by Renee Ahdieh
The beautiful woman’s anger caused all the petals by her feet to scatter. They threaded through her fingers and around her wrists before vanishing into nothingness. “Celine is no mere mortal. I will not allow her memories to be stolen from her again by a cursed blood drinker. Bring her to me at once, Shin Jaehyuk.”
Jae steeled himself. There were few creatures in either world that truly scared him. The powerful Lady of the Vale was one of them. “My concern for Celine’s well-being is not unfounded, my lady. Tonight I received proof that the sway over her memories is starting to fracture. Nicodemus’ control over her is waning. I fear what might happen if we press her too far. She has endured much in the last few months. If her mind is pushed beyond the brink, she may turn her back on our world entirely.” He paused. “And she will never willingly return to the Summer Court of the Sylvan Vale.”
Worry etched a path across the fey woman’s countenance. “It was folly for me to make that promise to her father. I regretted it the moment I made it.” She lifted her chin. “But a promise is a promise, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise.”
“You did what had to be done to keep Celine safe from the monsters of our world.”
“And instead I surrendered her to the monsters of the earth. Would she not have fared better in our world, after all? For it appears she was destined to be surrounded by monsters from the day of her birth. Perhaps in my attempt to protect her, I have made her more vulnerable.”
“She only suspects there might be such a thing as monsters, my lady.” Jae’s tone was sympathetic.
“And would it not have been better to know that in truth?”
Jae bowed once more. “Apologies, my lady, but suspecting monsters might exist is not the same as meeting them in the flesh. Celine is a fearless young woman. Much of the strength she possesses is because she was allowed to flourish with her father in the mortal world.” His frown deepened. “Ethereals do not fare well in our world, as you know. Arjun Desai is proof of that fact. He suffered a great deal of torment as a child growing up in the Vale.”
After a time, the woman in the mirror nodded. “Very well, Jaehyuk-ah. We will wait until Celine’s eighteenth birthday. Then you will bring my daughter to me. It is time for her to learn who she truly is.”
“Yes, Lady Silla.” Jae bowed deeply. “As ever, I am in your debt.”
CELINE
It was the sort of night made for enchantment.
The sky was filled with winking stars. A rare blue moon silvered the wet streets of New Orleans. Along Royale, gas lamps danced in their iron cages, and the sound of laughter and the clattering of horse hooves rang out in the early April air.
Celine had read about nights made for enchantment in the books she devoured as a child. Mostly fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen. Her father had preferred Andersen’s lighter, moralistic tales, but Celine had found the darker Grimm stories ever so much more appealing. Something about them spoke to her. Drew her into a deep, dark well of delicious secrets.
From there, she’d collected romantic tomes about enchanted evenings in forbidden forests. Many of them had been prohibited by her scholarly father. But Celine had borrowed them in secret from her friend Josephine. The ones she’d enjoyed most had been about sworn enemies who fell in love. About mysterious princes and princesses. Masked balls and fey creatures. Tales filled with blood and murder and retribution.
Among them were the novels written by Alexandre Dumas père. Celine’s fascination with the Man in the Iron Mask had been so great, she’d reread Le Vicomte de Bragelonne enough that the seams of the book had begun to fray. Her love had only grown following Dumas’ death two years ago, when Celine learned he was a writer of mixed heritage. A man with a French nobleman for a father and a Haitian slave for a grandmother. Someone with lineage from two different worlds, like her. She wondered whether Dumas had known much about his grandmother’s story, or if his father had cloistered him from it as Celine’s father had with her. In moments of whimsy, she’d wondered whether they could have been friends.
It had been an age since Celine read a book. A year ago, her father discovered her cache of forbidden novels and destroyed them, claiming that she was rotting her brain with such nonsense. The only tome that had survived was Celine’s frail copy of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne. She’d left it behind when she fled Paris in January, after murdering a wealthy boy who tried to assault her on a night she still had trouble recollecting in full.
Celine had lost so much. Her own mother. Her own memories.
Darkness hovered above her like a specter threatening to descend.
She swallowed. Stared up at the flickering stars, determined not to let these worries dampen her spirits any more than they already had. A warm feeling—akin to the sensation of settling in a hot bath—spread across her skin. Perhaps it was better for her to forget the circumstances that caused her pain. Celine did not feel remorse for what she had done in protecting herself from the boy who’d assaulted her, but she wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the consequences that might come to pass one day. Likely, she’d spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.
When Celine turned the corner and saw the ornate sign hanging above, she made a promise to herself that she would ignore the descending darkness for tonight and worry about such things tomorrow. Then she sent a smile to the young man beside her.
“Isn’t this the right place?” she asked Michael, staring up at the three-storied building of red brick, its narrow double doors and lacquered shutters glistening like polished pewter.
Michael’s lips pursed, his pale eyes shifting across her face in slow deliberation. He nodded.
Celine reached for his arm. “Don’t worry about the cost. I invited you as my guest, which is a pittance when compared with everything you’ve done for me these past seven weeks.”
“It has nothing to do with the cost.” Michael bristled. “And there is no need for you to repay me.”
“You and Nonna and Luca have treated me like family. No, better than family. I only wish they would have accepted my invitation to join us tonight.”
Michael snorted. “Nonna refuses to pay for prepared food, even from the finest dining establishments. She doesn’t believe anyone can cook better than she can.”
Laughter bubbled from Celine’s lips. “She is probably correct.”
“And they treat you like family because that is how they feel.” Michael’s words were soft. Careful.
Celine smiled with equal care, though something gripped inside her chest. She tugged on Michael’s arm, but still he remained rooted to the flagstone pavers just beyond the threshold. “I feel the same way,” she said. “So will you not let me treat you to the finest cuisine in New Orleans?”
“As I said before, it’s unnecessary.”
“Pippa told me it was the most beautiful meal she’s ever had in her life.”
“I’ve heard the same.” Despite Michael’s reticence, a grin ghosted across his lips. “And I’ve never known someone more passionate about food than you.”
Her green eyes danced. “Food is life, after all.”
“Food permits life,” he amended. “We should eat to live, not live to eat.”
Celine’s expression turned grave. “I’ve never been so disappointed in someone. It’s time we changed your perspective for the better, Detective Grimaldi.” She pulled him toward the opened doors.
Michael held back a moment more. Took a deep breath. Then followed her into the warm, well-lit space.
The instant they crossed the threshold, another odd sensation warmed through Celine’s stomach. A feeling of being pushed back and pulled forward, all at once. As if half of her wished to flee and the other wished to sink its teeth into this world of cut crystal, fine china, and intoxicating decadence.
Celine inhaled the rich scent of bloodred wine, warm spices, and me
lting butter. “Isn’t this marvelous?” she said, her eyes flitting about the glowing chamber.
“It is indeed,” Michael replied, though his frown deepened.
“You worry too much.” She wrapped her arm around his in a reassuring fashion, the sleeve of her French linen dress fluttering with the movement. “Our shop’s benefactress, Mademoiselle Valmont, told me she would make sure to save the best table in the house for us. She’s well acquainted with the purveyor, and said he owes her a favor.”
The corners of Michael’s eyes tightened. “I didn’t know you told Miss Valmont about our plans to come to dinner here.”
“It was at her suggestion that I come to Jacques’ tonight.”
“Of course it was,” Michael muttered under his breath.
Celine shot him a withering look just as a white-gloved gentleman in an ivory dinner jacket offered them a bow.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau?” he said, his brown eyes warm. “I’ve been directed to escort you to your table.” He led Celine and Michael toward the far-left corner of the expansive room. It was obvious to anyone in the establishment that this was a place of honor, situated for guests to see and be seen. In the table’s damasked center was a beautiful bouquet of hothouse roses, their petals like crimson velvet, their scent reminding Celine of a famous parfumerie on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. A crystal-and-brass chandelier glittered above them, its refracted light catching fire on the Wedgwood china and the solid silver utensils.
Delight rippled through Celine. She’d never experienced something so luxurious in all her life.
Nearby, another server removed a domed lid from a tray of steaming food. The smell wafting their way startled Celine, for it brought a flurry of thoughts into sharp focus. Of the same flowers with the same scintillating perfume. Of another table in a shadowy room. Of muted feminine laughter. Of sparkling champagne and roasted quail.
Of feeling safe and warm and loved.
Celine shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut as if to banish the false memory. She’d never eaten at Jacques’ before. Pippa had said so, and it made no sense for her friend to lie about this. Celine would not allow her mind to betray her tonight.
Another elegant server set two fluted glasses before Michael and Celine, pausing to pour each of them a measure of bubbling champagne. Then, with a flourish, he placed napkins of fine ivory linen across both their laps.
An awkward smile curved up one side of Michael’s face. He reached for his glass and held it aloft. “To all you have achieved. And to all you will achieve.”
Celine’s smile was bright and easy. Filled with unfettered gratitude. She liked Michael Grimaldi more than she could ever remember liking any other young man. He was kind and thoughtful. Conscientious and attentive. All the things a desirable gentleman should be.
So why was she still equivocating about her feelings?
She should fall in love with him. It would be easy to fall in love with him.
As Celine studied Michael from across the table, a searing intensity honed his features, sending a riot of emotions through her veins. She hadn’t meant to linger in her sentiments as she had. It would only serve to encourage him, and she wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment. Not yet.
Clearing her throat, Celine said, “Isn’t this lovely? I’ve never eaten at any establishment quite so extravagant.”
“Not even in Paris?”
She shook her head. “My father loves fine cuisine as much as I do, but we never could have afforded something like this. He’s always been a pragmatic man. A scholar of language and linguistics.” Celine grinned. “But that didn’t stop him from bringing me my favorite pastry every year for my birthday.”
A fond light entered Michael’s gaze. “It’s good to hear you speak of your father. You rarely say anything about your past.”
“I suppose”—Celine weighed her response before making it—“it’s because I did not leave Paris under the best of circumstances. I miss my father a great deal, and the thought of him brings me pain.” She said no more, hoping Michael would not press her for more information. Almost six months after the fact, it was likely her father had been apprised of what happened that fateful night in Paris this past winter. Which meant Guillaume Rousseau would think his only child a murderess.
Would he believe her story? Would any man?
It wasn’t a topic Celine wished to ponder at length. So instead she propped her elbows along the table’s edge and settled her chin atop her folded hands. “We will have to tell Luca to bring his new wife to Jacques’ once they return from Europe.”
Michael groaned. “Don’t remind me of that travesty. It still galls me how my heretofore-responsible cousin could do such a reckless thing.”
“He’s in love.” Celine smiled. “I don’t know why Nonna is in such a snit over it.”
“Luca knows how much Nonna wished to attend his wedding. In a proper church. With a proper priest.”
“But an elopement to London is so romantic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t favor the idea of elopement. It seems rather selfish. But . . . I suppose if it’s what my future wife wanted.” Michael settled his piercing eyes on hers. “I might entertain the notion.”
Celine drained her glass of champagne. They were both treading on dangerous ground. Was it too much for her to hope for one more night without the weight of the future pressing down on their shoulders? She would face the inevitable tomorrow, she swore she would. Michael had been patient with her. It was time she told him in no uncertain terms whether or not she returned his feelings.
“Have you ever indulged in rash behavior of any kind?” Celine asked.
Michael toyed with the scalloped handle of his butter knife. “When I was a boy. My childhood friend and I made quite a few errors in judgment. One afternoon we devised a rather ingenious way to snare bullfrogs in the swamp beyond the city, and I was caught in a mudslide.” He flinched at the memory. “It smelled like sulfur and wood rot. My friend ran to get Luca so they could pull me out. For a harrowing hour or so, I was certain the gators would pluck the skin off my bones.” He paused, his expression morose. “In fact, most of the worst things I did when I was boy were in the company of this particular friend, a selfish young man from a prominent family. I’m grateful we had a falling-out some years ago, before he went away to West Point. Perhaps I would not have set my sights on the police force if I hadn’t had the clarity of that distance.” His tone was clipped. Precise. A trait Celine had come to expect from the young detective.
“What was the reason you had a falling-out, if I may ask?” she pressed.
“There was a streak of wickedness in him I could no longer afford to ignore.”
“Not to mention the selfishness, a characteristic you despise.”
“I think there are times to be selfish and times to be selfless. It is the measure of a man which path he chooses in any given moment.”
“So wise, Detective Grimaldi.” Celine grinned. “But maybe there are times when you could be a little wicked, if you wanted?” She leaned forward as if she were chatting with a friend.
Which she was, wasn’t she? No matter what happened, they would remain friends.
It was a mistake for her to edge closer. For the briefest of instants, Michael’s gaze dipped to Celine’s chest. He flushed crimson when she pulled back, his embarrassment plain. “I suppose I could.” Michael glanced right, and his attention caught on a figure approaching from behind Celine. “That stout fellow striding our way is the police commissioner. He’ll want to speak with me.” He groaned.
“Of course he will,” Celine said, thankful for the distraction. “You’re the hero who caught the Crescent City killer.” Though she smiled as she spoke, a twinge of discomfort knifed through her stomach. She stood in a lithe motion, her tufted chair sliding across the wooden floor beside her satin slippers.
“I’ll beg him off.” Michael reached for her hand as he rose to his feet.
“Nonsense,” Celine said as she slipped from his grasp. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the edge of her linen napkin. “I’ll freshen up in the powder room and return in a few minutes.”
Michael straightened his navy waistcoat. “Celine, please—”
“Don’t worry yourself on my account.” Without a second glance, she wove back through the crowd, looking every which way for the entrance to the ladies’ powder room. To her left—in the opposite corner—was a winding staircase cordoned off by brass posts and a black velvet rope. A gentleman with skin the color of stained mahogany and a gold ring through his right ear watched her closely, his head tilted to one side, his eyes lost in thought.
Celine returned his measured stare, but he did not look away. Instead he lifted his chin as if in challenge. She drew closer, her curiosity spiking. In response, the gentleman inclined his head upward, his pristine satin lapels lustrous.
Her breath caught when something called to her from the darkness above. A dull roar above the cheerful din. That same feeling of being pushed back and pulled forward beckoned Celine ever closer. She ignored it. Moved away from the stairwell. Then a cool breeze floated by, caressing the bare skin of her throat and forearms.
She . . . recognized the scent it carried, though she did not know from where.
Celine took a tentative step toward the stairs. The stately gentleman standing before the simple barricade continued watching. A grin touched his lips when she reached for the velvet rope. Without a word, he unlatched it from its post and stepped aside, as if he knew exactly who she was. As if she belonged in this exact place at this exact moment.
Celine’s lips hung between silence and speech for the span of a breath. She considered asking him if he knew her. Or worse, if she should know him. But that same something hooked around her spine, summoning her toward the shadows above.