The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  Celine tilted her head. Cut her gaze. “How long are we going to pretend what happened earlier this evening didn’t happen at all?”

  Bastien’s laughter was quick. Caustic. “You’re rather certain of your moral rectitude, Mademoiselle Rousseau.”

  “Just as I’m certain it benefits you to be so dismissive, Monsieur Saint Germain.”

  His gunmetal-grey eyes glittered. “I’ve irritated you again.”

  “Yet you still have not offered a reason why.”

  “I don’t enjoy explaining myself. My actions speak for me. If you feel them to be heartless and cruel, then so be it; I am heartless and cruel.” He spoke in a glib fashion. “Trust that I will be the last person to correct you.”

  “It must be quite a life, not having to explain yourself.”

  “You should try it sometime. It’s rather freeing.”

  “I imagine it would be freeing to care only about oneself.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Alas, I am not a man.”

  A frown touched Bastien’s lips. The first sign that Celine had struck a nerve. But he did not reply. This time, the silence around them hung on the cusp of something weightier. A bolt of lightning before a crash of thunder.

  “Why—”

  “Are—”

  They both stopped. Exchanged daggered smiles. This close, Celine could see flecks of steel in his eyes. The way the stubble along his jaw accentuated its fine lines.

  “Please,” he began, canting his head, giving her leave to speak first.

  “Why did the man in the alleyway call you Le Fantôme?” Celine asked. “Do you have a habit of dressing like a ghoul and terrorizing those around you?”

  Amusement rippled across Bastien’s face. “It’s a nickname from childhood.” He paused before returning the volley. “Do you have a habit of dragging darkness with you wherever you go?”

  “What?” It stunned Celine how precisely he managed to strike another nerve.

  “Selene was a lunar goddess. A Titan. She drove a chariot of white horses across the sky to usher in the night.”

  How . . . lovely. Celine had never heard the story of the goddess Selene, which surprised her because her father was a lover of the classics. Her parents had named her for a family relation, long-since dead. A great-aunt named Marceline. She didn’t know when they’d first taken to shortening it. Likely when she was very young. Perhaps even when she lived along the coast of her mother’s country.

  “No, I was not named for a goddess,” she replied. “Celine . . . is a nickname from childhood.”

  “I deserved that.” Bastien’s soft laughter filtered through the air. Those in their immediate vicinity turned to peer at them in disbelief, one of their ranks blowing a stream of pale blue smoke from an elaborate water pipe. It was the first time Celine had ever heard Bastien laugh freely. It sounded low. A rich baritone swathed in silk. She ignored the way it made her appreciate each of her senses all the more.

  Celine found herself settling into their exchange, without once feeling the need to play a role. The diligent worker. The obedient daughter. The pious young woman. Someone who floated with the current, rather than making her own waves.

  Did the lunar goddess Selene also rule the tides, like the moon? If so, Celine wished to go through the rest of her life channeling this deity. It was true she didn’t know whether this goddess was her namesake, but perhaps she could choose to take on the mantle herself.

  Celine relished the thought. The idea of being a Titan who wrapped the sky in a fleece of stars.

  “Why did you leave Paris?” Bastien asked, shattering the image forming in Celine’s mind.

  Her pulse fluttered at the question, her nerves going taut. “I never said I was from Paris.”

  “You didn’t need to.” His grin was devastatingly charming, despite the sharp angles of his features. “You told Odette. Now even the gutter rats know.”

  At that, Celine laughed. It felt easy. Too easy.

  Nearby, the sounds of ivory dice striking against burl wood mingled with a chorus of raucous laughter. Her attention drifted toward the roulette table. Celine smiled to herself, again struck by the realization she felt comfortable here, amid practitioners of magic and lords of mayhem. As Odette had suggested, this place was unlike anything Celine had ever known.

  Bastien followed her gaze. “Have you played roulette?”

  Celine did not reply.

  “You should try it,” he pressed.

  “You’re encouraging me to gamble?”

  “Does that riffle your delicate sensibilities?”

  “Don’t be a cad.” Celine narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps I’m an excellent gambler,” she lied again, as she had to Boone. “Perhaps you will rue the day you let me win.”

  A spark of humor shone in his gaze. “A fair pun, though I’m loath to admit it.”

  “You dislike puns?”

  “Almost as much as rhetorical questions.”

  “There was a time when puns were the height of humor.” She mirrored the angle of his head. “And are you not curious about which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

  “Technically”—he sent her a wicked grin—“wasn’t it the rooster?”

  Celine’s brows shot upward, her mouth agape. The next instant, bright laughter burst from her lips, the sound startling those nearby for the second time that evening.

  Bastien smiled wider, his teeth flashing white, distracting her for an instant. They looked inordinately perfect, the points of his canines almost wolfish. Something about it unsettled her, as if Celine were gazing at a painting instead of a person. Perhaps a piece by Rembrandt, a master who always managed to catch details others missed, rendering his subjects in an otherworldly light.

  A timely reminder that young men like Bastien saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Through a haze of wealth and entitlement.

  “Don’t fall in love with me,” Celine blurted without thought. “Nothing good will come of it.”

  Surprise touched his features. “Then you intend to break my heart?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Duly noted.” Bastien appeared—by all rights—to be enjoying himself. It unnerved Celine to realize that she, too, was enjoying his company. It had been weeks since she’d looked upon a man without an air of suspicion clouding her every thought.

  The next instant, Celine’s smile faded.

  Pippa had reached the top of the stairs, Odette in tow. The front of Pippa’s simple voile dress was wet, but the stain appeared to be from water rather than wine. Celine moved away from Bastien, clasping her hands behind her, turning her attention to the floor, as if she’d been caught committing an act of subterfuge.

  Bastien studied her with an odd look, his expression savoring strangely of disappointment. It was only for an instant, but a cold hand of guilt grasped Celine by the throat, making it difficult to swallow. As if her conscience believed she’d wronged Bastien in some fashion. But how could that be possible? A boy like this would not care what a girl he’d just met thought of him. He’d said it himself:

  He would be the last one to correct her assumptions.

  Sure enough, Bastien stepped away. Stood straight, his brow hooding his gaze, a shadow falling across his features once more.

  Another stab of guilt cut through Celine’s chest. She banished it the following instant. If Bastien did not believe it necessary to explain himself, then why should she? Besides that, it wasn’t proper for her to be seen enjoying his company, given his earlier behavior.

  They were like two trains set on a collision course. Better for all those involved if they did not relish each other’s company.

  At least that way they could avoid colliding at all.

  Odette strode before them, her hands in the pockets of her buckskin trousers, a lock of brunette hair escaping her coif. “
My, that was an odyssey. I never thought voile would be quite so stubborn a fabric.” She arched her brows in question. “What did we miss?”

  Celine lifted a shoulder as if she were bored. “I was merely conveying to Monsieur Saint Germain my displeasure at our earlier encounter.” She squared her chin. “And especially with the display of wanton violence.”

  Bastien remained silent, his lips pressing forward. Celine felt the weight of his gaze upon her, the steel turning colder with each passing second.

  “Violence?” Odette’s eyes shifted from Celine to Bastien and back again. “Qu’est-ce que tu as fait?” she accused, her lovely face crestfallen, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the skin there resembling polished Carrara. “At least do me the courtesy of not ruining my friendships before I’ve had the chance to make them, s’il te plaît.” Huffing, Odette drew a lacquered fan from inside her ballooned sleeve and flicked it open.

  Bastien considered Celine for a tense spell. Then amusement tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Answering violence with violence was a courtesy, ma souris. Perhaps in your quest for friendship, you could elect to choose fewer . . . unsavory characters.”

  Odette’s fan snapped shut. “You didn’t.”

  He crooked a dark eyebrow at her and said nothing.

  “You démon,” Odette said. “I warned you not to get involved in that matter with Lévêque. What did you do?” She glanced about. “Never mind. Of course you won’t tell me. I’ll simply ask Arjun instead.”

  “Des questions, des questions.” Bastien held his hands out at his sides. “Qui a le temps pour ces choses?” He sent her a devilish grin.

  “You should make the time.” Odette sniffed with disdain. “And I wouldn’t be proud of that terrible joke, if I were you.”

  “There are those who find me wildly clever.”

  “Grâce à Dieu, I am not among them,” Odette retorted, “for I have no need of your golden coffers . . . or your pretty face.”

  Celine laughed softly. “And every man should be master of his own time.”

  Bastien turned to her, his features expressionless. He nodded once. “Just as every woman should quote Shakespeare when she has nothing better to say.”

  Celine’s cheeks grew hot. Embarrassment coiled through her as Pippa took hold of her left hand, bidding her to keep calm.

  Gritting her teeth, Celine swiveled toward Odette. “Forgive me, but time has gotten away from us. Is there a place we can go to finish obtaining your measurements?” She paused, her words pointed. “A place where we can avoid unwanted eyes?”

  Odette’s petite nostrils flared at Bastien, her mouth caught between silence and speech for a breath. At any moment, Celine expected her to begin berating him again, almost as if she were his elder sister or his aunt. But Odette simply nodded. “There’s a chamber in the back, past the washroom.”

  With a withering glance in Bastien’s direction, Odette led the way toward one of the two doors in the back, situated at opposite extremes along the wall. Between them rested an ornate wooden credenza with a white cloth strewn across its middle. Covering its surface were statues resembling Saint Peter and the Virgin Mary, painted in vivid hues. A short blade lay across the credenza’s center. Positioned in a semicircle around it were carved figurines with skull faces and small dolls fashioned of bone and straw. Scattered between were assortments of wooden beads, dried fruits, and nuts, mingled with drops of hardened wax.

  The arrangement looked vaguely familiar to Celine. Lingering traces of incense and scented candles curled into her nose, painting flashes of memory across her vision. Recollections of a low table decorated in a similar fashion, the fragrances of fruit and myrrh suffusing the air.

  The display spiked her curiosity, but Celine did not stop to study it further or ask any questions. She wished to be rid of anything associated with this place as soon as possible, though it troubled her to no longer feel welcome at Jacques’.

  “Through here.” Odette reached for the handle of an entrance intended to blend into the paneled walls, its hinges concealed by the folds of a heavy silk curtain. When she pushed against it, the door refused to budge.

  “C’est quoi ça?” Odette muttered, shoving harder, lines gathering across her brow. She threw her weight against the heavy oak. Finally it began to give way.

  A hand flopped through the opening.

  A pale, unmoving hand.

  It took a moment for the sight to register. A stutter of time before everything sped forward in a rush.

  “Mon Dieu!” Odette exclaimed. Using her shoulder, she rammed through the opening with Celine on her heels. They both stopped short, Pippa trembling behind them.

  A girl lay sprawled across the floor of a darkened corridor, her unbound auburn curls thrown over her freckled face. At her throat was a jagged wound. Something had torn through her flesh with razor-sharp teeth, like those of a large animal.

  Her fingers shaking, Odette reached for the girl’s wrist, checking for a pulse. When she jostled the young woman’s arm, a lock of wavy red hair fell from her face.

  Celine gasped. She knew that face. Had spent the better part of the day in its company.

  Anabel.

  “Is she—?” Pippa’s voice broke. Then rose into a keening wail.

  There was no need for anyone to answer her unspoken question.

  Beside Anabel’s lifeless body, a symbol had been drawn in blood:

  AN AERIALIST ON A TIGHTROPE

  Celine had seen death before.

  She was no stranger to the sight. But that did not make it any easier to bear witness to it now. Nor did it make its finality any less severe.

  A life had been taken tonight.

  Like that, Anabel was gone.

  Many realizations gripped Celine in the moments following the body’s discovery:

  Anabel had died a violent death. That much was clear from the jagged maw across her throat. Celine had never seen a wound like that. For an instant, she toyed with the idea that Bastien’s snake might be responsible.

  Upon further consideration, however, it did not follow that a snake like Toussaint would go to the trouble of killing its prey, only to leave it behind in a darkened corridor. If memory served Celine correctly, pythons did not slash their victims’ throats; instead they opted to squeeze the life out of them slowly.

  And of course no snake would leave behind a calling card. Written in blood, no less.

  But if the snake wasn’t responsible for Anabel’s death, then who was? And why? Moreover, why had Anabel come to Jacques’ tonight? Clearly she’d followed Celine and Pippa here. But why had she not made her presence known?

  It took only an instant for Celine to parse out the truth.

  The Mother Superior must have sent Anabel to spy on them. It had to be the reason why the matron of the Ursuline convent had changed her mind so easily earlier this evening, when she’d suddenly granted Celine and Pippa permission to go, after protesting against it at length.

  Celine swallowed, her ears going hot. If the Mother Superior’s machinations explained why Anabel had come to Jacques’ tonight, it meant all of them—Pippa, the Mother Superior, and Celine herself—had had a hand in Anabel’s violent death.

  In Anabel’s murder.

  Finally, if her death was at all related to the one along the docks, then it meant a madman—or madwoman—was on the loose.

  Celine’s eyes shifted around the room slowly, her breaths quickening. If someone had murdered Anabel in Jacques’ tonight following their arrival, it meant anyone present now—including all the members of La Cour des Lions—could be responsible for killing her.

  Odette. Nigel. Kassamir. Arjun. The man from the Far East with the mother-of-pearl blade. The two ebony-skinned women with their bejeweled claws. Boone. The harried young server below. Not to mention the many nameless individuals who’d bee
n seated throughout the dimly lit chamber.

  And of course Bastien.

  With each passing second, these thoughts raced through Celine’s mind, her skin tingling from the rush of blood, her foot tapping against the plush carpeting. In contrast, Pippa stared at the marble tabletop before them, her posture hollowing like an apple left out in the sun.

  It was nearing midnight. Celine and Pippa should have returned to the convent hours ago. Instead they’d been sequestered in the shadowy chamber on the second floor, seated on an ornate divan in the style of Louis XIV, surrounded by a gathering of illusionists.

  As well as five members of the Metropolitan Police.

  Though it was the least of Celine’s concerns, the Mother Superior would undoubtedly have their heads upon their return. But that could not be of issue now.

  Far more pressing was the fact that Pippa and Celine were likely being counted among the possible suspects in a murder. If Celine found any humor in the irony, she would be on the floor, laughing maniacally.

  But humor would not save her now.

  Once the truth of Celine’s and Pippa’s association with Anabel came to light, it would not be easy for them to explain why they’d been unaware of Anabel’s presence until the moment they’d discovered her body. Even to Celine, it sounded suspicious. Not only had they been nearby at the time of the victim’s death, but they’d also known the poor young woman personally. Briefly Celine considered trying to summon the Mother Superior to vouch for them. Alas, that old bat would be just as likely to foist blame onto Celine as she would be to help her.

  It was too much of a risk.

  Celine knew she should reveal these truths the instant after she was introduced to the Metropolitan Police’s best detective. But it might color his judgment against them, causing him to forgo looking elsewhere for evidence. If she waited, however, he would undoubtedly be suspicious.

  Zut. Celine sighed to herself. When would be a good time to tell him?