The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  Madame du Barry—would be tonight when she saw Odette at

  the ball.

  Celine hoped her friend would delight in her surprise as

  much as she had delighted in creating it.

  From dawn until dusk, Celine had poured her efforts into the

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  black taffeta confection she wore now. It had begun as a gown of mourning, the kind readily available in any dress shop. She’d

  taken it apart and pieced it back together in a nod to the ba-

  roque silhouette. Within the gown’s skirts, she’d incorporated

  the first set of wide pannier hoops the carpenter on Rue Bien-

  ville had fashioned.

  The overall effect wasn’t perfect. Perhaps if she’d had more

  time, Celine would have added more flounces. She might have

  trimmed the black lace dripping from her pagoda sleeves into

  something more dramatic. But even in its imperfection, it was

  her, for better or for worse. Reckless, incomplete, and inappropriate.

  But here all the same.

  Celine rested her right foot on the bottom step, taking a mo-

  ment to steel her spine.

  Bastien’s uncle would undoubtedly be present tonight, as

  would several members of La Cour des Lions. Still, Celine

  was uncertain if Bastien would be in attendance, so soon after

  Nigel’s death. The masquerade ball at the Orléans Ballroom was

  to be the soirée of the carnival season. His absence would be

  noted among those in society. Would this be enough to ensure

  his presence?

  Celine hoped it would.

  All the best and brightest of the Crescent City were sure to

  make an appearance. This year’s theme had been announced

  at the culmination of last year’s event. Twelve long months of

  anticipation for a tribute to the dazzling courts of Louis XV and his son Louis-Auguste, in that glimmer of time just before the

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  French Revolution. Every invited guest had been instructed to garb themselves in white, from head to toe.

  And here Celine stood in nothing but black, from the domino

  on her face to the tips of her dyed slippers . . . save for the silver dagger concealed beneath her skirts, of course. This should

  have frightened her. In Paris, it would have been shocking to

  contemplate such a thing. But Celine was not in Paris anymore.

  Nor was she the same girl who’d fled the atelier that terrible

  night, her hands bloodied, her features frantic. That girl was a

  creature of distant memory. One unsure of her place, her toes

  lingering on a step leading into the unknown.

  Celine mounted the stairs. Tonight she wasn’t a girl afraid to

  face her choices. She was a goddess, baiting a trap to catch a

  killer.

  Her shoulders back, Celine glided beneath the arched door-

  way. Just beyond the entrance awaited two liveried gentlemen

  wearing powdered wigs and buckled shoes, their white stock-

  ings gartered at the knee, just beneath their tight breeches.

  “Password,” the one to the left said, his eyes glazed with

  boredom.

  Celine did not waver. “Capetian.”

  While the other guard opened the heavy doors, the man

  to the left sent Celine a quizzical look. As if he wished to say

  something and lacked the right words.

  She smiled to herself. That was the truth about proper soci-

  ety. They made all these rules, never planning to apply any con-

  sequences to themselves. Never expecting any of their ranks to

  stray from the established course.

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  With an imperious tilt to her chin, Celine turned sideways to accommodate her wide-set hoops, then breezed through

  the doorway into what could possibly be her last night on this

  earth. It had been her first thought when she’d decided to re-

  make a dress intended for mourning. If this was to be her last

  evening among the living, she wanted it to be the most glorious

  night in memory.

  She would live one night as Selene, a Titan who dragged dark-

  ness with her wherever she went.

  The jet beads along her bodice shimmered as Celine swept

  beneath the domed ceiling of the ballroom, ignoring the looks

  of surprise and distaste flashing nearby. She marveled at the

  countless chandeliers reflected in the polished marble at her

  feet, filling the room with a buttery glow. A makeshift court had been positioned around an ornate throne, festooned in ribbons

  of purple, green, and gold. In its center stood a bearded gentle-

  man in his early twenties, his white regimentals embellished

  with braided brass, a smile of smug satisfaction winding across

  his lips. Celine supposed him to be the fête’s honored guest,

  the Russian Grand Duke, Alexei Alexandrovich. Under normal

  circumstances, she might have been impressed by his imposing

  mien. But tonight she was a goddess.

  And a goddess did not concern herself with the triflings of

  men.

  All around Celine, couples floated in dazzling circles, whirl-

  ing in the familiar triple time of a waltz. Their white garments

  lent them the appearance of pillowy clouds spinning through

  a golden firmament. The best of New Orleans society had

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  powdered their wigs and faces, the scent sweetly suffocating alongside the towering bouquets of hothouse flowers, all

  chosen for their angelic hue. Even the servers bustling about

  with their trays of bubbling champagne had rouged their cheeks

  and lips, black beauty marks affixed beneath their right eyes.

  Celine watched the Crescent City’s finest dance in their

  powdered costumes, feeling their eyes upon her. The whispers

  behind the ivory fans. The looks of male disdain, along with the

  occasional wink of sly approval.

  None of it mattered. This was a different kind of freedom

  from the one Celine had longed for on the journey here. A

  different kind of power. The ability to see through a beautiful

  veneer and appreciate the decay beneath it.

  Now that she’d had a taste of such power, she never wanted

  to go back to before.

  Was the killer lurking among these dancing clouds? If he was,

  Celine had made certain he would notice her. She was counting

  on it.

  Her gaze snagged on a figure across the way. A young man

  who’d stopped in his tracks, his gunmetal eyes fastened on

  hers. He stood above the crowd, his black hair shorn against

  his scalp like Julius Caesar. The gold filigree trimming his mask contrasted with the dark bronze of his skin. His ivory jacquard

  waistcoat shone in the warm candlelight, as did the intricate

  soutache around the gilt buttons of his silk frock coat. He took

  a step forward and stopped, his satin breeches clinging to the

  sinew of his body, his head angled with admiration.

  Heaven forgive her, but Bastien was beautiful. Dangerously so.

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  At his back stood a handful of preening young ladies, their papillote curls perfect, their expressions covetous.

  But he had eyes for one girl alone.

  A low hum resounded in Celine’s ears. It heated through her

  veins, the blood coloring her cheeks. Bastien bowed slowly, one

  foot in front of the other, his right hand swooping downward in

  tribute to the period. When he stood once more, Celine could

  not help but smile.

  Bastien returned her smile without hesitation, his eyes like

  glittering coins, an unspoken promise on his face. Then he

  melted into the crowd, unconcerned with those around him.

  If Alexei Alexandrovich presided over this heavenly court,

  then Sébastien Saint Germain was the prince of its shadowy

  counterpart.

  With this thought, the last of Celine’s fears dissipated. She

  knew Bastien would help her catch the killer tonight, in defi-

  ance of his uncle’s wishes. She was certain of it. Lucifer was hers the moment he returned her smile.

  Was this love, then?

  If it was, Celine wanted to bathe in it. To luxuriate in this

  feeling of knowing—without being told—that someone saw

  her, amid the beautiful decay. Saw her and stood by her side, against the very world itself.

  The next instant, her shoulders tensed. Through a parting in

  the crowd, Celine caught sight of Pippa’s unmistakable profile.

  Again her petite friend wandered through the ballroom on the

  arm of Phoebus Devereux, amid the crème de la crème of New

  Orleans society.

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  Pippa met Celine’s gaze. Then turned away, her expression cold.

  Though it stung, Celine was grateful. It was better for Pippa

  to be angry with her. Anger kept her far from the killer’s line of sight.

  Odette spun past Celine on the dance floor, laughing as

  she careened in Boone’s arms, her skirted mantle swaying on

  the ingenious panniers. When they turned, Celine noticed the

  matching breeches she’d designed as a surprise, the gown of

  Odette’s costume split in its center, revealing her figure as she swirled to the music. Her ruby-encrusted brooch sparkled in

  the candlelight, pinned in the middle of a gentleman’s cravat.

  A mixture of the masculine and the feminine. A perfect repre-

  sentation of both Odette Valmont and Madame du Barry, the

  courtesan who helped rule a kingdom.

  Again Celine smiled to herself. Even if Odette never said an-

  other word to her, Celine knew her friend was grateful.

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau,” a familiar voice announced behind

  her right shoulder.

  Celine twisted around to meet the amber eyes of a tall masked

  figure. The black domino across her face shifted, obstructing

  her vision. She took a moment to straighten it, her pulse thud-

  ding through her body.

  “Monsieur le Comte,” she replied with a curtsy, her nerves

  tingling in her fingers.

  Bastien’s uncle held out a white-gloved hand. “May I have this

  dance?” A knowing smile ghosted across his lips, as if he were

  the serpent offering Eve the apple. Celine slid her hand in his.

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  The next moment the world blurred around her, candle flames streaking along the edges of her vision.

  Nicodemus danced as if he’d been born to it. To all of it.

  The wealth, the debauchery, each of the glittering chandeliers.

  When he reeled them around the first bend—his steps smooth

  and precise—Celine closed her eyes for the briefest of instants.

  Wondered what it would be like to put her trust in an other-

  worldly creature like this.

  Her eyes flew open. This world of dark magic might intrigue

  Celine, but she knew better than to take a bite of its fruit.

  “A daring choice,” the count commented, noting the way her

  black skirts rustled around them in time with the music. “I

  appreciate young women who turn up their noses at society.”

  “All evidence to the contrary.” Fear would not dictate her

  actions tonight.

  “Sébastien must treasure your sharp wit.”

  “As they say, monsieur,” she replied. “One man’s treasure . . .”

  Another smile rippled across his face, his teeth blindingly

  white. “Touché, ma chérie. Touché.”

  They danced in silence for a spell.

  “Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” he asked.

  “I have,” she replied in equally noncommittal fashion.

  Something glinted in Nicodemus’ golden eyes. “Tell me,

  Mademoiselle Rousseau, have you ever heard of a game called

  shatranj?”

  Taken aback by the odd question, Celine missed a step. “I’m

  afraid I have not, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “It’s a Persian game of strategy, not so dissimilar to chess.

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  Legend has it that it was among the favorites of the famed storyteller Shahrzad.”

  It troubled Celine to realize he’d stolen the upper hand with

  such a seemingly innocuous question. “I’ve played chess before,

  but I am not proficient. My father always let me win.”

  “Shatranj is one of the precursors to chess. I’d be pleased to

  teach you how to play.” His grin was sharp. “You may rest as-

  sured I will never let you win.”

  “Merci, Monsieur le Comte. I accept your generous offer . . .

  and hope to prove you wrong in all respects.”

  Nicodemus laughed, the sound savoring strangely of fatherly

  approval. “If you’ve taken time to consider my offer”—he spun

  them in place—“what request do you have of me?”

  Such arrogance. Such presumption. Celine pretended to hesitate before answering. “After much consideration . . . I think

  it would be best for me to leave New Orleans.” She did not

  have to be proficient at chess or shatranj to know that gifted

  players anticipated their opponent’s moves and planned ac-

  cordingly.

  The count’s grip tightened on her hand. “You would leave the

  city without a glance back?”

  “It’s possible I could be persuaded,” she demurred. “There was

  a moment last week in which I wished I could forget everything

  and simply disappear.”

  The count considered her for half a turn around the ballroom.

  “If you mean that in earnest, I could help you.”

  “I’m certain you would be more than happy to help me dis-

  appear, monsieur,” she joked.

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  His expression took on a thoughtful bent. “I meant I could help you forget.”

  “You could help me . . . forget?”

  Nicodemus nodded once. “It is the work of a moment. You

  would feel nothing, nor would it cause any lasting damage.” He

  spoke as if he were inviting her to a picnic on the lawn of his

  country estate.

  It unnerved Celine beyond wor
ds. “And how would you ex-

  plain this sudden bout of amnesia?”

  “I do not keep secrets from my nephew. Sébastien would

  know it was your choice. As such, he would come to respect

  it.”

  The strains of music died down, the bodies spinning around

  the ballroom slowing to a halt. Her mind in turmoil, Celine

  laughed with false abandon, joining in the applause as the song

  came to an end.

  Bastien’s uncle was a man with the power to steal memories.

  The thought alone frightened Celine more than anything

  he’d said thus far. It forced her to change tack, for if she lied about leaving New Orleans, what would stop him from robbing her mind with a snap of his fingers? Moreover, if she were

  to “disappear” afterward, not a soul would question her ab-

  sence, given her decision to quit the city. She would be alone

  and adrift once more.

  No. It would be safer to negotiate a way to remain in New

  Orleans.

  Celine took Nicodemus’ proffered arm and strolled with him

  toward the fringes of the ballroom, taking time to construct a

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  new plan. “Monsieur le Comte, I must apologize. When I said I thought the best thing for me to do was leave the city, I meant

  it, for it is the most rational approach.” She paused. “However, as you’ve already pointed out, my emotions are a weakness. I

  found that I’ve come to love New Orleans, and I do not wish to

  leave.” She shuddered as if a wave of fear had passed between

  her shoulder blades. “But I have no desire to relinquish my

  memories, nor do I wish to engage in battle with you. So I have

  an offer . . . if you’ll allow me to stay.”

  The count folded his gloved hands before him, his expres-

  sion unreadable. “You would not demand Sébastien choose

  between us?”

  “Bastien has already lost most of his family,” Celine said. “I

  would not wish for him to lose you.” She bit at her lower lip. “So I will reject him, as you have asked.”

  Nicodemus said nothing for a time. “And what request do you

  have of me in exchange for rejecting my nephew?”

  “I have three.” Celine hoped her greed would convince him

  of her sincerity. “I would like a finished pied-à-terre in the

  Quarter. As well as a dress shop nearby for me to earn a living.”

  “And the third request?”

  Celine focused on his amber eyes, fighting to convey a sense