The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  light,” Bastien said softly.

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  Heat pooled in Celine’s stomach, licking through her chest, rising into her throat. “Someone should.” She swallowed.

  “But . . . I don’t think it should be you.”

  “I agree.” Again, Bastien did not hesitate.

  “Don’t fall in love with me,” she warned again, her words

  breathless. “You’re not good for me. And I’m not good for you.”

  “I agree, on all counts.”

  “Most likely, you require a young woman with wealth and

  pedigree. An established place in society,” Celine continued.

  “And I require a proper young gentleman.”

  The angles in Bastien’s face sharpened, betraying a spark of

  emotion too slight to discern. “Correct on all counts,” he said.

  “You lack the right pedigree.” A half smile curved up his face.

  “And I am not a gentleman.”

  “Nevertheless, I appreciate what you did for me tonight, more

  than words. And in the future”—Celine inhaled—“I would not

  be offended if you chose to maintain your distance.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. If you agree, I believe we’re safe being passing acquaintances.” Bastien paused as if he intended

  to say something more. Then kept silent, his lips curling upward.

  But . . . who wants to be safe? Celine banished the reckless thought from her mind and held out her hand. “Thank you

  again. I will not forget your kindness.”

  “You’re welcome, mon coeur.” Instead of bending to kiss her

  hand, Bastien shook it, as he would an equal, his signet ring

  winking back at the stars.

  A wave of satisfaction rippled through Celine. “Do passing

  acquaintances use such terms of endearment?”

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  “They do in my world.”

  She smiled through a flicker of sadness. “Your world is beau-

  tiful, Bastien. I wish I could stay.”

  “As do I.”

  With that, Celine slid her hand from his, the tips of her fin-

  gers lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then she turned

  toward the convent, surprised to realize it was possible to feel

  both gladdened and gutted in the same instant.

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  The Witching Hour

  i

  From the corner of her eye, Celine watched their last candle

  begin to flicker and wane.

  Not yet, she silently implored. Please not yet.

  Her tongue slipped between her teeth as she hastened her

  efforts, basting the pieces of lustrous fabric together in a race against the sputtering light. Just as she was about to reach the

  end of the seam, the door to Pippa’s cell creaked open. A faint

  breeze blew through the space, snuffing out the flame before

  Celine could blink, swallowing her in sudden darkness.

  “Oh,” Pippa said, her petite figure silhouetted by a beam of

  moonlight. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” With her foot, she

  propped the door halfway open. “But I come bearing gifts.” She

  sidestepped into the room. Between her hands rested a simple

  wooden tray laden with what appeared to be food and the stub

  of a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder.

  It took a moment for Celine’s eyes to adjust to the blue darkness.

  “Apologies are unnecessary, especially if you brought cheese.”

  “And ham and Dijon mustard, as well as tea, a crust of warm

  bread . . . and a piece of fresh honeycomb I filched earlier from a hive of glorious bees!” Pippa said triumphantly.

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  Celine could almost hear Pippa smiling. It was in these moments that she appreciated her the most. Philippa Montrose was sunlight and goodness. A honeycomb in her own

  right. Perhaps it sounded silly, but having a friend like Pippa

  helped Celine believe she was welcome in the eyes of decent

  society, despite everything that had happened in the last few

  weeks.

  Grinning, Celine pinned her needle to the shimmering white

  fabric and shifted back from her makeshift workstation to

  stretch her arms above her head. Briefly she considered wait-

  ing to eat. It would be wise to take advantage of the tiny candle Pippa had finagled to finish the last bit of basting before retiring for the night. After all, a single week remained before the

  masquerade ball. Celine had never completed a gown in such a

  short amount of time, much less without assistance.

  But she was famished. She’d already forgone dinner because

  she’d been so consumed with her work. When Pippa had sug-

  gested they pool their meager rations of light to make them

  last longer, Celine was beyond appreciative of the gesture. Ever

  since arriving to the convent less than three weeks ago, she’d

  lamented its dearth of oil lanterns.

  Once the sun had set, Celine had moved her things to Pippa’s

  slightly larger cell, where Pippa had chosen to work on her

  watercolors while Celine stitched by the light of their shared

  candle flames.

  Now Pippa bustled about the space, humming a familiar melody

  as she lit the short taper and positioned a stool in the center of the room, placing the tray on the seat to form a makeshift table.

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  On the opposite side of the cell, Celine stepped back to sur-vey her work.

  It pleased her how much she’d managed to complete in only

  two days. As soon as dawn had broken the past morning,

  she’d consulted with a carpenter on Rue Bienville, who’d been

  recommended to her by the Mother Superior. After Celine

  explained how the baroque-style panniers should look—

  extending sideways at each hip in an exaggerated fashion, the

  front and back silhouettes held close to the body—he suggested

  they use willow branches, as they would be light, pliable, and

  readily available. Perfect for constructing hoops that had been

  out of fashion for nearly a century. To Celine’s immense plea-

  sure, he’d assured her he would have a sample for her to test in

  three days’ time.

  Celine had proceeded to pour herself into fashioning Odette’s

  gown with a single-minded focus. It had helped distract her

  from the many unanswered questions spinning through her

  mind.

  The first time Celine had visited Jacques’, she’d come to the

  conclusion that the members of La Cour des Lions were not or-

  dinary humans. Of course that knowledge raised the question:

  if they weren’t exactly human, then what were they?

  Celine didn’t have the slightest clue. Were they goblins or

  changelings? Witches or warlocks? Perhaps some kind of dark

  fairy or ephemeral sylph? These were among the more fanci-

  ful possibilities. The kind Celine borrowed from books or stole

  from stories she’d heard as a child. It felt safer to believe they were tricksters like Puck or fey gentry from a shimmering

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  forest, like Oberon and Titania. Safer to think that than believe they might be creatures so terrible, the worst of Celine’s nightmares could never have conceived of them.

  After all, if magic was possible, anything was possible.

  The thought that alarmed her most was the likelihood that

  La Cour des Lions had something to do with Anabel’s murder.

  That Bastien intended to protect the culprit when he concealed

  the yellow ribbon.

  Or that he was in fact the culprit.

  Perhaps Celine lacked the stomach for the truth. Perhaps she

  wished to remain blissfully ignorant, a worry that disconcerted

  her all the more.

  Her mind a tangle of thorns, Celine ran her fingers over the

  pieces of cut fabric she’d stacked in a neat pile atop Pippa’s rope bed. What had begun this morning as nothing more than a list

  of measurements and bits of scattered muslin had transformed

  into the beginnings of a grand ball gown.

  Celine let her mind be consumed by the challenge. Welcomed

  the diversion.

  The next part of the project could prove to be the most diffi-

  cult task she’d ever undertaken. A portion of Odette’s masquer-

  ade ball costume was intended to be a surprise. Thusly Celine

  could not rely on her help to complete it. She would have to

  recruit assistance from elsewhere. Perhaps Pippa would be a

  good option. Her frame was similar in size and shape to that of

  Odette, despite their disparity in height.

  “Have you finished for the evening?” Pippa asked while clear-

  ing away the last of her watercolor accoutrements.

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  Celine stretched again, a yawn tugging at her mouth. “More or less.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone labor for such a long period of time

  without stopping. As if you would happily work well into the

  witching hour had you not been interrupted.”

  “It’s true I’m enjoying myself.” Celine sent her a tired smile.

  “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the chance to create something so grand. The masquerade ball is barely a week away. Usu-

  ally I have months to make a dress this intricate. It’s fortunate Odette had in her possession a great deal of lace and beadwork

  for me to use.” She knelt before the makeshift table and poured

  a cup of tea for Pippa. “I didn’t see you earlier this afternoon.

  Did you go to the market with Antonia or to the milliner with

  Catherine?”

  Pippa shook her head. “I met Phoebus Devereux’s mother for

  tea.” She stirred a drop of cream into her tea, the pale color

  swirling about the cup.

  “I almost forgot about that,” Celine said, as she daubed coarse

  grain mustard on a piece of bread, then layered slices of Gru-

  yère and salted ham on top. “How was it?”

  Pippa pursed her rosebud lips to one side. “Odd. She said her

  son has been a bit ill these last two days. The doctors are struggling to determine what might be ailing him. Thankfully he’s on

  the mend. She wants me to meet with him soon. Phoebus will

  issue an invitation when he is well again.”

  “If all goes according to his mother’s plan, how do you feel

  about being courted by him?” Celine bit into the bread, savor-

  ing the sharpness of the mustard and the salt of the cheese.

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  Pippa broke off a piece of honeycomb, letting the golden honey dribble into her tea while she considered how to respond.

  “In all honesty, I’m more concerned about what will happen to

  me if I fail to find a match. When I can no longer reside in a

  convent without being a nun.” She licked the honey from her

  fingertips, her expression morose.

  Her friend’s bleak honesty angered Celine. “And if you didn’t

  have to worry about such things? Would marrying a boy like

  Phoebus suit your sensibilities?”

  “I suppose so. It would be nice to have something of my own.

  A space to draw. Paint. Play music. Be myself. The Devereux

  family appears to be of comfortable means.” Pippa paused. “I

  would be well cared for if I married Phoebus, should he choose

  to ask.” Resignation tugged at the edges of her lips.

  Celine sipped her tea, wishing she could speak plainly about

  how much this situation troubled her. That a girl as wonderful

  as Pippa would have to forgo her desires in order to have com-

  fort and protection. “I suppose this all sounds reasonable and

  prudent.” And disheartening, she added to herself.

  “I know this frustrates you.” Pippa paused again in consid-

  eration. “I’m just—I don’t have the temperament to wait and

  hope for something better. I worry all the time what will hap-

  pen to me. Even reasonable goals can be unattainable when

  you’re a young woman without prospects,” she said simply, the

  light dulling in her eyes. “I learned this back home in Yorkshire, when it became clear that no amount of effort on my part or the

  part of my mother could atone for my father’s failings.”

  Atonement. A concept that also haunted Celine of late. “Do

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  you think it’s possible your father could ever atone for his sins?”

  “To me or to God?”

  “To you.”

  Pippa didn’t reply, a frown settling into the lines of her face, as if the thought troubled her.

  Celine took in a careful breath. “I suppose I’m asking if it’s

  possible for anyone to truly atone for their sins. To ask for forgiveness and truly be forgiven.”

  For a beat, Pippa lingered in contemplation. “For quite some

  time now, I’ve thought sin isn’t as black and white as they’d like us to believe,” she replied in a pensive tone. “I suppose there are times in which sin lies in the eyes of the beholder.”

  “When we first met, I would not have thought you capable of

  saying such a thing.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult?” Pippa grinned good-

  naturedly.

  “It’s a compliment. I’m thankful you feel comfortable shar-

  ing such thoughts with me.” Celine chewed at the inside of her

  cheek. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps what one might consider

  a sin, another might consider . . . survival.”

  “Like when Jean Valjean stole a loaf of bread to feed his family

  in Les Misérables.” Pippa nodded in agreement, then prepared a ham-and-cheese tartine for herself. An easy silence settled

  between them as they finished their midnight meal.

  Just as Celine swallowed the dregs of her lukewarm tea, Pippa

  angled her head to one side. “Celine . . . there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for quite some time. I might muck

  it up, but I hope you’ll bear with me while I try.”

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  Celine’s stomach tightened with dread. “Of course.” She forced herself to smile.

  “I think all of us who came to the convent are here because we<
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  didn’t have a better choice,” Pippa began. “It’s possible some of us are trying to . . . escape something from our pasts.” She wavered for an instant. “But I believe you’re a wonderful person,

  with a good heart and a warm soul. Whatever you may have

  done in your past life, I think that—no, I know that—God can forgive you.”

  A knot formed in the base of Celine’s throat. “Pippa, I—”

  “Wait, wait, there’s more.” Pippa took in a deep, steadying

  breath. “If God forgives you, so can I.” Determination etched

  across her brow. “So should we all.” She swallowed, her lips gathering sheepishly. “I made a hash of that, didn’t I? It sounded much better in my head. Ever so much more poignant and meaningful.”

  Celine’s mouth had gone dry. “You didn’t make a hash of it.

  I . . .”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should

  know.” With a tender smile, Pippa placed the last of the honey-

  comb on the edge of Celine’s tea saucer.

  For a time, Celine’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She

  blinked them back and averted her gaze, fighting to collect her-

  self. “Thank you,” she said in a thick voice. Then she brought the piece of sun-drenched honeycomb to her lips.

  Pippa couldn’t know what she’d done for Celine. What Pippa’s

  halting statement had meant to her.

  It suddenly struck Celine how the simplest words often car-

  ried the most weight.

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  Yes and no. Love and hate. Give and take.

  For the first time since she’d killed a man and fled France, she

  felt understood. Seen.

  Safe.

  j

  “Ooofff,” Pippa gasped as she tripped over an uneven stone in

  the darkened corridors of the Ursuline convent. The basket of

  basted fabric in her hands almost spilled across the floor, but

  she managed to hold fast to it.

  “Are you all right?” Celine asked in a loud whisper, a few steps

  behind her.

  Pippa’s laughter was soft. Rueful. “My hands are slippery

  from the water and the soap. Perhaps we should have gone to

  wash for the night after returning your things to your cell.” She righted herself, her motions awkward as a result of her burden.

  “Or perhaps we should have saved the last taper for some-

  thing besides mocking Catherine.”

  “I didn’t mock her!”