The Beautiful (ARC) Page 7

  her hand.

  “Are you all right?” Pippa said, her tone incredulous. “I can’t—”

  she tried. “I mean, can you believe what he said to you?”

  Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  She could not be certain what hand of Fate continued plac-

  ing Sébastien Saint Germain in her path. Perhaps it was a test.

  God’s penance for her most grievous sin, that a boy shrouded in

  darkness would force her to see the light. Make of her a Good

  Samaritan.

  But a greater fear lurked deep in Celine. Past the rush of

  blood, into the marrow of her bones.

  No matter where she went, danger followed.

  And it horrified her. Just as it thrilled her.

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  HIVER, 1872

  RUE SAINT LOUIS

  NEW ORLEANS

  i

  I catch her profile in the glint of a shining brass sign.

  Her fear is reflected at me, her eyes bright.

  I look away. It reminds me of the young woman from last

  week. I do not relish the sight of fear on anyone, though I know

  it to be a necessary evil. For if we do not understand fear, how

  are we ever to cherish safety?

  I turn my attention to the three-story building before me, its

  trellised balconies overflowing with ivy and budding blossoms.

  Etched into the brass sign in the center—in odiously elaborate

  script—is the name Jacques’. Above the name is a symbol I often see in my dreams. A symbol infamous among the circles of

  both the Fallen and the Brotherhood.

  A restaurant encompasses the entire first floor of the struc-

  ture, its gas lanterns already ablaze. A queue is wrapping

  around the corner. Someone—undoubtedly Kassamir—has

  thrown open the double doors, revealing a smiling crowd and

  the sounds of fine china and tinkling crystal. Servers bustle

  about in their white gloves and starched jackets.

  For a moment, my senses are inundated by this symphony of

  splendor and decadence. It is a music I know well, both in this

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  life and in my former one. A smile curves across my lips.

  Amusing that she should lead me here, of all places.

  If only these poor fools knew what lurked above them, deep

  in a court of lions. If only my victim knew. Then they would all

  understand what it meant to feel true fear.

  When I glance at her again, I catch a look of hesitation on

  her face, as though she is uncertain about whether to proceed.

  Recent events have unnerved her, and it saddens me. I expected

  her to be stronger. She began the night with such purpose, each

  of her steps steady. Resolute.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t be too judgmental. This is not a city for

  everyone.

  It is a snake in the reeds, beautiful and deadly, even while it

  sleeps.

  Moreover, I feel partially to blame for her fear. I could have

  come to their aid. It would have taken the work of a moment to

  blur through the alley and silence that paltry threat. But what

  purpose would that have served, beyond the risk of revealing

  my true nature before it was time? To my knowledge, my victim

  was not yet in any real danger. At least not from the nephew of

  Le Comte de Saint Germain.

  Bitterness coats my tongue.

  That is a promise I do not have the strength to break. Not yet.

  We are not ready for the war it will bring.

  My thoughts darken in a way I do not like, so I return to my

  earlier musings. It’s possible Arjun Desai—the boy with the im-

  mobilizing touch—could present a threat one day, but it is too

  soon to tell. His skill set continues to intrigue me, as it did on

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  the day I first made his acquaintance. Without a doubt, he is a worthy member of La Cour des Lions.

  Another smile spreads across my face. It pleases me that our

  city’s society of mentalists—masquerading as something else

  entirely—managed to recruit him.

  It should make for a fascinating turn of events.

  But I cannot allow these things to distract me any more than

  they already have. Not tonight. There is far too much at stake

  for me to dwell on these incidental matters.

  I return my gaze to her, the young woman who led me to

  where it all began, unknowingly.

  Fittingly.

  She pauses at the entrance of Jacques’, rethinking her choices

  once more.

  Ah, but it is too late, my love.

  We cannot change the mistakes of our past. They live on, so

  that we may learn, if we should be but so lucky. Alas, dear girl, your luck takes flight tonight.

  I am the spider. I set silken traps. I watch as you step into my

  web.

  I wait to strike.

  But do not fear. I promise I will never forget you.

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  The Court of the Lions

  i

  Celine waited for Pippa to collect herself just outside the

  narrow alleyway. When Celine realized she was behaving

  oddly—standing stock-still, her eyes unblinking—she began

  mimicking Pippa’s motions, straightening her overskirt as if it

  was all that needed sorting.

  It never ceased to amaze Celine how circumstances could

  change so drastically in the matter of a moment. One second,

  every nerve ending in her body was alive, crackling with unseen

  energy. The next, everything went silent and motionless, as if

  she were submerged in a pool of deep water.

  “Celine?” Two lines collected between Pippa’s brows.

  Celine gathered that Pippa had posed her a question. True

  to form, Celine had not been listening. Ever since Bastien and

  Arjun had left them behind in the alley—a stone’s throw from

  the “sleeping” man who’d brandished a dagger at them less

  than ten minutes prior—Pippa had been maintaining a steady

  stream of nervous chatter.

  Celine’s focus had been elsewhere. Lost in the delicious

  unknown.

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Pippa asked. She held up

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  her skirts and edged closer to Celine, concern seeping onto her features. “I asked if you still wished to meet Odette.”

  “Of course,” Celine answered without thought.

  Dismay touched the edges of Pippa’s lips, there and gone in

  an instant. “Oh.”

  “Do you not wish to meet her?”

  “It isn’t that.” Pippa shook her head. “I’m just . . . uncertain

  whether it is the wisest course of action.” Her blue eyes flicked toward Celine. “This evening has not gone as I’d hoped. I

  thought it better to stop tempting our fates.”

  Of course Pippa felt uncomfortable. Most people would feel skittish after the events of tonight. A girl like Pippa would

  wish to be anywhere else. No, that wasn’t right. She would

 
; wish to be home, safe in her bed, with a soft blanket and a

  cup of hot tea. Better yet, with a mother or a lover to offer a

  soothing touch.

  Celine exhaled slowly, a dark realization settling amid her

  thoughts.

  Proper young women certainly wouldn’t feel so enlivened by

  the very idea of danger. Nor would they already be seeking out

  the next chance to feel their hearts pound in their ears and their faces flush as though they were too close to a candle flame.

  Further proof that something was broken inside Celine.

  Breathing deeply through her nose, Celine reached for her

  friend’s hand, her touch gentle. Comforting. “I’m sorry, Pippa,”

  she said. “I’ve been distracted by all that happened. Of course

  you don’t want to meet with Odette tonight after . . . well,

  everything. I completely understand. We’ll return to the

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  convent at once.” She was careful not to let her disappointment show, though she felt it keenly.

  Her friend had risked enough this evening on her account.

  When Celine moved to retrace their steps, Pippa dawdled be-

  hind her. Celine turned in place. “Pippa?”

  Pippa quirked her lips to one side. “You really wanted to go,

  didn’t you? You were happier tonight than I’ve ever seen you

  before. Freer.”

  Celine thought to lie. But she was wearied by the notion. So

  very wearied.

  She simply nodded.

  A warm light filled Pippa’s gaze. “It was like getting a peek

  into who you truly are,” she said softly. “It made me feel like we were really friends.”

  “We are really friends.”

  Pippa shook her head, but it was not unkind. “Not yet. But I

  hope we will be. I do so want to be your friend, Celine.”

  Celine swallowed, something clutching around her heart. “I

  want to be your friend, too, Pippa. Very much.”

  Pippa nodded. Then she took hold of her skirts once more,

  resolve flashing across her face. “We shouldn’t keep Odette

  waiting.”

  j

  Less than two blocks away, Celine and Pippa caught sight of a

  brass sign positioned above the slender double doors of a well-

  lit establishment.

  It read Jacques’ in fancy script. Etched above the name was

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  a familiar symbol: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

  In the distance, the pier loomed ominously, the water around

  it glittering like a sea of black diamonds, ready to swallow its

  supplicants whole.

  “Oh,” Pippa said, realization dawning on her. “It’s a restaurant.”

  A similar wash of surprise passed through Celine. It felt odd

  for Odette to direct them to a restaurant, especially for the purpose of a dress fitting.

  Based on the long queue snaking around the front, it was

  clear the owner of Jacques’ knew how to capture the atten-

  tion of a crowd, especially for a Monday evening. But on the

  outside, the structure itself looked rather ordinary. Red brick

  and black lacquered shutters enclosing three stories. Gas lamps

  blazing between tall, narrow windows. Polished wooden floors

  stained a light caramel color. Drapes of deep burgundy damask

  cascading down the walls.

  Yet to Celine, something about it felt . . . off. Like a picture

  frame hanging askew. As if the restaurant had dutifully mas-

  tered every detail of the mundane, with the intention of wear-

  ing them as a mask. Concealing what, Celine could only guess.

  Each time the door opened, the crystals hanging from the

  chandelier beside the entrance chimed merrily like they were

  welcoming newcomers. Then the lingering notes turned mel-

  ancholy. A clash of discordant sounds, the slightest shift to

  minor key.

  To Celine, it rang as a quiet warning. Still, everyone in the

  room kept smiling, oblivious to the unseen threat. Her gaze

  slipped across the contented faces of Jacques’ countless patrons.

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  How was it they could not feel it, too?

  Perhaps Celine was mistaken. Perhaps these observations

  formed from a place of wishful thought. Maybe she sought

  proof she wasn’t the only one forced to wear a mask. And in

  doing so, she’d falsely found a kindred spirit . . . in a restaurant.

  How ridiculous. She chastised herself. What kind of silly fool shared a silent understanding with a structure of brick and

  mortar? Celine committed to casting aside her concerns like a

  stone lying in her path.

  Pippa touched Celine’s shoulder to catch her attention.

  “Should we seek out the gentleman Odette mentioned earlier

  today?”

  “Mais oui. Lead the way.” Celine sent a deceptively careless

  grin over her shoulder.

  As soon as the two girls crossed the threshold of Jacques’—

  Pippa pausing with a twinge of trepidation—the figurative

  stone Celine had cast aside rolled back into her path. She must

  be mad, seeing and feeling things not even in the demesne of

  possibility. But even in the most fevered of her dreams, it would be impossible to ignore this truth:

  Jacques’ was anything but ordinary.

  It was not about what Celine saw. It was about what she felt.

  A strange sensation rippled across her skin, tingling through

  her blood, taking root in her core. Something hooked around

  her spine, drawing her in with an unspoken promise. Some-

  thing . . . otherworldly.

  Yes. That was it. It was as though she’d wandered into another

  realm. Not Heaven. Not Hell. But somewhere in between. A

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  liminal space, spanning both light and dark. Whatever it was, Celine felt comfortable there.

  An elbow struck Celine’s right arm, snagging her from her

  observations. The server who hastened past them offered an

  apologetic glance, his features knitted along his freckled brow.

  In both hands, he balanced trays laden with covered dishes of

  gleaming silver. Celine tracked his progress through the room

  as she directed Pippa closer to a wall of wooden paneling near

  the entrance, out of the main walkway’s path.

  Pippa gazed about the space with purpose. “Do you see him?”

  Captivated by the scene unfolding before them, Celine failed

  to reply.

  Across the restaurant’s open dining area—near a set of curv-

  ing stairs vanishing up into shadowy darkness—the freckled

  server caught the attention of an imposing figure standing be-

  side the swinging door to the kitchen. The silk-faced lapels of

  his pristine frock coat glowed in the candlelight. Even from a

  distance, Celine recognized him as the ruler of this culinary do-

  main. He maintained a ramrod straight posture, his dark skin

  and the gold ring through his right ear brilliant contrasts to

  his snow-white shirt. Then he glanced at the server, flick
ing his black eyes toward a table closer to Pippa and Celine. His gaze

  was pointed. Reproving.

  A flush spreading across his cheeks, the young server con-

  ducted an artful about-face, twisting back in the table’s di-

  rection. He began distributing covered dishes before its four

  patrons, one of whom was a pale gentleman of Asiatic origin,

  sporting a thin mustache, perfectly groomed, and a shirt with

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  a simple collar. Beside him sat a portly white fellow with red splotches across his nose and a smoldering cigar. Across the table was a man with skin the color of mahogany, wearing a spec-

  tacular waistcoat of gold and royal blue. Next to him sulked the

  younger, smaller version of himself.

  It struck Celine as highly unusual. She’d never seen men of

  different skin color occupy the same space in a fine restaurant.

  Parisian high society was not a society of mixed company.

  The Paris Celine knew was carefully sorted, just like its many

  arrondissements. As a small child, Celine was told never to tra-

  verse the narrow lanes of Saint-Denis just as its émigré resi-

  dents were shown that they—and their kind—did not belong

  anywhere near the dazzling boulevards of Place Vendôme. She

  wondered if the scene taking place tonight within Jacques’ was

  normal in a port city like New Orleans, one in which people

  from all over the world congregated.

  She would wager it was not. It had certainly been the truth

  for her own family. From an early age, Celine had been taught

  to be grateful for her mother’s absence from their family’s din-

  ing table.

  Sadness flared around her heart. She took hold of it. Trapped

  it deep within her chest. It did no good to dwell on matters

  she could not change. Steadfast in her resolve, Celine looked to

  Pippa to see if they should proceed.

  It appeared that Pippa, too, had been swept away by the

  unearthly magic of this place. She watched rapt while the

  freckle-faced server finished distributing the covered dishes.

  Then he snapped his fingers in a dramatic fashion, and all the

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  silver domes were removed in concert. Scented steam wafted through the air, floating toward Celine and Pippa as though it

  were borne on an enchanted wind. Pippa stilled, her eyes fall-

  ing shut.