prie, pardonnez-moi, and the like.
She supposed this was all a carefully orchestrated attempt on the part of the Mother Superior to shame her. To remind Celine of her place in life and in the world.
“Ladies!” Catherine clapped. “Pay attention to Mademoiselle Rousseau. She’s here to teach you exactly what to do to impress, say . . . a handsome young gentleman sometime in the near future?” She sent a kind smile Celine’s way, but in its depths Celine detected a stab of resentment. Of course Catherine knew what had taken place last night. All the young women at the convent had been informed, the truth spreading like wildfire through underbrush.
Unsurprisingly. One of their ranks had perished in horrifically violent fashion.
Perhaps Celine should not fault Catherine for the condescension shaping her brow this morning. If Catherine had been linked to Anabel’s untimely death, Celine would surely be sending her a judgmental look as well.
In an attempt to channel the confidence Celine lacked in this moment, she offered a toothsome smile to the roomful of waiting innocents. “Of course it is lovely knowing what to say and do in society, but you should also pay attention simply for the sake of learning how to speak another language,” she said in a heedless tone. “We wouldn’t want to feel like everything we do is an attempt to catch a young man’s notice, now would we?” She laughed softly.
A handful of the young girls in the room giggled with Celine, though most of them squirmed in their seats, their faces pinched in confusion.
Fury shaped each of Catherine’s features before gathering above her brows. “Mademoisel
le Rousseau, may I speak with you for a minute?” she ground out from between her teeth.
Celine looked to the wooden beams along the ceiling, counting down from ten. She’d known it was a mistake for her to be teaching anyone anything. Especially a classroom of children under the watchful gaze of a former English governess. Jokes about Puritans and the Tower of Terror abounded in Celine’s mind before she silenced them the following instant.
“Celine?” Catherine said even more softly. Even more heatedly. She eyed the exit sidelong.
Wincing all the while, Celine nodded. As she followed Catherine toward the door, a bell-like voice piped up from the back of the room. “Mademoiselle Rousseau?” asked a girl with cat eyes and a mop of unruly hair.
Grateful to have evaded the impending lecture, Celine swiveled around. “Yes?”
The girl fiddled with a corner of her slate. “Is it true you’re from Paris?”
“Yes, it is.”
Murmurs of admiration rippled through the space.
“Why ever did you leave?” asked another girl near the front of the classroom.
A stream of silent curses barreled from Celine’s throat. Briefly she considered repeating the foul word Bastien had used last night at their first encounter. Simply to see how it would feel to shock everyone present with nothing but a single syllable.
Celine squeezed her eyes shut. “Because I wanted an adventure.” Another bright smile took shape on her face. “What kind of adventure would you like to have?”
“I’d like to see the pyramids,” the first girl replied.
A girl with blond pigtails tapped a finger against her chin. “Maybe travel on a boat one day?”
“I want to try . . . squid!” still another called out from the right.
Sounds of mirth mingled with their exaggerated disgust. Girlish laughter lilted into the plaster ceiling. Catherine eyed Celine suspiciously, but returned to her judgmental corner without a word.
Once more Celine was spared on the steps of the gallows.
* * *
Less than an hour later, a knock resounded at the door.
Catherine answered as if she’d been waiting for it all along, her blue-grey skirts a soft swish against the polished stone floor. The young woman waiting on the other side inclined her head of mousy brown hair regretfully. “Miss Rousseau?” she said to Celine. “Apologies for disturbing your class, but there is a gentleman waiting for you and Miss Montrose in the lemon grove leading to the vestibule.”
Celine steeled her nerves while following the bonneted girl outside. On a bench near a row of carefully tended tomato vines sat Pippa in a lavender day dress, her gaze hollow, dark shadows looming beneath her eyes. Like Celine, it was obvious she had not slept well. When Pippa saw they had come to collect her, she offered them the smallest of smiles. The sight of it soothed Celine, though it troubled her that Pippa had been placed—once more—in a precarious situation.
If only Pippa hadn’t volunteered to accompany Celine last night.
If only Celine hadn’t been so insistent.
If only the Mother Superior hadn’t sent Anabel to spy on them.
If only.
Celine’s heartbeat thundered in her chest as she prepared to face the young police detective in earnest. To give the performance of her life.
When they rounded the final bend—their escort leaving them to their fates—Celine was shocked to discover it was not Detective Michael Grimaldi waiting beneath the canopy of citrus-scented leaves.
It was Arjun.
He stood in the shade of a lemon tree, a navy bowler hat in hand, his monocle perched atop his right eye. He appeared engrossed in conversation with the gardener, a hunched gentleman whose tanned and wrinkled skin had aged him beyond his years, giving him the appearance of a wizard, replete with a long, wispy beard. The gardener offered Arjun a cutting of some sort, its vibrant green stem and tiny fronds wrapped in a length of dampened linen. Bending from the waist, Arjun reached to touch the top of the gardener’s foot, as if in gratitude. Then he took the cutting before turning to Celine and Pippa and offering them the most disingenuous of smiles.
Not to be outdone, Celine responded in kind. “Forgive me,” she began, “but I’m somewhat confused. Might I inquire as to—”
“It’s coriander,” Arjun interrupted. “An herb often used in East Indian cuisine. I missed its scent, and William generously offered me a cutting for my garden.”
Celine blinked twice. “That was kind of him.”
“And not at all the question you meant to ask.” Arjun grinned. “Bastien requested that I come here today. I advise him on legal matters, and he did not want you or Miss Montrose to be questioned by the police without someone advocating on your behalf.”
Understanding settled on Celine. In addition to being Bastien’s lackey—delivering blows to poor fools in rancid alleyways— Arjun was also the lawyer mentioned in passing last night. Bitter amusement warmed through Celine’s body. She was not surprised to know Bastien kept among his closest acquaintances an attorney, undoubtedly at all hours of day and night.
“Then . . . you’re a barrister?” Pippa asked, a breeze playing with the ends of the blond curls framing her heart-shaped face.
“Of a sort,” Arjun replied without missing a beat. “I know the law inside and out, even if I’m not permitted to practice it.”
A quizzical expression passed across Pippa’s features. “I don’t understand.”
“More’s the pity.” Another punishing grin took shape on his face. “My skin is not the right color, Miss Montrose, nor is my parentage. Surely you of all people understand that.”
“Excuse me?” She blinked, consternation clouding her gaze.
“Based on your accent, I’d wager you’re from Yorkshire. A proper English girl, through and through.”
Color flooded Pippa’s cheeks. “Yes, I’m from Yorkshire.”
“Then you’re no doubt well aware that a scrapper from East India would never be permitted to work as a barrister in any circle of significance.” Tucking his bowler hat beneath his arm, Arjun stored the coriander cutting inside the breast pocket of his grey frock coat. “That’s by design, in case you didn’t know.” He laughed to himself.
“Not all of us believe in such notions,” Pippa said softly.
“That may be true,” he said, “but all of you definitely benefit from it.”
Pippa paled as she struggled to respond.
Knowing full well this conversation was not going in her friend’s favor, Celine interjected with a small curtsy. “Thank you very much for going to such trouble on our behalf, monsieur . . .” She waited for Arjun to offer his surname.
“Desai.” He looked away from Pippa and cleared his throat. “But please feel free to call me Arjun, as I do think we’re past those kinds of formalities.” His hazel eyes twinkled.
“I appreciate you coming here today to advocate on our behalf, but I’m afraid we lack the means to pay you.” Celine fought the urge to squirm under his steady gaze. “And I would not want to take advantage of your valuable time.”
He snorted. “It appears we both dislike being indebted to others. And though my time is indeed valuable, you needn’t concern yourself with payment. Bastien will handle all the expenses.”
The sheer arrogance. Of both men. Celine’s gaze narrowed. Pippa glanced at her sidelong, wearing a look of supreme unease.
“And why would he do that?” Celine pressed.
Arjun tilted his head from side to side, considering. “I couldn’t speculate as to his reasons. A wise young woman once told me we are only privy to our own thoughts.” A half grin curled up his face as he reminded Celine of her words from last night.
Celine could feel her lips starting to pout. She kept quiet, letting her eyes answer for her.
“Brava, Miss Rousseau,” Arjun commen
ted. “I’d advise you to maintain that indignation throughout the course of today’s inquiry.” He took a step closer to Pippa, narrowing the gap between them in one fell swoop. “Keep silent unless you are absolutely certain the next words you speak are beyond reproach. Make the quiet your friend. Bask in it.”
It was Celine’s turn to snort. “Simple enough. You’re merely asking us to behave as the ladies we’ve been raised to be.”
“I’d wager that to be an easier task for some than for others.”
Celine bit her tongue, refusing to let him incite her.
Pippa frowned. “There’s no need for you to make such slights, sir,” she said. “It’s unbecoming of you.”
“The truth is often unbecoming. But that does not make it unwarranted.”
“In your opinion.” Pippa raised her elfin chin, prepared to do battle.
Celine did not want Pippa to fall prey to Arjun’s provocations, so she decided it was best to change the subject. “You still haven’t answered my earlier question, Monsieur Desai. Why would Monsieur Saint Germain take on the expense of providing us with legal representation?”
“I told you last night, Miss Rousseau,” he replied. “Bastien is merely doing what he does best. Don’t see it as anything else. He would have done as much for anyone in need of assistance, as he’s done for countless other young ladies in the city.”
“How magnanimous of him,” Celine countered in a cool tone.
A smile ghosted across Arjun’s lips. “Trust that he is most concerned with putting a swift end to anything that might negatively affect his family’s businesses.”
Well. Celine sniffed, her indignation mounting. It bothered her immensely that Bastien had taken it upon himself to make decisions for them, without even consulting them first. Not to mention that if her suspicions were correct—if Bastien did indeed have something to do with Anabel’s untimely death, as the yellow ribbon in his pocket suggested—he was in essence pouring drinks for them from a poisoned well.