The Beautiful (ARC)
Page 25
“Well, you watched me mock her. And you laughed, which is
just as awful.”
“It is not.” Pippa smothered a snicker.
Celine smiled to herself, her soul awash in warmth. At this
point, she’d truly lost count of how many times she’d offered
silent thanks for Pippa. Perhaps if she’d had a sister—as she’d
so often wished when she was younger—she could understand
better what it felt like to have an ally by her side through thick and thin. Someone with whom to brave the darkest of nights.
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A flash of movement caught Celine’s eye at the end of the arched corridor. Like a shadow stretching in a beam of sunlight.
She stopped short, her last footstep echoing in her ears.
The memory of that shapeless creature gnashing its teeth and
scuttling up the side of the building flickered through Celine’s
mind, causing her breath to lodge in her throat. Pippa’s skirts
swished across the stone floor a few steps ahead, the sound
reminiscent of the creature taking flight in a tangle of wind-
swept branches.
Celine’s skin bristled as if she’d wandered into a spiderweb.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight. She stared at
the opposite end of the hallway, half of her willing the shadows
to shift once again, the other half praying they did not.
A moment later, she decided her tired mind had played tricks
on her. With a firm set to her shoulders, she adjusted her grip
on her wicker basket and proceeded to follow Pippa.
Outside the door to her cell, Celine rested the basket of sew-
ing bric-a-brac on one hip, then braced herself to push open the
heavy wooden door. Just before she took hold of the handle, she
turned toward Pippa. “Do you have a free moment tomorrow
for me to measure a length of fabric on you?”
“Of course not.” Pippa grinned. “I abhor the idea of being
draped in shimmering silk. It’s as if you don’t know me at all.”
Celine snorted. “So then I’ll see you at noon?” She turned the
handle of her cell.
The door blew back all at once, drawn by an unexpected draft.
Pippa yelped as Celine’s basket of sewing instruments crashed
to the stone floor. Without pausing for breath, Celine yanked
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a set of shears from the pile beside her feet, brandishing the sharp point as if it were a blade.
The smell hit her first. A mixture of old pennies and the
stench of a butcher’s shop.
Of a place in which animals were slaughtered.
“Pippa,” Celine said, her voice even, despite the fear roiling
beneath her skin. “Go find the Mother Superior.”
“I’m not leaving you. What if—” Pippa’s words were swal-
lowed in a gasp. A large shadow flitted from the floor of the cell to the ceiling, moving too quickly to distinguish.
“Who’s there?” Celine demanded, her heart thundering in her
chest.
Behind her, Pippa struggled to light a long match, the box
falling beside her feet in a scatter of twigs.
“Go!” Celine demanded. But Pippa persisted, refusing to leave
her side.
The creature hovering on the ceiling chittered, its teeth grat-
ing together, causing Celine’s shoulders to pull back and a shud-
der to course down her spine. On the floor beneath her open
window, another creature moaned, the sound a feeble whistle.
As though it were caught in the throes of death.
It took an instant for Celine to understand. The demon in
the shadows had attacked something in her cell. She moved to
help the wounded soul beneath the window, but her toes slid
in something wet, her right foot skidding out from under her.
Gripping the wall to steady herself, Celine looked up as a dry
cackle emanated from above.
Terror racing through her veins, Celine fought to stand
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straight, her knees threatening to buckle out from under her.
Pippa screamed and backed away.
“Be gone from here!” Celine demanded into the blackness
looming above her, her fingers trembling around her shears.
The thing blurred from the ceiling to the floor like a tempest
across a field of wheat. Then it stood slowly, its long figure unfolding in a beam of waning moonlight. Before Celine could
blink, it rushed toward her, taking her by the wrist, slamming
her back against the rough plaster wall. It drew close, smelling
of blood and rain. The damp of the earth. It breathed deeply of
Celine’s neck, its teeth grazing the lobe of her left ear, leaving a trail of sticky wetness.
“Each time you evade me, I only want you more,” it gasped,
its voice like metal against stone. “You cannot escape. You are
mine.” Then it dragged its bloody fingers across her face, as if it were marking her.
A horrified scream caught in Celine’s throat. She kept rigid,
her eyes unblinking, struggling to detect anything of note. Any-
thing that might help identify the creature in the light of day.
But the room was too dark, the demon far too close. Pippa’s
footsteps pounded down the corridor, her screams jumbled
and nonsensical.
“Death leads to another garden. Welcome to the Battle of
Carthage,” the thing whispered in Celine’s ear, its words a crazed rasp, its accent refined. “To thine own self, be true.”
Celine stabbed it in its chest with her sewing shears. Roar-
ing, the demon shoved her to one side with inhuman strength,
an earsplitting cry rending through the darkness. Celine’s head
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struck the floor in a dull thud, her vision distorting from the blow. She fought to focus on the figure looming above her. All
she could distinguish was the silhouette of what appeared to be
a man, tall and well muscled, his chest heaving, the sleeves and
hem of his coat tattered.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Celine said in a hoarse tone.
The demon’s laughter was a wet gurgle. “You will be.”
Commotion rang through the hallways beyond Celine’s cell.
Doors banged open, and the cries of young women layered
through the thick darkness, their footsteps pattering across the
stone floors, their candles wavering over the walls.
Then the demon leapt out of Celine’s window with preter-
natural grace.
Her skull buzzing and her vision hazy, Celine reached for the
fallen box of matches. Labored to sit up and light one, her toes
slipping through the pool of sticky warmth collecting by her
feet. Her fingers shook as the match burst into flame, the pep-
pery scent of gunpowder suffusing the air.
Celine’s heart hammered in her temples, her limbs bereft of
warmth. The moment the match’s flame stretched tall to spread
its light, Pippa burst through the entrance of the cell, bran-
dishing a fireplace poker like a fencing épée. Her re
sounding
scream turned into many, mounting like ripples across a pond.
Horrified, sleep-laden faces craned for a glimpse beyond the
doorway, regretting their curiosity in the next instant.
For nothing could have prepared them for the sight that met
their eyes.
Strewn across the sill of Celine’s open window was a man’s
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mangled body. One of his legs was crooked at an unnatural
angle, an arm bent behind him, nearly torn from its socket. His
wispy beard trailed onto the stone floor. Red bubbles frothed
around his mouth as the blood from a gash in his neck trickled
downward, seeping between the cracks in eerie tributaries.
Above his body—painted onto the wooden shutter—was an-
other symbol, sketched in crimson:
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The Lonely Freedom
of a Misty Street
i
Numbness enveloped Celine, settling on her shoulders,
winding about her limbs. She welcomed it. Wished it
would swallow her whole.
A demon had touched her. Marked her.
Taken another life.
William, the kind gardener who resembled a wizard, had
been murdered tonight in Celine’s cell, on the cusp of the
witching hour. He’d perished much like Anabel, his throat
torn out in gruesome fashion, the blood spilling from his body
as fast as his heart could pump it. This time the killer had
been far less fastidious. Instead of draining William entirely
of blood, he had allowed it to spatter everywhere, as if there
had been a struggle. Or perhaps the demon had chosen to toy
with its prey.
Neither thought was reassuring.
Celine sat on the steps beyond the vestibule of the Ursuline
convent. A light rain dusted the air, sprinkling her skin, though she could not feel it, courtesy of the blessed numbness. Around
her, muted speech and rapid footfalls punctuated the night,
every so often laced with intermittent wails.
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Thankfully—following the initial onslaught of questions—no one thought to trouble Celine or draw anywhere near. It was as
if they’d come to the same realization she had. That she was a
curse. A blight upon all their lives.
It could not have been a coincidence that Anabel had been
killed after following Celine into a den of iniquity. Nor could
it be mere chance that William had met his gruesome end in
her cell. With the exception of the seemingly unrelated murder
along the docks, the killer looked to be targeting anyone tied
to Celine Rousseau, for reasons beyond all their ken. There ap-
peared to be no logic to any of it, save for the victims’ associations with her and with the Ursuline convent.
Was it possible the young woman along the docks was also
connected in some way?
At this point, no detail, however far-fetched, could be ignored.
Each time you evade me, I only want you more.
You cannot escape. You are mine .
Celine winced as she stared at the granite pavers beside her
feet, watching the rain glisten across their gritty surfaces. She stiffened when Pippa crouched next to her, then glanced at her
friend sidelong, meeting blue eyes wide with worry. Without a
word, Pippa handed her a clean linen handkerchief. Then waited
attentively while Celine wiped the blood from her face, the
dried bits flaking onto her damp dress, causing her stomach to
churn and acid to bubble in her throat.
“Is there anything I can do?” Pippa asked, her voice gentle.
You can leave me alone. Rage coursed through Celine at how little regard Pippa seemed to hold for her own self-preservation.
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By now, she should know better than to seek out the company of a blight like her.
By now, they should all have run for the hills.
“May I get you some tea?” Pippa asked.
Celine drew back and said nothing. She worried if she opened
her mouth, a torrent of foul words—the worst of her fears given
voice—would flow from her mouth. Things no one deserved to
hear, least of all Pippa.
Though Celine had not responded to Pippa’s query—or even
acknowledged her presence in any meaningful fashion—Pippa
kept close, hovering in a way that aggravated Celine further.
Why doesn’t she know to save herself? Does she have a death
wish? Celine’s thoughts turned vicious. Senseless in their rage.
A wall of black wool stepped before her, obscuring her vision.
As always, Celine smelled the Mother Superior before she took
in the elder woman’s face. That same scent of a wet hound in a
haystack. Pippa stood at once, Celine remaining on the stairs,
all sense of decorum scattered to the winds.
The wall of wool remained stalwart in its approach, watch-
ing and waiting. A dark streak of amusement sliced through
Celine. She longed for a return to the day she’d believed the
matron of the Ursuline convent to be her worst enemy. When
the most memorable of Celine’s afternoons had been spent try-
ing to imagine creative ways to thwart her.
For an instant, Celine pondered whether there was a single
point at which she could have foiled her fate. At what precise
moment had she wandered down the wrong path? Alas, there
was nothing she could do about that now. But perhaps there
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was a way to stop this fearful turn of events from happening again in the future.
The Mother Superior cleared her throat, wordlessly demand-
ing Celine’s attention, the wooden beads of her rosary dangling
from her waist. Celine studied the small cross swaying before
her. Observed the rain as it slid downward.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a
grim tone. “I wanted to—”
“Why did you send Anabel to spy on us?” Celine asked, her
voice hollow, her eyes leveled on the wall of black wool posi-
tioned before her.
A sharp intake of breath resounded from above. Celine looked
up. The Mother Superior’s features were tight. Weary. Her habit
had been tilted askew, rain trickling from its hem.
“You could have refused to let us go,” Celine continued. “You
didn’t need to use Anabel as a pawn in your scheme. You sent
her to her death.” Her accusation was low. Pitiless.
“Celine!” Pippa chastised softly.
In the deepest recesses of Celine’s mind, she knew how unfair
it was to accuse the Mother Superior of being responsible for
Anabel’s death. But her heart demanded answers. The wound
around it continued to grow with each passing moment, the
pain searing through her chest, burning into her lungs. She had
to put a stop to it. To all of it.
“Why?” Celine repeat
ed.
“I—” The Mother Superior hesitated, her expression oddly
uncertain. Then her frown turned severe, the lines around her
mouth deepening. Celine braced herself for a harsh rebuke.
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“I am human,” the Mother Superior said simply. “As such, I made a mistake.”
Celine shook her head. “That’s not an answer. Please”—she
stood at once, drops of rain cascading from the tip of her nose—
“help me understand. I need to understand why.”
The Mother Superior considered Celine, her eyes flitting to
and fro. “Because I saw in you the kind of reckless spirit that
craves danger, and I desired proof. A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden.”
The ache in Celine’s chest intensified. “So you sent a young
girl out by herself, simply to prove I was rotten to the core?
Why didn’t you just ask me? Je vous l’aurait dis, Mère Supéri-
eure!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides.
The Mother Superior took hold of Celine’s left wrist, gripping
it tightly, pulling her closer. For a breath of time, Celine thought the matron might strike her. But then the elder woman’s grey
brows gathered, her features pinching with sorrow. “You are in
pain right now, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” she said gently. “I, too, am in pain. I, too, long to point a finger of blame. But it serves no purpose now. I entreat you to sit with your pain. To let it
pass, not to lash out. It will do you no good.” She released her
grip on Celine’s wrist. “Trust in this important lesson I learned long ago: Rage is a moment. Regret is forever.”
Celine struggled to marshal her fury. She wasn’t ready to re-
linquish her rage and succumb to the sadness that was sure to
follow. If she did, it meant she accepted everything that had
happened tonight. She didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to
fight it. To shatter its truth into oblivion.
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But the Mother Superior was right. What good did it do to rail against an elderly woman? Anabel and William had not
died because of the Mother Superior.
They’d died because of her.
Celine blinked back the rain. Forced the tension in her shoul-
ders to abate. “Yes, Mère Supérieure.” She swallowed. Realized
she was shivering and that her temple throbbed. “I apologize