by Renee Ahdieh
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 inten-
tion 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.
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“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 an-
other 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 undis-
guised 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 an-
nounced, as if he had something to prove.
Shocked to her core by this open admission, Celine nearly
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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 annoy-
ing 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. Ar-
jun had witnessed her chumming with Bastien’s enemy. She’d
bet anything the wily lawyer would be sure to add that particu-
lar 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 in-
formed him of today’s developments. It served them right.
The next time, they would know better than to use Celine
Rousseau as a pawn.
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A Murderess at Sunday Mass
i
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 multiple
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
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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 che-
mise 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.
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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 petti-
coat 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 fasten-
ing all the tiny buttons up the front.
&n
bsp; 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 fash-
ionable. 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.
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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.
j
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 contriv-
ances of silk and lacquered wood. Faded whispers carried into
the frescoed ceiling above. Heads began to droop even before
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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 ac-
quainted with every aspect of Mass. He recited things in un-
flinching Latin. Knew when to sit and stand and kneel. Bowed
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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 aris-
ing 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 gen-
erosity,” 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
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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.
j
“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 tho
ught to wrap myself in them.”
“Bien sûr,” Odette murmured with a knowing smile. “Come
sit with me.” She patted the bloodred leather beside her.
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“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 masquer-
ade 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 misgiv-
ings. The monsignor spoke to her before Mass.”
“Of course he did,” Celine murmured, disbelief flaring through
her.
The devil at work once more, no doubt.
Then—as if he’d been summoned by her thoughts—footsteps
pounded down the hewn stairs behind her, moving rhythmi-
cally. Efficiently. Celine turned in place just as Bastien brushed past her in a suit of dove-grey linen, his Panama hat tilted atop his brow, the scent of bergamot and leather unfurling in his
wake.
He did not pause to acknowledge her, so Celine returned the
gesture.
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“The carriage will come to collect you this evening at seven o’clock,” Odette said as Bastien settled into the phaeton in a
single fluid motion. “And don’t trouble yourself with respect to
your appearance. What you’re wearing now is lovely.” Without
warning, she struck Bastien’s arm with the carved handle of her
parasol. “Don’t you think Celine looks lovely?”
Bastien pursed his lips and glanced Celine’s way. “C’est
une belle couleur.” He took hold of the reins, his expression
dispassionate.
Odette cut her eyes in his direction, then smiled at Celine. “It
is indeed a beautiful color. But I wasn’t talking about—”