The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  Alas, Anabel proved to be a terrible liar. For all the stories Celine had heard about Scots, she was profoundly disappointed to have met the only Highlander incapable of spinning a tale.

  Now Celine was stuck reviewing the scenery in the Mother Superior’s office, her dinner of bland stew going cold on the kitchen table. She searched the space for a distraction. All the while, she tried to devise a believable lie for why she should be permitted to wander into the city past nightfall.

  It was all so dramatic. So unnecessary.

  Why was it that everyone Celine encountered insisted on telling her how to live her life?

  Pippa sat in guilty silence nearby, wringing her hands like a character from a cautionary tale. Celine inhaled deeply, aware that Philippa Montrose could not be counted on to support anything resembling perfidy. Pippa was simply too good. It was a truth universally acknowledged by all those residing at the convent, even the nuns themselves:

  Pippa Montrose was trustworthy and obedient. Nothing like the impetuous Celine Rousseau.

  In fact, why had Pippa been summoned here at all? She wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. Was her presence an effort to highlight Celine’s misdeeds? Or perhaps intimidate Pippa into betraying her as well?

  Her gaze darkening at the thought, Celine scanned the room. On one side of the wall was a large wooden cross that had been donated by one of New Orleans’ oldest Spanish families, from a time before the French had taken ownership of the port city. Beyond the partially opened shutters, a slit of waning sunlight bathed the outer reaches of the Ursuline convent.

  If only the windows could be opened fully, to let the view of the port seep onto its sloping floors. Maybe it would fill these fallow rooms with life. The second day there, Celine had tried to do this herself, but she’d been roundly chastised ten minutes later; the windows of the whitewashed convent were always shuttered in an effort to maintain the cloistered atmosphere.

  As though it could be anything else at all.

  The door scraped open. Pippa sat up straight in the same instant Celine’s shoulders fell.

  Even before the Mother Superior stepped over the threshold, the wool of her black habit filled the room with her presence, smelling of lanolin and the medicinal ointment she used each night for her chapped hands.

  The combination was like a wet hound in a haystack.

  As soon as the door swung shut, the lines around the Mother Superior’s mouth deepened. She paused for a breath, then glared down at them, her expression severe. An obvious effort to instill a sense of foreboding, like a tyrant of old.

  Though it was inopportune, a smile threatened to take shape on Celine’s face. Everything about this situation was absurd. Less than five weeks ago, Celine had been apprenticed to one of the most demanding couturières in Paris. A woman whose frequent screams of rage caused the crystals to tremble in their chandeliers. A true oppressor, who routinely ripped Celine’s work to shreds—before her eyes—if a single stitch was out of place.

  And this tyrannical nun with chapped hands thought she merited fear?

  As Pippa would say, not bloody likely.

  A snicker escaped Celine’s mouth. Pippa toed her chair in response.

  What could have caused the Mother Superior’s hands to become so worn? Perhaps she labored on some clandestine craft, deep in the hollows of her cell. A painter perhaps. Or a sculptor. What if she was secretly a wordsmith by night? Even better if she wrote entirely in asides or things laced with double meaning, like Malvolio in Twelfth Night.

  Be by my life, this is my lady’s hand, these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus she makes her great P’s.

  Celine coughed. Creases of irritation formed across the Mother Superior’s forehead.

  The idea that this nun in a starched habit would say anything untoward caused Celine to lock eyes on the polished stone floor to keep from laughing. Pippa nudged her again, this time more forcefully. Though her friend said nothing, Celine could tell Pippa was not the least bit amused by their situation.

  Rightly so. Nothing about angering the convent’s matron should be funny. This woman had given them a place to live and work. A means by which to find their way in the New World.

  Only an ungrateful, troublesome girl would see otherwise. A girl precisely like Celine.

  Sobered by these thoughts, Celine chewed the inside of her cheek, the room growing warmer, her stays pulling tighter.

  “I expect you to explain yourself, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a voice that was tinny and gravelly all at once.

  Celine kept silent, her eyes cast downward. She knew better than to begin by offering a defense. The Mother Superior had not called them here with a mind to listen; she’d called them here with a mind to teach. It was a lesson Celine understood well. She’d been raised on it.

  “This young woman you met in the square, why does she not come to the convent in daylight or consult a local dressmaker?” the Mother Superior asked. “If she wishes to hire you to design garments for her, it seems fitting for her to come here, n’est-ce pas?”

  When Celine still did not respond, the Mother Superior grunted. Leaned closer. “Répondez-moi, Mademoiselle Rousseau. Immédiatement,” she whispered, her tone laced with warning. “Or you and Mademoiselle Montrose will regret it.”

  At the threat, Celine raised her head to meet the Mother Superior’s gaze. She licked her lips to bide time as she chose her next words.

  “Je suis désolée, Mère Supérieure,” Celine apologized, “mais”—she glanced to her right, trying to decide whether or not to involve Pippa in this falsehood—“but, alas, her modiste is unfamiliar with the baroque style of dress. She expressed urgency in needing the garments and a schedule that did not appear to be flexible during the day. You see . . . she volunteers each afternoon with a ladies’ organization that knits socks for children.”

  Even in profile, Celine saw Pippa’s eyes widen with dismay.

  It was an abhorrent lie, to be sure. Fashioning Odette as an angel with a soft spot for barefooted souls was among the more . . . colorful stories Celine had told in her lifetime. But this entire situation was ridiculous. And Celine enjoyed prevailing over tyrants, even by the barest of measures. Especially ones who threatened her friends.

  The Mother Superior’s frown softened, though the rest of her expression remained doubtful. She linked her hands behind her back and began pacing. “Be that as it may, I do not feel it is appropriate for you to travel through the city unescorted past sundown. A young woman not much older than you . . . perished along the docks only yesterday.”

  In Celine’s opinion, perished was a rather subdued word for being ripped to pieces beneath a starlit sky.

  The Mother Superior paused in silent prayer before resuming her lecture. “During carnival season, there are many revelers in the streets. Sin runs rampant, and I do not wish for a mind as weak and susceptible as yours to be lured by danger.”

  Though Celine bristled at the slight, she nodded in agreement. “I, too, do not wish to be tempted by anything untoward.” She pressed a hand over her heart. “But I believe this young woman to be good and God-fearing, Mère Supérieure. And the money she will give the convent for my work would undoubtedly be of great benefit to us all. She made it clear—several times—that cost was not an object.”

  “I see.” The Mother Superior turned toward Pippa without warning. “Mademoiselle Montrose,” she said, “it appears you have little to offer on the matter. What have you to say about this situation?”

  Celine closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come. She wouldn’t blame Pippa for telling the truth. It was simply in her nature to do so. And who could blame Pippa for following her natural inclination.

  Pippa cleared her throat, her small hands tightening into fists. “I . . . found the young lady quite trustworthy and virtuous as well, Mother
Superior,” she said slowly. “Of course your concerns are not without merit, especially given what happened along the docks. Would it make a difference if I offered to accompany her? We could take the lady’s measurements together and then be on our way. I don’t believe we would be gone from the convent for long. In fact, I see no reason why we would have to miss evening prayer.”

  Time ground to a halt. It was Celine’s turn to have her eyes widen with dismay.

  Pippa Montrose had offered to help. Had lied for Celine. To a nun.

  “I have many misgivings, Mademoiselle Montrose,” the Mother Superior said after a breath. “But perhaps if you are willing to provide escort . . .”

  “I am willing to take full responsibility.” Pippa grasped the tiny gold crucifix nestled at the hollow of her throat. She let her voice drop. Let it fill with reverence. “And I trust God will go with us tonight.”

  The Mother Superior frowned again, her lips unspooling slowly. Her attention shifted from Pippa toward Celine and back again. She stood straight. And made a decision.

  “Very well,” she said.

  A flare of surprise shot through Celine. The Mother Superior had shifted tack too quickly. Too easily. Suspicion gnawed at Celine’s stomach. She eyed Pippa sidelong, but her friend did not glance her way.

  “Thank you, Mother Superior,” Pippa murmured. “I promise all will go as planned.”

  “Of course. As long as you understand I’ve put my full trust in you, Mademoiselle Montrose. Do not disappoint me.” The nun’s smile was disturbingly beatific. “May His light shine upon you both, my children.”

  HIVER, 1872

  AVENUE DES URSULINES

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  I first glimpse my next victim as she passes beneath the flame of a gas lamp.

  Her eyes flash in a most curious way. As though she is on edge or held in suspense. Perhaps in the midst of doing something illicit.

  The sight catches my attention, even through the horde of bustling bodies, a handful of them brimming with other-worldly energy. Her unease looks strangely beguiling, for it is the opposite of performative. She is heedless of everything around her, save the task at hand. It is a difficult undertaking for a hapless mortal, to move about a crowd so blissfully unaware. So enviably unaffected.

  Crowds fascinate me. They provide demons such as myself with unique opportunities. Occasions to be seen and unseen in the same breath. For are we not always—human and creature alike—performing to some degree?

  I digress.

  The moment I enjoy most is when I first begin scanning the masses. When I first lay eyes on my target, and they know not that they are being watched. They act without thought. Smile without agenda. Laugh as though not a soul is listening.

  I know what this must sound like. It sounds . . . disconcerting. I am aware. But I am by nature disconcerting. There are moments in which I can be delightful, too. I speak many languages. I have traveled the world twice over. I can sing the entirety of Verdi’s Aida without the need of sheet music.

  Do I not deserve a modicum of consideration for these and many other achievements?

  I would like to think so, though I know it to be impossible.

  Demons should not be granted the indulgence of men. So sayeth man, at least.

  But I’ll share a secret. In my years, I have discovered it is possible to be both disconcerting and delightful all at once. Wine can be delicious though it muddles the mind. A mother may love and hate her children in the span of the same afternoon.

  And a predator could abhor itself even as it relishes its evening meal.

  I understand my behavior might be construed as odd. Unseemly. But I am a thing of oddity. A creature born apart from this world.

  Don’t fret on my account. I have never been one of those immortals who enjoy toying with their food, nor do I particularly like stalking my prey. I am not looking for their weaknesses; rather, I am understanding their humanity. There is something . . . wrong with treating a living being as though it exists purely for my own sport. Every action I undertake has a purpose. It is the characteristic that distinguishes me from many beings of the Otherworld.

  My convictions.

  I feel keenly the loss of any life taken. The kill last week along the pier did not thrill me in any way. It was necessarily gruesome, in a manner I typically eschew, especially for such an indiscriminate death. I brought about the girl’s end simply to see what was possible. To see what kind of attention it would draw. Alas, it did not have the effect I hoped, for my enemy remains above the authorities’ notice. It appears a more lasting impression must be left with my next victim. A more direct assault, upon my enemy’s doorstep.

  Each death to come will be felt all the more keenly. That is of primary importance.

  For though I may disdain wanton bloodshed, I am not impervious to the draw of the hunt. A friend from childhood used to say she knew when an animal had perished in agony. She could taste it, and it ruined the meal for her.

  I find I am inclined to agree. There is also a certain allure to knowing what will happen next, before anyone else does. Perhaps it is a result of my unconventional upbringing. Or maybe it is simply human nature.

  And I was human. Once.

  A part of me still longs to be.

  Maybe that is what draws me to the liveliness of the French Quarter. I avoided hunting in it for many years, because its corners contained memories not soon forgotten. Images of pain and loss and heartbreak. But I’ve returned to my old haunt after too long a time, for I have an ancient score to settle. A final performance to give.

  Sacro fremito di gloria / Tutta l’anima m’investe.

  A sacred thrill of glory / Runs through my heart.

  Perhaps I am still human after all.

  A TOUCH OF VIOLENCE

  Celine!” Pippa called out as Celine whirled into the crowd, her steps surefooted. Free. “Slow down. There’s no need to move about so quickly.”

  Celine halted in her tracks, excitement sparking in her chest. The beat of a distant drum met with the clash of cymbals. Soon thereafter, trumpets pealed into the vibrant night air. A sultry breeze toyed with the ends of the black satin ribbon about her throat, caressing her collarbone. Though she kept still, her heart reached for the music, as if it called to something deep in her bones. It never ceased to amaze her, how she seemed to thrive under cover of darkness. How she fell more in love with the moon every night.

  Each evening—despite the thick walls of the convent— Celine’s toes had tapped alongside the melodies of the passing carnival parades. Rhythms and timbres and crescendos of sound she’d never before heard had captured her attention, stealing her thoughts from the word of God. She was not alone in this. Antonia’s fingers had frozen above the pages of vespers, her mind transfixed as well. Even Pippa had smiled at the music.

  And here they were now, given a chance to revel in the heart of it all.

  The parade drew closer, the crowd around them spilling into the side streets of the Vieux Carré. Temporary vendors began rolling carts of food and drink onto its corners, adding layer upon layer to the sights and smells and sounds collecting about the space: spice and earth and the clash of metal against stone. Celine shifted with the sea of moving bodies, dragging Pippa in her wake. When they turned the corner, a delicious scent— unlike any Celine had ever known—permeated the air.

  “Cochon de lait!” a man with a soot-caked mustache called out in a strange French accent. He hovered above what looked like a beast of iron and black smoke about the size of a large trunk. When he rolled back its lid, Celine saw meat roasting above a makeshift spit, the aroma of burning pecan wood and sugarcane wafting through it. He poured a concoction that smelled of melted butter, white wine, hot peppers, and minced garlic all over the smoked cochon. A delicious steam sizzled from the smoldering embers, weaving through and around them. Then
the man with the mustache poked a large fork in one side of the meat, and a piece of cochon fell from the bone onto a waiting piece of bread. Immediately a crowd formed a queue around the man and his iron beast.

  Celine desperately wished she carried with her a single coin. A single chance to partake in something so mouthwatering. She knew it was a bad idea to move closer to the merriment of the incoming parade, but it had been so long since this kind of unbridled joy had taken root in her heart. She supposed that was the way of it, when one was guilty of committing unspeakable acts like murder.

  Joy did not live in a heart full of fear.

  Pippa saw the look on her face. “We can’t linger here, Celine,” she said in a grim tone. “We can’t watch the parade.”

  “I know.” Celine inhaled deeply. “I’m just imagining that we could. That we did. And it was glorious.”

  A sympathetic smile curled up Pippa’s face. “I want to see it, too. But if the Mother Superior finds out we disregarded her wishes—that we did not go straight to our meeting and immediately return—she’ll never let us venture into the city alone again.”

  “Of course.” Celine nodded. But her feet remained fixed to one spot.

  “Please,” Pippa continued, taking her hand. “Life is much more difficult when those around us do not have faith in us.”

  Celine sighed. As usual, Pippa wasn’t wrong. In the past, Celine’s penchant for recklessness had proved problematic. Disastrous on at least one occasion. The sense of joy that had bloomed in her chest only a moment before wilted like a rose beneath the hot sun.

  “You’re right,” Celine said softly. Regretfully. She turned away from the crowd and all its delightful promises.

  Pippa linked arms with her as they began walking in the opposite direction. “I just don’t have the same sense of adventure as you.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Celine grinned. “You did board a ship sailing into the unknown.” And lie for me tonight, she added without words.