The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

for my behavior. It won’t happen again.”

  The Mother Superior nodded. “Are you in need of anything

  right now? Is there anything I might provide for you?”

  Celine shook her head.

  A sigh fell from the Mother Superior’s lips. “Should you

  change your mind at any time—now or in the future—do not

  hesitate to tell me. I am here to assist you in any way.” She

  paused to hold Celine’s gaze, her features somber. “The next

  few days will not be easy ones, my child.”

  Celine nodded, already knowing what the Mother Superior

  intended to say next.

  “Many of my fellow sisters have come to me in the last hour,”

  the Mother Superior continued in a hushed tone. “The consen-

  sus is that it might be time for us to find you alternate lodging.”

  Celine kept nodding.

  The Mother Superior reached out once more. This time she

  took hold of Celine’s hand, her touch gentle and warm, despite

  the coolness of the rain. “I’ve already begun making inquiries.

  We will not throw you out on the street, and it is not necessary

  for you to leave tonight. It is simply no longer safe for you to

  stay here.” She paused. “Please know this is not at all what we

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  want to do. But I agree it is the best course of action. For the sake of all who remain within these walls.”

  “A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden,”

  Celine said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.

  With another sigh, the Mother Superior nodded. Squeezed

  Celine’s hand. And let go.

  Straightening her spine, Celine met the matron’s wrinkled

  gaze. “Thank you for giving me a chance to begin my life in a

  new world, Mère Supérieure. I . . . don’t know what would have

  happened to me without it.”

  “Of course, my dear. May God go with you. May you live a

  life of bounty and purpose.” Then—after the slightest hesita-

  tion—the Mother Superior turned toward the convent, her

  cross swaying with her steps, the scent of lanolin and medicinal

  ointment trailing in her wake.

  Celine stood in the rain for a time, Pippa waiting nearby, qui-

  etly wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand. It

  was an exercise in futility, for the rain soon began to fall in earnest, its fat droplets plinking onto the iron railing and splashing onto their skin.

  Pippa removed the shawl from her own shoulders, draping it

  over Celine’s. “You’re shaking.”

  “Am I?” The throbbing in Celine’s head was worsening. She

  touched her temple and found a tender spot from where she’d

  struck the floor in her struggle with the killer.

  “Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries with some of the other women

  in my ladies’ organization,” Pippa continued. “Perhaps Phoebus’

  mother will know of a place you can go.”

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  “Thank you,” Celine mumbled, “but the boat to Tartarus is full.” She spoke the last under her breath. I am a Titan, after all, she sneered to herself.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you, dear.” Infinite patience rounded out Pippa’s response.

  “I said thank you, but I will make the inquiries myself.” Celine

  refrained from gritting her teeth, aware of how wrong it was to

  turn her frustrations on her closest friend.

  Pippa’s brows tufted together, betraying her own mounting ir-

  ritation. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Celine. It’s not your fault that a madman has unleashed himself on those near

  you. Nor is it your fault you’ve been asked to quit the convent.”

  “Even if the Mother Superior had not asked me to go, I would

  have left of my own will. It isn’t safe for me to stay. It would be better . . . if I never showed my face here again.”

  “I see.” Pippa blinked through the rain, her eyes shimmering

  suspiciously. Then she wiped her chin on her sleeve. Renewed

  her convictions with a bright smile. “Well, perhaps we can let

  a room together. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I’ve always liked

  Marigny.”

  Her words iced the blood in Celine’s body. Made her want to

  flee as fast as she could. She could not have Pippa anywhere near her. Of all people, Pippa should be as far from Celine as possible.

  Being near Celine Rousseau had become a kiss of death.

  And she did not know what she would do if something hap-

  pened to Pippa because of her.

  To their right, the doors to the convent scraped open with

  yawning slowness. Two sullen officers shifted into view, bearing

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  between them a bundle wrapped in linen sheets. Already the center of the sheets was stained red, the rain causing the blot

  to spread, its edges lightening to a pale pink. Celine watched in silence as they moved toward an open wagon waiting along the

  lane to bear the body to the station.

  William’s arms hung lifeless on either side of him, one of his

  hands still twisted in an unnatural position. They flopped like

  dead fish as the two officers lifted his battered body into the

  back of the wagon. Tears began to well in Celine’s eyes.

  Just a few days ago, William had offered Arjun a cutting

  from the convent’s garden, to help remind Arjun of home. He’d

  shown him a kindness, expecting nothing in return.

  Now he was dead, the last remembrance in his life the face of

  his killer.

  The tears spilled over, flowing down Celine’s cheeks in steady

  streams.

  Not once had she cried in earnest since that night in the ate-

  lier. Her mind had forbidden her the reprieve. She hadn’t cried

  when she’d realized her life in France was over. The first night

  aboard the Aramis, she’d listened to the soft sniffles of countless other young women. Still she’d failed to shed a single tear.

  She hadn’t cried even when Anabel had been slain.

  Why did the sight of William’s broken body move her to

  tears? Perhaps the dam inside her had finally burst. Or perhaps

  this was one crack too many in her façade.

  To thine own self, be true. The killer had quoted Shakespeare, as if he could see into Celine’s soul.

  Guilt seeped into her bones, burning like acid as it traveled

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  down the length of her body. Bile choked in her throat. Celine was the reason this kind man and a lovely young woman had

  died.

  She would not be the reason anyone else died. Ever again.

  Without thought or consideration—her tears trailing down

  her cheeks, joining hands with the rain—Celine began to walk.

  “Celine?” Pippa called out from behind her.

  Celine ignored her and quickened her pace. Turned into the

  lemon grove, deliberately winding through the trees, pausing

  for a time in an effort to shake Pippa from her trail. Beneath

  a dripping branch, Celine took a deep breath, filling her head

  with the sweet scent of citrus as it mingled with the metal
and

  moss of an early spring shower. Entreated her spirit to grant her the fortitude necessary to do what must be done.

  The street lay empty through the iron gate, a few short steps

  and a world away.

  In a moment, she would disappear and never turn back. It

  didn’t matter where she went. It only mattered that she vanish

  without a trace. That no one else perish because of her.

  “Celine!” She heard Pippa shout from the opposite side of the

  lemon grove.

  Now was her best chance. Celine darted from the shade of

  the tree, making her way toward the gate and the lonely free-

  dom of a misty street.

  A tall man stepped into her path, his tweed cap pulled low on

  his brow. “Celine,” he said calmly, his eyes like chips of ice.

  Celine stumbled midstep, her composure on the cusp of

  splintering. “Yes, Detective Grimaldi?”

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  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve been asked to leave the convent.” She attempted to skirt

  him, but he shifted once more, blocking her from reaching

  the gate.

  Anger lined Michael’s features. “You’ve been asked to

  leave . . . tonight?” His words sounded muffled to her. As if he

  were speaking into a void or at the end of a long tunnel.

  Desperation clutched around her heart. “Let me go, Michael.

  Please.”

  “Now is not the time for anyone to be walking the streets

  alone, least of all you.”

  It was a cool declaration. But it seared through Celine like a

  brand, reminding her of the many deaths on her conscience.

  One by her own hand. “Get out of my way,” she said, her voice

  dangerously close to breaking.

  “No.”

  Celine shoved Michael with all her might. She didn’t stop to

  watch him fall. She simply raced toward the gate, her feet flying above the pavestones, her heart pounding at a frantic pace. The

  memory of what Bastien had said to her the night they first met

  echoed through her ears. He’d likened her to a lunar goddess

  who dragged darkness with her wherever she went.

  She would bring no more darkness here. She’d run away once

  to begin a new life. She could do it again, without a single glance over her shoulder.

  A firm hand yanked Celine off course, gripping her forearm

  tightly. Then it pulled her into a solid chest, clasping both her wrists behind her, forcing the air from her lungs. Michael tow-

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  ered over her, caging her with his arms, effectively rendering her immobile. He was stronger than he appeared at first glance,

  his body shifting beneath his wet garments like sinew.

  “You little fool,” he snarled under his breath, fury sharpening

  his features. “You think you’re going to run away and every-

  thing will be as it once was?”

  Celine glared up at him, drops of rain catching on her eye-

  lashes. “Go to Hell.”

  “Will you make sense in Hell? If so, then lead the way.”

  “Sense?” she cried. “Tonight I was attacked by a creature that

  could fly. It taunted me. Said I belonged to it. Told me death

  was a garden and likened its work to the Battle of Carthage.

  Two nights ago, I was stalked by something that crawled up a

  wall and vanished in the wind without a trace.” Celine laughed, the sound bordering on crazed. “It knew my name. Tell me,

  Michael Grimaldi, does any of this make sense?”

  Michael’s nostrils flared. He released her wrists, a veil of le-

  thal calm descending over his face. “Why am I only now hear-

  ing of the incident from two nights ago?”

  “Am I to report to you at every turn?” Celine laughed again.

  Pushed him away, her hands thrown in the air. “Besides, I sound

  like a lunatic. Like someone who lived in the dungeons of the

  Bastille for an age, deprived of sunlight and air and all that is necessary to survive.” Her chest heaved as she took in a ragged

  breath.

  His expression unreadable, Michael stared down at her, his

  pale gaze steady. “What happened when the creature stalked

  you two days ago? How did you manage to escape?”

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  “Bastien.”

  “Bastien?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping in his

  neck. “Why was Bastien there?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue. Perhaps you should stop behaving

  like a belligerent child and ask him. It’s possible he has a death wish, too.”

  Michael opened his mouth to retort, but the clatter of an ar-

  riving carriage stole his attention, sparing Celine from having

  to partake further in the conversation.

  A glossy black brougham halted just outside the iron gates

  of the convent. Emblazoned on its door was the symbol of a

  fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion. For a stutter of time, Celine allowed herself to hope a broad-shouldered young man

  would alight from its confines, his eyes like honed daggers

  and his jaw like hewn stone. Dared to dream he would gift her

  this enchanted carriage, capable of taking her to the ends of

  the earth. Tell her to go anyplace she wished. Swore to follow

  wherever she went, even to Hell itself.

  Ridiculous. A man should not have to grant her this kind of freedom. Celine should be able to take it herself. But she’d

  already tried to take it. Tried and failed numerous times, the

  world reminding her at all turns that her own liberty wasn’t

  hers to give, much less take. A woman absent money or pros-

  pects had no place in proper society. In such a society, a wife

  and daughter were legal possessions. Commodities used to

  curry wealth and favor.

  Perhaps it was time for Celine to reject proper society.

  As if to underscore the notion, the door to the brougham

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  swung open and Odette bounded down its steps, dressed in trousers and polished Hessians, a military-style jacket draped

  across her shoulders. She raced toward Celine’s side, brushing

  past Michael with a look that would scald the sun.

  “Mon amie,” Odette said, her expression grave, her eyes red-

  dened around the rims.

  Celine steeled herself, her shoulders all but quaking with

  gratitude. The fairy tales of her childhood had been filled with

  lies. No man had come to her rescue tonight, as they always did

  in the stories.

  But her friends had. First Pippa with her épée. Then Odette

  with her carriage.

  And just a moment ago, Celine had almost turned her back

  on them forever.

  Before Celine could say anything, Michael glared down at

  Odette, his colorless eyes seeming as if they could pierce her

  through her heart. “Miss Valmont,” he said curtly. “Word cer-

  tainly does travel fast . . . rousing even the most ardent of

  sleepers.”

  “None of your nonsense tonight.” Odette glowered back at

 
him, stone-faced. “My patience for mediocre young men has

  fallen dangerously low.” She looked to Celine, her features soft-

  ening. “I came as soon as I heard.” Her gloved hands wrapped

  around Celine’s fingers. “What is it you wish to do? I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “An unnecessary offer. I will

  arrange a place for Celine at police headquarters. It’s well

  insulated from potential intruders, and officers will be stationed

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  nearby at all times.” He stood tall, water dribbling from the brim of his tweed cap. “I myself will patrol the streets around

  it twice a night, so there is no need for this dramatic display of concern. Return to your gilded abode, Miss Valmont. Leave the

  real work to those accustomed to doing it.”

  Odette sniffed, the sound filled with derision. “Don’t be proud

  of that rejoinder, you sanctimonious prick. It’s work enough hav-

  ing to look upon you with a straight face.” Her sable eyes tapered to slits. “And perhaps we should let Celine make her own decisions, rather than informing her of yours, as you seem so keen to do.” She turned to Celine. “Mon amie, we can go wherever you

  like. Charleston or Atlanta. New York, if you prefer. Perhaps even San Francisco. And if you wish to stay in New Orleans, I can have a suite ready for you at the Dumaine within the hour.”

  Celine nodded, her thoughts racing in a whirl. She could go

  wherever she chose. Flee this place and all its mounting terrors.

  Her eyes closed as she allowed herself to dream of a new life. A

  slate wiped clean once more.

  Footsteps splashed through a nearby puddle, drawing to a

  sudden halt, the sound of frightened gasps punching through

  the darkness. Celine opened her eyes, locking on a single image.

  Pippa, the color drained from her skin, her lips trembling, her

  features awash in unmistakable relief. Her hem was six inches

  deep in mud, and a branch had scratched the side of her left

  cheek, tiny trickles of blood sliding toward her chin.

  This entire time, Pippa had been searching for Celine, her

  concern for her friend causing her to be heedless of all else,

  even her own well-being.

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  If Celine ran away now, the killer might never be caught. He would likely continue wreaking havoc on the world she’d left