by Renee Ahdieh
“I am.” The detective placed his hat beneath his arm and grasped hold of the other handle. “My father’s family hails from Sicily. But my mother’s family is of mixed blood, as are many longtime residents of New Orleans. Beyond the Garden District, that is.” Detective Grimaldi moved aside to let Celine pass into the sunlight.
“I see,” Celine said slowly. Having the choice to conceal the truth of her own blended heritage meant she’d been spared this kind of cruel judgment. “It shouldn’t be revolutionary to think one’s skin color should have no bearing on one’s place in society.”
The detective held open the door while Celine emerged into the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun. “I agree,” he said. “You may not be aware of this, but New Orleans society— indeed, society throughout the South—bases much of its notions on the one-drop rule.” He followed in her footsteps. “If you possess a drop of African blood, you’re granted little in the way of consideration.”
Celine pondered this, her vision straining to adjust to the harsh white light. She squinted up at him. “It’s the land of the free in idea only, then.”
A smirk took shape on his face. “My father’s family were humble cobblers in Palermo. They often struggled to put two sticks together to start a fire. A chance for a better life brought them to the Crescent City fifty years ago.” He raised his right hand to shield his gaze from the sun. “What brought you to the shores of the New World, Miss Rousseau? The Mother Superior told me you arrived by ship less than a fortnight ago.”
Celine gripped the worn fabric of her skirts. “The same thing that brought your family here, Detective Grimaldi.” She grinned into the light, her expression fierce. “Opportunity.”
The detective shifted, placing Celine in shadow, sheltering her from the worst of the sun’s glare. “You’re very good,” he whispered.
“Pardon?”
“You’re very good at hiding how smart you are.”
“And you’re very bad at trying to be charming.”
His lips twitched. “You don’t find me charming?”
“You’re still interrogating me, Detective Grimaldi. Would you find yourself charming in this instance?”
He swiped a large hand through his wavy hair. “Point taken. And please,” he said, “call me Michael.”
“I . . . don’t know that that’s appropriate.”
“I find such beliefs tedious. It’s appropriate if we decide it can be.”
“If only life were so simple. If only we all were smart enough to shun tedium as you do.”
His colorless eyes—so light a shade of blue as to appear almost white—shone oddly for an instant. Almost as if he were amused.
Nearby, Pippa coughed as if to clear her throat, and Celine pivoted toward her. Arjun and Pippa waited just outside the iron gate, their expressions incongruous. Pippa looked alert and studious, her eyes wide, but not in a disapproving way. In contrast, Arjun appeared unconcerned with the happenings around him, save for the sharp light still glinting in his gaze.
If Celine had to guess, the young lawyer looked . . . cross.
An idea took shape in her mind. A simple way to impress upon Arjun—and his employer—that she would do as she pleased, despite their attempts to interfere.
Celine offered her right hand to Michael. “Have a good day, Detective Grimaldi. Please see that you do not return here anytime soon.” She sent him a teasing smile.
He offered her an awkward, almost forced grin, then took her hand to press his lips to it. They were warm and soft. Despite intending to assert the advantage, Celine felt her cheeks start to redden.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked without warning.
“Not at all.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “You’re lying.”
“What?” Celine blinked in dismay. Was she that bad at it?
“It’s of little consequence to me if you are. You see, the heart”—Michael lifted her wrist, where Celine’s pulse pounded in her veins—“doesn’t lie.”
Without a word, she extricated her fingers, her cursed face enflaming further with every passing moment. Then she pivoted on a heel, intent on fleeing to the safety of the convent at once.
“May I offer you a word of caution?” Michael asked, just as she began retracing her steps.
Celine turned back, waiting expectantly, knowing full well that Arjun was listening to their exchange, all with the intention of informing his employer.
“It is with respect to Bastien,” Michael said loudly, placing his tweed hat before him as if it were a shield.
Celine said nothing in response, struggling to regain her composure.
“When we were children, we called him the Ghost, because everyone around him seemed to perish without explanation, leaving behind nothing but specters,” Michael began. “First his elder sister, Émilie. Then his mother. Finally his father.” He paused. “It didn’t end there. When he turned sixteen, his uncle bribed a spot for him at West Point. Then one of Bastien’s roommates was killed in a barroom fight. Bastien attacked another boy, blaming him for his friend’s death. He beat the boy within an inch of his life. Not long after that, he was asked to leave the military academy in disgrace.”
“I . . . think I understand what you mean,” Celine said. “Thank you for the information,” she said in a cold tone while Arjun bristled beyond the tines of wrought iron.
“Bastien destroys everything he touches,” Michael continued in a strident tone, “unless it’s something as soulless as money. With money, he is indeed a dark prince.”
“I appreciate the warning, but Monsieur Saint Germain and I are unlikely to spend time in each other’s company, as I have no interest in having anything to do with him.”
“I wish he shared the sentiment.”
Celine chose to ignore that comment. She glanced toward the gate, where Pippa gazed at her with an expression of undisguised curiosity. Arjun, meanwhile, shot daggers at Michael’s back, then tilted his head at Celine in a spuriously lighthearted fashion.
“I’d very much like to see you again, Celine,” Michael announced, as if he had something to prove.
Shocked to her core by this open admission, Celine nearly lost her footing. This fool, she wondered, believes I would afford him notice after he mocked me and harangued me about a murder for two days straight?
Celine thought quickly, wondering what he hoped to achieve by making such a spectacle. It couldn’t be as simple as annoying Bastien, could it? God save her from the pettiness of young men. Or perhaps . . .
“I’d like that as well, Michael,” Celine replied.
It would be smart to keep in Detective Grimaldi’s good graces. Not to mention that it would irritate her traitor of an attorney immensely. Celine caught herself on the verge of grinning. Arjun had witnessed her chumming with Bastien’s enemy. She’d bet anything the wily lawyer would be sure to add that particular detail to his collection of useless scribblings.
Bully for him, Celine thought with dark delight.
How she wished she could see Bastien’s face when Arjun informed him of today’s developments. It served them right.
The next time, they would know better than to use Celine Rousseau as a pawn.
A MURDERESS AT SUNDAY MASS
Mon amie,
I’ve discovered the perfect silk for my ball gown at a shop that imports fabric directly from China. It glows like a pearl and feels like water against the skin. I’ve already purchased bolts and bolts of it. I can’t wait to show them to you when they arrive at Jacques’ later tonight.
Bastien plans to meet this morning with the monsignor.
Look for me after Mass.
I’ll be the one with the devil.
Bisous,
Odette
Celine read Odette’s letter three times. Even upon multi
ple readings, its contents failed to sound any less ridiculous.
Only a ruthless fiend like Bastien would attend Mass at the church near the Ursuline convent a mere week after one of its residents perished in his establishment. And only a fearless creature like Odette would insist on accompanying him simply so she could speak with her new modiste about a gown for the masquerade ball.
At the mere thought of Bastien, Celine harrumphed.
But Odette—as always—delighted her.
Would the warring dualities within Celine ever cease?
She sighed. As more time passed, it seemed increasingly unlikely.
Celine stood naked in the center of her cell, cold dread coursing through her at the thought of what today would bring. Her skin was damp, the air around her perfumed by the lavender castile soap she’d used in her recent bath. It was a joy afforded her on rare occasions, this chance to bathe in the large copper tub shared by all the young women residing in the convent. Most evenings, she was relegated to a bucket of cold water and a half ration of unscented soap.
Breathing deeply of the soothing lavender fragrance, Celine donned a clean pair of drawers and laced the ties of her chemise below her collarbone. Then she secured the front of her stays across her midriff and made a face before pulling the ties tightly behind her until her waist appeared outlandishly small in comparison to her bust and hips.
As always, it took a moment to regain her bearings after cinching herself into her corset.
Celine fastened the white ribbons of her linen camisole over the whalebone stays. She turned in place to study the three garments strewn across her narrow rope bed, trying to decide which of her shabby gowns was the least shabby.
She’d worn the blue dress to Mass last Sunday, which meant the striped one was her next best option.
With an exaggerated sigh, Celine reached for the salmon-colored gown. She’d be hot in it, but it was the least rumpled and still held a trace of its former luster.
Celine stepped into the cage of her crinolette and adjusted the bustle behind her. She knotted the strings of her best petticoat about her waist before jumping up and down to straighten the skirt over the narrow expanse of oval hoops.
Finally she tied the striped foundation skirt and its matching apron overskirt atop the linen petticoat before reaching for the coordinating bodice and beginning the arduous task of fastening all the tiny buttons up the front.
When Celine was finished, she gazed down at her dress, wishing the convent had a mirror of any kind somewhere close by. A way to determine whether she looked as foolish as she felt.
Celine supposed her gown appeared . . . serviceable. When she’d first made it more than a year ago, it was pretty and fashionable. Weeks in the sodden hold of a ship on a transatlantic crossing had altered the fabric irreparably.
Celine sucked in her cheeks.
It was fine. Serviceable was not terrible.
And her appearance did not matter to God, so why should it matter to anyone else?
Poppycock. Of course her appearance at Mass mattered. Celine couldn’t very well march through the checkered nave of Saint Louis Cathedral in nothing but her chemise and drawers.
Though that would be a spectacle indeed, behaving so brazenly within such hallowed halls. It would likely have her banned from the convent—an idea that both terrified and intrigued her.
No matter.
Celine smoothed the front of her dress, the vibrant pink stripes flattening beneath her palms. It was scarcely ten o’clock, but the day sweltered like a bathhouse in summertime. The thick heat of New Orleans never ceased to amaze her. This city in late January felt like Paris in July . . . if the streets of Paris had been drenched by the sea. Beside her foot lay the remnants of a small puddle, likely from when she’d unwound her damp hair before getting dressed.
Absentmindedly, Celine drew a symbol through the puddle with the tip of her booted toe. The same symbol that had been found beside Anabel’s body soon took shape along the stone floor. At once, Celine swiped her heel through it, banishing it from view.
What would New Orleans feel like in July? Hell on earth?
Celine winced.
She guessed it would feel a lot like a murderess at Sunday Mass.
* * *
Celine sat beside Pippa in an oak pew halfway down the right side of Saint Louis Cathedral. A bead of sweat dripped down her neck. Makeshift fans fluttered alongside expensive contrivances of silk and lacquered wood. Faded whispers carried into the frescoed ceiling above. Heads began to droop even before the start of the homily, eyes falling shut an instant before the person was elbowed awake.
“Mercy,” Celine murmured to Pippa. “It’s even hotter than last week. How are we to endure the summer months?”
Pippa sat beside her in a gown of pale blue organza. Not too long ago, it had been the height of fashion. Pains had been taken to maintain the delicate lace detailing, but several small tears could be seen along the sleeves. In some places, it had been meticulously mended.
“You look lovely,” Celine whispered.
Pippa nudged her shoulder good-naturedly. “I look like a soggy handkerchief next to you. That bright color is wonderful against your skin.”
Celine tsked. “You shouldn’t speak ill of my friend. Especially not in a church.”
Pippa smothered a grin.
Behind the immense marble altar, the monsignor moved into position to begin his homily, switching from Latin to English to properly address his congregation.
Celine scanned the crowd until her gaze fell on a well-dressed pair positioned on the opposite side of the aisle. Bastien sat in a pew at the end of the first row, Odette beside him in a cream-colored gown of duchess satin with a matching bonnet.
Admittedly this was not the first time Celine had stolen a glance in their direction.
She’d been surprised to note that Bastien appeared well acquainted with every aspect of Mass. He recited things in unflinching Latin. Knew when to sit and stand and kneel. Bowed his head with the kind of reverence Celine would swear to be genuine.
It had taken her off guard, to say the least. She’d half expected a bolt of lightning to strike him the moment he dipped his fingers in the basin of holy water beside the entrance.
“When tragedy befalls the Lord’s flock, we must look to the lessons to be learned. Tragedy is what comes of disobedience,” the monsignor droned. “As He divulged to us in the book of Revelation . . .”
Celine closed her eyes, trying to ignore his words, even as fire and brimstone rained down around her.
“. . . and we must be thankful for the acts of penance arising from such tragedies. We must offer blessings to the favored sons of our fair city, for their boundless generosity and their unswerving attrition,” the elderly man intoned, his hands open at either side of his gold vestment. “Our God is forgiving. So must we be.”
Attention in the church shifted toward Bastien, who kept his gaze averted, his head bowed in prayer.
It took Celine only a moment to understand.
That fiend had paid for his sins today. With “boundless generosity,” he’d bought the church’s absolution. This had to be the reason he’d met with the monsignor and made a point to attend Mass today.
Celine sank back in her pew and crossed her arms, fuming.
First he’d sent his minion attorney to cover his tracks with the Metropolitan Police. Then he’d traded gold for absolution like he would a coin for a loaf of bread. If these weren’t the actions of a guilty conscience, Celine would eat her hat and swallow the striped ribbon whole.
She glared at the back of Bastien’s head. Though she was loath to admit it, she had to admire him for his efficiency. Had to envy how he floated about the world so unscathed.
If Celine possessed a tenth of his power, there would be no limit to what she could do.
* * *
“Celine!” Just beyond the steps leading into the cathedral, Odette waved from her seat in a shining black phaeton matched with a pair of midnight stallions.
Inhaling through her nose, Celine made her way down the stairs toward the open-air carriage. She put a hand to her brow to shield herself from the noon sun. “Bonjour, Odette,” she said reluctantly.
“Bonjour, mon amie.” Odette opened her creamy silk parasol with a flourish, the rubies around her ivory cameo winking in the filtered light, her gaze appraising. “I adore how you wear such bright hues. It’s ever so much more intriguing than this sea of simpering pastel.” She waved a gloved hand around the square. “One day, you must tell me what inspires you.”
Celine thought for a moment, her hand still sheltering her from the uncompromising sun. “Paris often had melancholy skies. They were always beautiful—especially in the rain—but I longed for splashes of color, so I thought to wrap myself in them.”
“Bien sûr,” Odette murmured with a knowing smile. “Come sit with me.” She patted the bloodred leather beside her.
“I shouldn’t,” Celine replied, glancing around at what she guessed to be a goodly portion of New Orleans’ high society, exiting the church on their way to Sunday barbecue.
“Ah, would it seem untoward?”
Celine wrinkled her nose. “Not untoward. Only . . . indiscreet.”
“Too soon after that unfortunate incident.” Odette nodded.
Celine simply smiled.
“Well,” Odette said, “I suppose I can issue my invitation from here.”
“Invitation?”
“To join me for dinner at Jacques’ tonight, you goose. We still have much to discuss with respect to my gown for the masquerade ball. And don’t worry,” she added almost as an afterthought, “it won’t be near where the . . . incident occurred.”
“I—don’t think that’s wise. I’m certain the Mother Superior—”
“—has already granted the request, despite her initial misgivings. The monsignor spoke to her before Mass.”