The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

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  Also by Renée Ahdieh

  Flame in the Mist

  Smoke in the Sun

  The Wrath & the Dawn

  The Rose & the Dagger

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  R E N é E A H D I E H

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  p

  Copyright © 2019 by Renée Ahdieh

  Map illustration © 2019 by Jessica Khoury

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing

  Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ahdieh, Renée, author.

  Title: The beautiful / Renée Ahdieh.

  Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2019]

  Summary: “In 19th century New Orleans, Celine, a dressmaker from Paris, becomes embroiled in a murder mystery that’s connected to

  a glamorous supernatural cohort”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019014461 (print) | LCCN 2019017774 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9781524738181 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524738174 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Supernatural—Fiction. | Dressmaking—Fiction. |

  Murder—Fiction. | New Orleans (La.)—History—19th century—Fiction. |

  Mystery and detective stories.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A328 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.A328 Be 2019 (print) |

  DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014461

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 9781524738174

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  Design by Theresa Evangelista

  Text set in Warnock Pro

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  To the city of New Orleans,

  for reminding me there is magic around every corner

  And to Victor, always

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  NO

  To see a World in a Grain of Sand

  And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

  Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

  And Eternity in an hour

  From “Auguries of Innocence”

  by William Blake

  PQ

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  J’ai voulu c NO

  e matin te rapporter des roses;

  Mais j’en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes

  Que les noeuds trop serrés n’ont pu les contenir.

  Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées.

  Dans le vent, à la mer s’en sont toutes allées.

  Elles ont suivi l’eau pour ne plus revenir.

  La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.

  Ce soir, ma robe encore en est toute embaumée . . .

  Respires-en sur moi l’odorant souvenir.

  I wanted to bring you roses this morning;

  But I had closed so many in my sash

  That the knots were too tight to contain them.

  The knots split. The roses blew away.

  All blew off to the sea, borne by the wind,

  Carried to the water, never to return.

  The waves looked red as if inflamed.

  Tonight, my dress is still perfumed . . .

  Breathe in the fragrant memory.

  From “Les Roses de Saadi”

  by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

  PQ

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  HIVER, 1872

  RUE ROYALE

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  i

  New Orleans is a city ruled by the dead.

  I remember the moment I first heard someone say

  this. The old man meant to frighten me. He said there was a

  time when coffins sprang from the ground following a heavy

  rain, the dead flooding the city streets. He claimed to know of

  a Créole woman on Rue Dauphine who could commune with

  spirits from the afterlife.

  I believe in magic. In a city rife with illusionists, it’s impos-

  sible to doubt its existence. But I didn’t believe this man. Be faithful, he warned. For the faithless are alone in death, blind and terrified.

  I feigned shock at his words. In truth, I found him amusing.

  He was the sort to scare errant young souls with stories of a

  shadowy creature lurking in darkened alcoves. But I was also

  intrigued, for I possess an errant young soul of my own. From

  childhood, I hid it beneath pressed garments and polished

  words, but it persisted in plaguing me. It called to me like a

  Siren, driving me to dash all pretense against the rocks and

  surrender to my true nature.

  It drove me to where I am now. But I am not ungrateful.

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  For it brought to bear two of my deepest truths: I will always possess an errant young soul, no matter my age.

  And I will always be the shadowy creature in darkened

  alcoves, waiting . . .

  For you, my love. For you.

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  JANVIER 1872

  ABOARD THE CGT ARAMIS

  Not What It Seemed

  i

  The Aramis was supposed to arrive at first light, like it did in Celine’s dreams.

  She would wake beneath a sunlit sky, the brine of the ocean

  winding through her nose, the city looming bright on the

  horizon.

  Filled with promise. And absolution.

  Instead the brass bell on the bow of the Aramis tolled in the twilight hour, the time of day her friend Pippa called “the

  gloaming.” It was—in Celine’s mind—a very British thing to say.

  She’d begun collecting these phrases not long after she’d met

  Pippa four weeks ago, when the Aramis had docked for two

  days in Liverpool. Her favorite so far was “not bloody likely.”

  Celine didn’t know why they mattered to her at the time. Per-

  haps it was because she thought Very British Thin
gs would

  serve her better in America than the Very French Things she

  was apt to say.

  The moment Celine heard the bell clang, she made her way

  portside, Pippa’s light footsteps trailing in her wake. Inky ten-

  drils of darkness fanned out across the sky, a ghostly mist

  shrouding the Crescent City. The air thickened as the two girls

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  listened to the Aramis sluice through the waters of the Missis-sippi, drawing closer to New Orleans. Farther from the lives

  they’d left behind.

  Pippa sniffed and rubbed her nose. In that instant, she looked

  younger than her sixteen years. “For all the stories, it’s not as pretty as I thought it would be.”

  “It’s exactly what I thought it would be,” Celine said in a re-

  assuring tone.

  “Don’t lie.” Pippa glanced at her sidelong. “It won’t make me

  feel better.”

  A smile curled up Celine’s face. “Maybe I’m lying for me as

  much as I’m lying for you.”

  “In any case, lying is a sin.”

  “So is being obnoxious.”

  “That’s not in the Bible.”

  “But it should be.”

  Pippa coughed, trying to mask her amusement. “You’re ter-

  rible. The sisters at the Ursuline convent won’t know what to

  do with you.”

  “They’ll do the same thing they do with every unmarried

  girl who disembarks in New Orleans, carrying with her all her

  worldly possessions: they’ll find me a husband.” Celine refrained from frowning. This had been her choice. The best of the worst.

  “If you strike them as ungodly, they’ll match you with the ug-

  liest fool in Christendom. Definitely someone with a bulbous

  nose and a paunch.”

  “Better an ugly man than a boring one. And a paunch means

  he eats well, so . . .” Celine canted her head to one side.

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  “Really, Celine.” Pippa laughed, her Yorkshire accent weaving through the words like fine Chantilly lace. “You’re the most

  incorrigible French girl I’ve ever met.”

  Celine smiled at her friend. “I’d wager you haven’t met many

  French girls.”

  “At least not ones who speak English as well as you do. As if

  you were born to it.”

  “My father thought it was important for me to learn.” Celine

  lifted one shoulder, as though this were the whole of it, instead of barely half. At the mention of her father—a staid Frenchman

  who’d studied linguistics at Oxford—a shadow threatened to

  descend. A sadness with a weight Celine could not yet bear. She

  fixed a wry grin on her face.

  Pippa crossed her arms as though she were hugging herself.

  Worry gathered beneath the fringe of blond on her forehead as

  the two girls continued studying the city in the distance. Every

  young woman on board had heard the whispered accounts. At

  sea, the myths they’d shared over cups of gritty, bitter coffee

  had taken on lives of their own. They’d blended with the stories

  of the Old World to form richer, darker tales. New Orleans was

  haunted. Cursed by pirates. Prowled by scalawags. A last refuge

  for those who believed in magic and mysticism. Why, there was

  even talk of women possessing as much power and influence as

  that of any man.

  Celine had laughed at this. As she’d dared to hope. Perhaps

  New Orleans was not what it seemed at first glance. Fittingly,

  neither was she.

  And if anything could be said about the young travelers

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  aboard the Aramis, it was that the possibility of magic like this—a world like this—had become a vital thing. Especially for

  those who wished to shed the specter of their pasts. To become

  something better and brighter.

  And especially for those who wanted to escape.

  Pippa and Celine watched as they drew closer to the un-

  known. To their futures.

  “I’m frightened,” Pippa said softly.

  Celine did not respond. Night had seeped through the wa-

  ter, like a dark stain across organza. A scraggly sailor balanced along a wooden beam with all the grace of an aerialist while

  lighting a lamp on the ship’s prow. As if in response, tongues

  of fire leapt to life across the water, rendering the city in even more ghoulishly green tones.

  The bell of the Aramis pealed once more, telling those along the port how far the ship had left to travel. Other passengers

  made their way from below deck, coming to stand alongside

  Celine and Pippa, muttering in Portuguese and Spanish, En-

  glish and French, German and Dutch. Young women who’d

  taken leaps of faith and left their homelands for new opportu-

  nities. Their words melted into a soft cacophony of sound that

  would—under normal circumstances—soothe Celine.

  Not anymore.

  Ever since that fateful night amid the silks in the atelier,

  Celine had longed for comfortable silence. It had been weeks

  since she’d felt safe in the presence of others. Safe with the riot of her own thoughts. The closest she’d ever come to wading

  through calmer waters had been in the presence of Pippa.

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  When the ship drew near enough to dock, Pippa took sudden hold of Celine’s wrist, as though to steel herself. Celine gasped.

  Flinched at the unexpected touch. Like a spray of blood had

  shot across her face, the salt of it staining her lips.

  “Celine?” Pippa asked, her blue eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

  Breathing through her nose to steady her pulse, Celine

  wrapped both hands around Pippa’s cold fingers. “I’m fright-

  ened, too.”

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  A Study in Contrasts

  i

  Twenty-three passengers disembarked from the Aramis,

  each bearing a simple trunk filled with their worldly pos-

  sessions. After consulting the ship’s manifest, the officer sta-

  tioned in the customhouse allowed them onto American soil.

  An hour later, seven girls boarded a humble equipage and pro-

  ceeded through the darkened city streets toward the Ursuline

  convent. The rest had their futures awaiting them at the docks.

  The open-air wagon trundled along the cobblestones. All

  around them, boughs hung heavy with brightly colored blos-

  soms. Cicadas and click beetles droned in the shadows, whis-

  pering of a haunted history. A tropical breeze stirred through

  the branches of a live oak abutting a small square. The warmth

  of its embrace felt strange against Celine’s skin, especially when contrasted with the slight chill of a late-January evening.

  But she knew better than to complain. Outside her home in

  Paris, snow likely dotted the pavers, and it would be weeks be-

  fore she could don the comfortable muslin dress she now wore.

  Celine recalled when she’d fashioned it last June, from the

  rem
nants of an elegant tea gown she’d designed for a wealthy

  woman known for hosting infamous salons. At the time, Celine

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  imagined attending one of these gatherings and mingling with the chicest members of Parisian society. She would dazzle them

  with her love of Shakespeare and Voltaire. She would wear this

  exact dress, its rich aubergine hue a lovely contrast against her fair skin, the overskirt replete with elaborate frills and flounces.

  And she would style her black curls in a mass atop her crown,

  the latest coiffure to grace the city’s fashion plates.

  Celine laughed to herself, amused by the memory of the

  seventeen-year-old girl she used to be. The things this girl had

  dreamed of experiencing. The things she’d wished to have and

  hold: entrée into the society of elegant young women she fitted

  for gowns they would discard days later. A chance to fall in love with a handsome young man who would steal her heart with

  poetry and promises.

  Now she sneered at the very idea.

  After weeks at sea—buried deep in a timber trunk—the rum-

  pled gown Celine wore tonight reflected the sharp turn her life

  had taken. It wasn’t fit for Sunday Mass, much less a salon. At

  the thought, Celine adjusted her position on the wooden seat,

  her corset digging into her ribs. The whalebone pinched her

  breasts as she took a deep breath.

  And was met with a scent so delicious, it left her distracted.

  She scanned the square for its source. On the corner opposite

  the live oak stood an open-air bakery that reminded Celine of

  her favorite boulangerie on the Boulevard du Montparnasse.

  The smell of fried dough and slowly melting sugar wafted

  through the waxy magnolia leaves. Nearby, a set of balcony

  shutters slammed shut, and a trellis laden with bright pink

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  bougainvillea shook, the blossoms trembling as if in fear. Or perhaps in anticipation.

  It should have been beautiful to behold. But the lovely tab-

  leau felt tinged with something sinister. As though a pale finger had slipped through a drawn curtain, beckoning her into a dark

  abyss.

  Wisdom told her to heed the warning. Nevertheless, Celine

  found herself enchanted. When she glanced at the six other

  girls in the wagon—seated four on one side, three on the

  other—Celine caught an expanse of wide-eyed gazes, their ex-

  pressions a study in trepidation. Or perhaps excitement? Like