The Beautiful (ARC)
Page 8
“What . . . is that deliciousness?” she asked Celine.
Celine leaned closer to the table, peering around the hustle
and bustle of the busy restaurant.
The food smelled familiar—the same scents of butter and
wine, the same perfume of marjoram, thyme, and rosemary—
that Celine had grown up enjoying in Paris. But something else
filtered through the air. Spices she could not readily identify.
They plagued her. Tantalized her. Intoxicated her.
The newly uncovered plates of Limoges porcelain held fillets
of sole resting atop beds of fragrant rice, finished with a sauce similar to a beurre blanc, but with a twist of roasted tomatoes
and a hint of sweet herbs. To the right of the flaky fish sat a
tureen of pommes de terre soufflées. The delectably puffed po-
tatoes were served alongside an intricate pyramid of roasted
asparagus smothered in truffle port sauce, then garnished with
slender shavings of cured meat.
At the table nearest to them, an elegant woman dripping with
pearls drank from her glass of red wine before nibbling on a pil-
lowy gougères, the salty scent of Gruyère cheese mingling with
the rich fragrance of the Burgundy.
In that moment, Celine wanted nothing more than to slip
into this woman’s expensive shoes, just for a breath of time.
To sink her teeth into something decadent, heedless of all else
around her.
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“Oh!” Pippa said, startled by a sudden tongue of fire leaping from another table. A white-gloved maître d’hôtel swished the
burning contents of a small pan, a blue blaze dancing around
its edges. The concoction appeared to be a strange kind of
creamy fruit covered in mounds of brown sugar, then doused
with bourbon before being set aflame. A delectable perfume of
warm caramel curled into the air, countless pairs of eyes drift-
ing toward it.
This was beyond unfair.
Celine’s soul cried out in protest, her memories of the
flavorless stew she’d consumed earlier taunting her tongue.
What would happen to Celine if she ordered a meal right now
and could not pay for it? Would she be forced to wash dishes
all night? Perhaps put in a stockade and pelted with rotten veg-
etables, like in the time of Shakespeare?
Would it be worth it?
Resolve coursed through her. At some point, Celine would
partake in a meal at this restaurant. She might even entice
Pippa to join her. Maybe.
Pippa’s stomach grumbled, and a smile toyed at the edges of
Celine’s lips.
Just then, the imposing figure positioned near the kitchen’s
swinging door turned his attention toward them. He cut his
eyes, appraising them from afar. This man had to be the indi-
vidual with the sinful voice and the ring through his right ear
that Odette had mentioned at their first meeting earlier today.
Before Celine could move in his direction, the man shifted
from his post, striding toward the front of the restaurant, where
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Celine and Pippa stood. He moved with purpose, though his attention remained sharp, watching for signs of missteps among
his staff, ready to rebuke at any turn. As he wove through the
space, he pointed behind him, and another liveried gentleman
stepped seamlessly into position beside the swinging kitchen
door.
Celine admired his poise. The respect he commanded. Less
than ten years ago, men with his skin color were held as slaves
in the southern part of America, forced to work in endless fields beneath a blazing hot sun. Celine knew they still were not seen
as equals, much less granted prestigious positions in elegant
restaurants, directing white men in perfectly pressed jackets.
The sight of this man of color helming an establishment
like Jacques’ emboldened Celine in a way she could not quite
understand.
He stopped before them, standing directly in front of Celine.
Her eyes widened as he towered over her, his gaze a tinge un-
welcoming. “May I help you, mademoiselle?” he asked in a
lightly accented tone. “If you wish to reserve a table tonight, it is best for you to join the queue out front.” His voice reminded her of an approaching storm. A distant rumble, a swirl of clouds.
Though Celine should have felt unsettled by his cold de-
meanor, she found herself unaffected. Calm.
“Hello,” she began, her tone unwavering. “My name is Celine.”
He cast her an arched glance. And said nothing more.
“I was told to disregard the queue,” Celine continued, “and
ask to be taken to Odette.”
His gaze softened. “My apologies.” A fond light entered his
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eyes. “You should have begun with that, mademoiselle.” He snapped his fingers in the air, and all around them bodies
moved in concert, clearing a path.
“Je m’appelle Kassamir.” He introduced himself while adjust-
ing his golden cuff links, their shining surfaces embossed with
the same symbol of a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a lion. “I
am in charge of this restaurant. As friends of Mademoiselle
Valmont, you are most welcome at Jacques’, and please know
that all those in my employ are here to attend to your needs.”
He began leading them toward the curving staircase near
the back.
“C’est un plaisir de vous recontrer, Kassamir,” Celine replied
with a smile.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . . Kassamir,”
Pippa echoed, her voice resembling the squeak of a mouse.
A grin flickered across Kassamir’s face. “Please call me simply
Kassamir, mademoiselle. My surname is of little consequence,
as it is not one I care to use.”
Celine wanted to ask what Kassamir meant by saying that,
but stopped herself after an inadvertent glance over one shoul-
der. The sight of Pippa bravely marching forward despite her
earlier concerns sent a flurry of guilt across Celine’s skin. Once again, she’d placed Pippa in an uncomfortable situation. And a
friend in truth would check on her companion more often.
The trio ascended the curving staircase, trepidation rippling
through Celine, starting from her toes, rising up her spine. She
nearly stumbled as the steps grew narrower the closer they
climbed toward the top.
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Anticipation spiked around her heart when the fear reached her throat. It was a strange sensation, this mixture of emotions. For as long as Celine could remember, she’d relished this
particular thrill. The boys who lived on her street had called
her “une petite sotte” when she’d balanced along her balcony’s
ledge on a single foot. “You little fool,” they’d cried from far
below, safe and smug in their superiority. “Veux-tu mourir,
Marceline Rousseau?”
&nbs
p; They could not have been more wrong. Celine hadn’t wanted
to die then, just as she had no desire to die now. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She simply wanted to revel in the excitement that always accompanied danger.
That chance to feel truly alive.
But those little tyrants in their worn woolen caps weren’t
completely wrong when they called her a fool. Even then,
she’d known it was the height of foolishness to court danger
so openly. To crave it like a slice of warm chocolate cake. Were
the Mother Superior present now, Celine knew she would
urge them away from this place with all haste. Signs of peril
lurked everywhere, even in the sinister coil of the wrought-
iron railing.
The second floor came into view, and Celine glimpsed a mul-
titude of gas lamps turned down low, rendering the room be-
yond in muted tones. The air around them condensed. Turned
cooler, as if they’d passed from day to night in the span of a
single staircase.
They neared the top, Kassamir continuing to move at a lei-
surely pace. Here, the banisters were fashioned of gleaming
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brass, faceted on all sides with a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.
As if the symbol had intentionally followed Celine all day
long.
Or perhaps led her to this place, without words.
Something began coiling through her stomach. An unseen
force. It spread through her limbs like a slow shudder. Beside
her, Pippa gripped Celine’s arm, undoubtedly experiencing the
same unsettling sensation. That feeling of hovering above the
threshold between light and dark.
Kassamir turned toward them, his sharp gaze appearing as
though it could bore holes into her soul. “Bienvenue à La Cour
des Lions.”
Welcome to the Court of the Lions.
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Toussaint
i
The first thing Celine noticed was the sound.
Or rather the absence of it.
The moment her feet sank into the plush carpet at the top of
the stairs, the noise from below dropped to a hush. As if it were being muffled, like a heavy blanket had been drawn over the entire second floor, warding away the possibility of eavesdroppers.
But that was impossible. How could anyone manage such a
thing?
Celine let her vision slowly adjust to the darkness.
Dim lighting glowed around a large rectangular chamber
replete with gleaming wooden tables. Surrounding the tables
stood shadowy figures adorned in silks and sparkling gem-
stones, cut crystal glasses flashing with each of their move-
ments. A faint breeze tempered the air, fending off the rising
heat from below. The floors and paneled walls were stained
a dark mahogany, polished to resemble the surface of a black
mirror. Silk drapes of a costly indigo hue, trimmed with golden
tassels, framed every arched window. A long chaise sat empty
in the chamber’s center, like a throne meant for an empress or
a goddess of old.
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That same sense of a blurred reality—of a sight gone hazy along its edges—enveloped the space. Punctuating the din was
the occasional clatter of ivory dice across felted baize, the flutter of glossy cards being shuffled and sorted, the occasional
muted cheer.
“It’s . . . a gambling hell,” Pippa said, her tone a mixture of
unease and anticipation.
Celine tilted her head.
It was. And it wasn’t.
She couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was peering at a beau-
tiful mask. Some kind of artful illusion. That if she shook her
head just so, her vision would clear, leaving behind nothing but
truth. Was this place the “court” the two young women had
mentioned in Jackson Square that afternoon? Could its bejew-
eled patrons be responsible for such a sordid crime?
At first glance, it did not appear so.
But first impressions were known to be deceiving.
Whenever Celine had heard talk of gambling hells, they’d
been portrayed as dens of iniquity. Powerful men sloshed with
drink, wasting away fortunes on the single roll of a dice. Pow-
dered lightskirts plying their scented wares. Bared skin and
spilled liquor, lush velvet and cool ivory. Wealth at the height
of its debauchery.
The scene before Celine could not appear more civilized.
Everywhere she looked, dazzling women and elegant men of all
skin colors congregated as seeming equals.
As if this was not an unusual sight at all.
Just then, a cry of triumph rose into the darkness to their
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right, just beyond a game of faro. The sound drew Celine toward an oval table of lustrous burl wood, the sights around it
unspooling like bolts of fabric, captivating her with possibility.
Roulette. She’d heard of this game before, but never had occasion to play it.
“Celine?” From behind her, Pippa took hold of her hand
beseechingly.
Celine halted in her tracks and eyed her friend over her
shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Pippa asked quietly.
The question emboldened Celine. Granted her a sense of pur-
pose. Perhaps it was the golden glow of the gas lamps. Or the
heady scent of spices mixed with smoldering cigars. Whatever
it was, she did not want to hide among the wavering shadows.
She wanted to soar.
“I’m playing roulette,” Celine replied, her voice filled with
conviction.
Shock fluttered across Pippa’s features. “What?”
Celine was tired of doing nothing but watching. Tired of
wearing her own mask and being a mere observer to life. “You
wanted to know who I really am.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m a
girl who’d rather experience life than watch it pass by from my
window.”
Pippa exhaled slowly. Then nodded as she released Celine’s
hand.
Like a moth to a flickering flame, Celine glided toward the
amber light surrounding the roulette table. She hovered along
the edges, her skin tingling with awareness.
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A croupier swiped away a stack of tortoiseshell chips, presenting them to the recent winner. He waited for the players
to place their new bets, then held a small ivory ball aloft before spinning a wheel of numbers in one direction and dropping
the ball in the other. The tic, tic, tic of the roulette wheel grew louder and faster, until each sound blended into the next.
“Rouge seize!” the croupier called out when the ivory ball
landed in a red square labeled “16.”
Across the table, a trio of companions—two women with
dark skin and a man with a burnished complexion—grumbled
in French to each other before reaching to place another bet.
T
he rings gilding both women’s fingers were immense, jagged
pieces of raw stone set in pure gold.
Celine searched for a set of discarded dice. A way to join the
game, despite her lack of fortune. Her gaze caught on the faces
of the trio, and a strange realization gripped her stomach. They
were all extraordinarily attractive. Their skin seemed to glimmer beneath the warmth of the newfangled electrical lantern hanging overhead, the centers of their eyes filled with lambent light.
When they moved, the air around them shifted like smoke.
Celine blinked as if something had floated across her vision,
her lashes fluttering to clear her sight, her lips parting ever so slightly.
“Lovely,” a male voice murmured from her left, his thick drawl
catching her attention.
“Pardon?” Celine replied, turning his way.
“You could be my good luck charm, my beauty.” The young
man’s elbow brushed her arm as he leaned in closer, his clean-
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shaven features sly. He, too, was inexplicably handsome, his face like that of an angel, his expression decidedly at odds with the cherubic curls atop his brow. Again Celine was struck by
how clear his eyes were. How the blue ringing their dark cen-
ters seemed inordinately intense.
Inhuman.
The thought startled Celine. She banished it with a toss of her
head, restoring her senses so that she wouldn’t appear to be a
simpleton. “I’d rather be my own good luck charm, sir.” Squar-
ing her shoulders, she met his appreciative stare.
He rolled a set of dice between his fingers, his angelic curls
falling across his forehead. “I’d wager you’ve never played
roulette.”
“You’d be wagering incorrectly, then,” Celine lied. She held
out her hand for the dice. “I might be the best roulette player
you’ve ever met.”
He laughed. “I can taste your deceit, my lovely little liar,” he
whispered.
“What?” Celine dropped her hand, stepping back, dis-
oriented by his words.
“It’s sweet on my tongue.”
Again Celine took a small step back, almost colliding with
Pippa.
“Boone,” a feminine voice warned from the shadows. “Don’t
be a beast. You’ve been warned already.”
The young man put both hands in the air in a gesture of sur-
render and pulled away the following instant, but not before
offering Celine a wink.