The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Pardon?”

  He cleared his throat. “There’s a parade gettin’ started near Canal Street. On account of the carnival season.”

  “A carnival parade!” Pippa exclaimed, turning toward Celine.

  Antonia—the young woman seated at Celine’s left—looked about excitedly, her dark eyes round and bright, like those of an owl. “Um carnaval?” she asked in Portuguese as she pointed toward the sounds of distant revelry.

  Celine nodded with a smile.

  “It’s a shame we’ll miss seeing it,” Pippa said.

  “I wouldn’t worry, lass,” the driver replied, his tongue rolling over the words with a hint of Irish burr. “There’ll be plenty o’ parades and celebrations all month long during the carnival season. You’ll see one, to be sure. And just you wait for the masquerade ball on Mardi Gras. ’Twill be the finest of them all.”

  “I heard talk about the carnival season from a friend in Edinburgh,” Anabel—a lissome redhead with an attractive smattering of freckles across her nose—exclaimed. “The entire city of New Orleans rings in the time before Lent with soirées and balls and costume parties for weeks on end.”

  “Parties!” the twins from Germany repeated as soon as they recognized the word, one of them clapping her hands with delight.

  Their glowing faces struck Celine. Moved something behind her heart. An emotion she’d banned herself from feeling ever since the events of that dreadful night:

  Hope.

  She’d arrived in a city amid celebration. One with weeks of fêtes to come. The crowd was filled with that same spirit of anticipation she saw in the girls who now shared her fate. Maybe their expressions did not have to be about trepidation. Maybe the bougainvillea was simply jostled awake instead of trembling with worry.

  Maybe Celine did not have to live her life in fear of what might happen tomorrow.

  As they waited for the streets to clear of passing pedestrians, Celine leaned forward, her spirits on the cusp of taking flight. She tried to catch a bit of ivy dangling from an intricate wrought-iron railing. The clattering of footsteps to her left stole her attention as the crowd parted to allow their wagon through.

  No.

  It was not to allow them passage.

  It was for something else entirely.

  There—beneath the amber haze of a gas lamp—stood a lone figure poised to cross Decatur Street, a Panama hat pulled low on his brow, shrouding his features.

  Without hesitation, their driver granted the man immediate deference, dipping his head in the figure’s direction as though he were bowing . . . or perhaps keeping his eyes averted.

  The man crossed the road, moving from light to shadow and back again, gliding from one street corner to another. He moved . . . strangely. As though the air around him were not air at all, but water. Or perhaps smoke. His polished shoes struck the cobblestones at a clipped pace. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Despite the evening silhouette about him, Celine could tell his suit was made of exquisite material, by a practiced hand. Likely Savile Row. Her training at Madame de Beauharnais’ atelier—the finest couturière in Paris—had granted her a particular eye for such things.

  But his clothes did not intrigue Celine nearly as much as what he’d managed to achieve. He’d cleared the street without uttering a single word. He’d scattered women with parasols and children with powdery beignets and men in elegant top hats, with nary a glance in their direction.

  That was the kind of magic she wished to possess.

  Celine craved the idea of wielding such power, simply for the freedom it would afford her. She watched the man step up to the curb, envy clouding her gaze, filling her heart, taking place of the hope she’d barely allowed purchase a minute ago.

  Then he looked up. His eyes met hers as though she’d called out to him, without words.

  Celine blinked.

  He was younger than she’d expected. Not much older than she. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps, no more. Later Celine would try to remember details about him. But it was as though her memory of that moment had gone hazy, like oil swiped across the surface of a mirror. The only thing she remembered with distinct clarity was his eyes. They shone in the flame of the gas lamp as though they were lit from within.

  Dark grey. Like the barrel of a gun.

  He narrowed his gaze. Tipped his hat at her. And walked away.

  “Oh, my stars,” Pippa breathed.

  Murmurs of assent—spoken in several languages—rippled across the rows of seated young women. They leaned into each other, an air of shared excitement passing over them. One of the twins from Düsseldorf said something in German that made her sister titter behind her hands.

  Only Celine continued staring at the rapidly receding figure, her eyes narrowed, as his had been. As though she were in disbelief.

  Of what, she did not know.

  Their wagon continued making its way toward the convent. Celine watched the boy fade into the darkness, his long, lean legs carrying him through the night with an otherworldly confidence.

  She wondered what made everyone at the crossing yield to him without question. Longed for the barest measure of it. Perhaps if Celine were someone to command such respect, she would not have been forced to leave Paris. To lie to her father.

  Or murder a man.

  TO THE STARS

  I shouldn’t be here.

  That thought rang in Noémie’s head like an endless refrain.

  It was dark. Late. The water lapped along the pier at the edge of the Vieux Carré, the sound lulling. Hypnotic.

  She never should have agreed to meet anyone in this place, no matter the enticement. Noémie knew better. Her parents had taught her better. The church had taught her better. She drew her light spring shawl around her shoulders and straightened the pink silk ribbon around her neck. When she turned, her garnet earbobs struck the sensitive skin along her jawline.

  Earbobs and silk ribbons, on a pier in the middle of the night?

  What was she thinking?

  I shouldn’t be here. Whom did she expect to impress with such fripperies?

  Not this kind of man, to be sure.

  Any young man who asked to meet her in the dead of night was not a gentleman. But Noémie supposed the kind of woman who agreed was not quite a lady either. She sighed to herself. Martin, her erstwhile beau, never would have invited her to a clandestine meeting long past sunset.

  Of course, Martin had never made her skin tingle or her breath catch in her throat.

  Not like her mysterious admirer had.

  But if he didn’t show his face soon, Noémie would go home, sneak back through her mother’s wisteria, and slip into the window of her bedroom before anyone was the wiser.

  Noémie paced along the length of the pier, swearing to the stars that this was the last chance she would give him. Beneath her skirts, her booted heels struck the warped wooden boards, her bustle bobbing in time with her steps. A breeze swept along the bend in the river, bringing with it the stench of spoiling fish—remnants of the day’s catch.

  In an effort to ward off the smell, she pressed a bare finger beneath her nose.

  I shouldn’t be here. The pier was too close to the Court’s lair. These streets and everything surrounding them were controlled by its shadowy denizens. Never mind that they routinely donated to the church. Never mind that Le Comte de Saint Germain had box seats to the opera and hobnobbed with New Orleans’ best and brightest. The Court brought with them the worst kind of people, those without scruples.

  And here Noémie was, waiting alone in the dark, in the thick of their domain.

  She touched her throat, her fingers grazing the soft silk there. The color of her ribbon—pale pink, like the petals of a peony—was all the rage right now. Empress Eugénie had first ushered it into fashion not long ago. Now countless young ladies of New Orleans were kee
n to put their long, swanlike necks on display. Supposedly the gentlemen favored it.

  With a bitter smile, Noémie faced out to the water for her final trek along the pier.

  Damn her impressive admirer and all his lies. No amount of sweet words or scintillating promises should have drawn Noémie from the safety of her home.

  Just as she was about to reach the end of the pier, the thud of solid footsteps resounded behind her. They slowed as they neared, moving at their master’s leisure.

  Noémie did not turn immediately, wanting him to know she was angry.

  “You kept me waiting a long time,” she said, her voice honeyed.

  “My sincerest apologies, mon amour,” he breathed from behind her. “I was caught up at dinner . . . but I left before dessert.”

  A smile tugged at Noémie’s lips, her pulse racing. She turned slowly.

  No one was there. The pier looked deserted.

  She blinked. Her heart skipped about in her chest. Had Noémie dreamed the whole thing? Had the wind played a trick on her? “Where did you—”

  “I’m here, my love,” he said in her ear, behind her once more. She gasped. He took her by the hand, his touch cool and steady. Reassuring. A jolt passed down her spine as he nibbled along her earlobe. Shockingly. Teasingly.

  Martin would never do such a thing.

  She reached back to caress his face, the scruff on his jaw abrading her skin, the blood soaring through her veins. He kissed her fingertips. When she pulled away, her hands were warm. Sticky. Wet.

  Stained bright red.

  “Je suis désolé,” he murmured an apology.

  A horrified scream began to collect in Noémie’s chest.

  Her swanlike throat was torn out before she could utter a sound.

  The last thing Noémie saw were the stars winking merrily above.

  YOUR NAME IS MARCELINE BÉATRICE ROUSSEAU

  Seven girls took up residence in the dormitory of the Ursuline convent: Celine; Pippa; the twins from Düsseldorf, Marta and Maria; Anabel, the redhead from Edinburgh; Antonia from Lisbon; and Catherine from Liverpool.

  The Catholic Church had sponsored their passage to New Orleans, and in return, these seven young women were expected to help run its attached hospital, teach the young girls who attended school there, and assist in any efforts to raise funds on behalf of the diocese. That is, until the sisters of the convent were able to find appropriate matches for them.

  For Celine, the day following their arrival was a day marked by consternation.

  A day marked by the choices of others.

  More than anything, she did not want the sisters to place her as a teacher. It was such a vaunted position, with so much responsibility. Celine had never been an appropriate role model. She laughed too loudly at bawdy jokes and enjoyed eating at social events at which girls were to be seen rather than sated. She’d never understood the notion. Turn her back on a pain au chocolat? Sacrilege.

  But all too expected.

  For these reasons, Celine was relieved to learn that Catherine had been a governess for a family of four in Liverpool. The spectacled young woman smiled when told she would essentially be resuming her duties.

  Celine would not have minded being placed in the hospital, but Pippa informed her that Marta and Maria had assisted a midwife in Düsseldorf; thusly, they were recruited there along with Antonia, who was an expert in herbs and other natural remedies.

  Soon Pippa, Anabel, and Celine found themselves in a shared predicament. All three girls proved difficult to place within the whitewashed walls, as their respective interests did not naturally segue into life at the convent. Anabel possessed a head for figures and a knack for business, neither of which was a quality to admire in a young woman.

  Pippa had studied art history most of her life and was an accomplished violinist and painter, but the school already had a teacher specializing in the arts.

  Though no one could deny that Celine’s work with ruched silk and delicate Alençon lace was unmatched, it did her no favors here. Knowing how to design gowns for the Parisian elite was not exactly high on the list of achievements at a convent.

  Which was why Pippa, Anabel, and Celine were sitting in the shade of Saint Louis Cathedral a week after their arrival, peddling their wares beneath a lace of oak leaves in Jackson Square. Despite the lovely warm day, Celine could not help but feel forlorn. Every place she went, life insisted on confining her.

  Perhaps she deserved it. Her sins were many, her pardons few.

  On the corner of the square farthest from Celine, beignets were being served alongside steaming cups of café au lait, the scent an intoxicating mixture of butter, sugar, and chicory. At her left, the cathedral’s spires rose into a blue sky offset by the kind of clouds Celine most loved, for they resembled chiffon. To her right sat a row of artists and traders and purveyors of mystical goods, their merchandise positioned along the tines of black iron enclosing the cathedral’s courtyard.

  Celine wanted to stroll the lanes and peruse their many offerings. Take in the city’s sights and relish this newfound chance at life. But—as she’d come to realize in the past week—the things she wanted and the things expected of her were like oil and water in a baker’s mixing bowl.

  The day the other girls were placed in their respective positions, Pippa, Celine, and Anabel had been instructed to raise money for the expansion of the parish orphanage. They’d devoted the following week to its preparation.

  Pippa had painted delicate teacups with religious vignettes, like the time Jesus had turned water to wine or fed a crowd of thousands with nothing but seven loaves and fishes. Anabel had designed their booth and devised the best way to attract people to it. And Celine had embellished small squares of pressed linen with a scalloped edging that mimicked the finest needlepoint lace.

  Since their arrival in port last week, none of them had been permitted to attend a parade. Instead, every night—once they’d completed their designated tasks—they were directed to read vespers aloud to each other before retiring to their cells.

  Yes. Their rooms were called cells. It was the reason Celine had stitched a cheeky set of letters into the edging of each handkerchief she’d fashioned.

  GTTAN

  A nod to her favorite Shakespearean tragedy, Hamlet.

  “Get thee to a nunnery.”

  Celine studied the five letters of script hidden in the complicated swirls of lace, a flicker of joy warming through her. Then she glanced across the rickety wooden table, her heart growing heavier with each passing second.

  Was this all she could expect of life?

  Her features hardened. Celine sat up straight, the whalebone of her corset catching her breath as it stretched across her chest. She should be grateful to be here. Grateful to have a place among decent people. Grateful for another chance at life.

  Determination took root inside her. She smiled brightly to a potential patron, who failed to acknowledge her presence. Celine swallowed her looming scowl before shifting her attention to a pair of young women critiquing the glazing on a porcelain cup Pippa had completed days earlier.

  “Lovely, don’t you think?” the girl on the left murmured to her friend.

  The other girl glanced about distractedly. “It’s not bad, if you favor that sort of thing,” she drawled, tucking a strand of wayward brown hair beneath her straw hat. Her voice faded to a hush. “But did you hear what the dockworkers discovered at the pier yesterday morning?”

  The first girl nodded once. “Richard told me. Her name was Nathalie or Noémie something-or-other.” Unease marred her expression. “He suspects the Court might be responsible, since it happened near their domain.”

  Court? Celine wondered. As far as she knew, there had never been an American monarchy.

  “Like an animal had mauled her!” The brunette shuddered. “Poor soul,” she
tsked, though her eyes gleamed with unspoken thoughts, “left to rot in the sun alongside the day’s catch. If the Court had anything to do with it, they’ve become even more ruthless than before. Not that it matters. They’ll curry the right favor, as they always do.”

  Despite Celine’s better judgment, her interest was piqued. She craned her neck toward the pair.

  The brunette continued, her words breathless. “Did Richard tell you what happened to her head?”

  “N-no.”

  “I heard it was completely severed from the poor young woman’s body.”

  The first girl gasped, a lace-gloved hand covering her mouth. “Dear Lord.”

  With a solemn nod, the brunette picked up one of Celine’s embroidered handkerchiefs. “Her face was all but unrecognizable. Her father had to identify her based on her earbobs alone.”

  At this, Pippa cleared her throat in an unmistakable attempt to dissuade the two women from continuing such salacious talk. A frown cut across Anabel’s face, her look turning peevish.

  “Ladies, can we be of any assistance?” Celine offered the pair of young patrons a pointed smile.

  The brunette’s eyes narrowed as she dropped the handkerchief with a careless flick of her wrist. “No, thank you.” She reached for her friend’s elbow, looping her arm around it, directing them away from the rickety table.

  Once they were beyond earshot, Anabel harrumphed. “Gossiping about a murder in the shadow of a church . . .” she muttered. “Dinna they ken better than to provoke the spirits in such a brash manner?” Her Scottish brogue deepened with her disdain, her fingers batting away a fat honeybee buzzing about her brow.

  Pippa sighed, then caught Anabel’s hand, preventing her from swatting at the hovering insect. “That poor girl.” She sat up straighter, her petite features gathering. “I hope her suffering wasn’t prolonged. Who could do such a thing?” Lines formed between her brows. “What kind of monster could take a human life like that?”

  Anabel nodded crisply. “I hope the fiend responsible burns in Hell for all eternity. ’Tis the only justice for a murderer.”