The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  Fickle little fool that it was.

  “It knew my name. Told me to come with it to the heart of Chartres.” Celine shuddered. “It asked me to die in its arms.”

  A trace of rage rippled across Bastien’s face. “It’s gone now.”

  “It might come back.”

  “I’ll find it first.” Bastien’s fingers slid down her face, his palm framing her chin. His features took on a dangerous edge, his steel-flecked eyes bright and intense.

  He looked . . . vicious. Like an avenging angel. Or a demon from Hell.

  Celine wrapped a hand around his wrist. The way he spoke in this moment—the way he gazed at her—should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Instead Celine bowed into his caress. Tightened her grip around his wrist, the creature in her blood restless, feverish.

  Bastien bent closer, his breath a cool wash across her skin, his lips close enough to touch. To nip. To taste.

  He was going to kiss her. She was going to kiss him back.

  And—for a blink of time—nothing else would matter.

  A pair of footfalls across the street shattered their reverie. A well-dressed couple around her father’s age had stopped in their tracks, pausing to stare at Bastien and Celine, their expressions filled with shared disapproval.

  All at once, Celine’s sense of propriety returned. She knew why the other pair looked upon them with such disdain. To anyone passing by, Bastien and Celine appeared to be two young lovers caught in a passionate embrace on a darkened street corner. Unknowingly, Celine’s fingers had twisted around the fine fabric of Bastien’s waistcoat, as if to tug him closer. The palm of Bastien’s free hand was pressed against the small of her back, dragging her against him.

  She felt the heat of him through her bodice. Through her skirts. Felt it caress past her skin, into her soul.

  Wanton. Sinful. Perfect.

  With a gasp, Celine pushed away.

  Bastien’s fingers fell from her throat. He stepped back. The fire in his eyes faded the next instant, replaced by amused indifference.

  Celine swallowed, gripped by a sudden despondency. “Thank you . . . for coming to my aid this evening, Monsieur Saint Germain.”

  Bastien nodded. “Of course.” He rubbed a palm against his neck, pausing to check his pulse, for reasons Celine could not begin to fathom.

  Straightening stiffly, she looked about, seeking her own distraction. A few short blocks away, the noise of the carnival rose in her ears, the revelry drawing closer with each passing second.

  “We should make our way back to the convent,” Bastien said above the rising din.

  Celine nodded in agreement. But unease took hold of her at the thought of marching through the darkened corridors of the Ursuline convent. Of trying to fall asleep amid its lurking shadows.

  She could not be alone right now, though she refused to say it aloud.

  “I appreciate your offer to accompany me to the convent,” Celine said, her voice shaken by uncertainty. “I just . . .”

  Bastien’s expression softened. Her heart stuttered when he moved toward her, only to catch himself midstep. “Would you rather walk someplace else first? Perhaps a nearby café for some coffee or a cup of tea?” he asked, his tone bordering on formal.

  Celine hated to hear the distance in his words. Another wash of inexplicable sadness hollowed through her. How she wished she could ask him for what she truly wanted. How she wished she could admit it to herself.

  The creature inside her rattled its cage, demanding to be released.

  As if to mock her further, raucous laughter pealed in the distance, its echo cheerful. Unencumbered. Celine resented it greatly. More than anything, she wanted to feel as free as that ribbon of laughter. To remember what it felt like to feel safe in her own skin.

  Darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, reminding Celine of her truth. How could she dare to wish for such a thing? She’d killed a man and run away, flouting French law. If the truth ever came to light, she could be hanged for it.

  Did a murderess deserve to feel free?

  A new strain of music unraveled into the sky, its melody bright. Effervescent.

  It beckoned to Celine, all but making the decision for her. Still she hesitated.

  Then—as if he could read her mind—Bastien said, “Perhaps we should venture in the direction of the parade and walk with the crowd for a few minutes.”

  Celine nodded, the gratitude plain on her face.

  Maybe a girl destined for the gallows didn’t deserve to feel free. To drown her dark sorrows in something light. But neither did any young man who tried to force himself on a young woman.

  And Celine still wasn’t sorry for what she’d done.

  MÉFIEZ-VOUS DU ROUGAROU

  The crowd pulsed around Celine and Bastien, ebbing and flowing like a capricious tide. Cheers and wild laughter suffused the air, putting to rout the worst of her fears. Celine’s pulse thrummed beneath her skin, her blood rising in a heady rush. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel as if she were floating with the crowd, being carried on an errant wave.

  She’d never experienced a more welcome distraction.

  Bits of colored paper rained down around them, collecting in Celine’s hair and against Bastien’s skin before littering the ground. Music pounded into the sky, brass trumpets blaring, screeching through the night as if their joy could not be contained. Revelers gathered beneath eaves and along street corners festooned with vibrant streamers, many with their hands or arms linked, all sense of propriety lost beneath the light of the crescent moon.

  A papier-mâché tableaux car trundled down the lane, moving at a snail’s pace. Men clothed in jackets trimmed with golden epaulettes—as if they were foot soldiers in Napoleon’s army—laughed as they threw coins, painted buttons, and wooden beads into the crowd.

  Each of Celine’s senses were aflame. The sweat and the smell of overturned earth mixed with powdery clouds of sugar to form its own unique fragrance. She soon found herself caught up in the commotion, her fears further dulled by the sight of the ongoing spectacle.

  She whirled around, stepping back when members of a dancing troupe bearing torches pressed through the center of the crowd, their skirts spinning in a blur about their slender bodies. Shirtless, barrel-chested men with waxed mustaches and scandalously tight trousers performed acrobatic tricks in the middle of the street.

  The chaos of the crowd threatening to separate them, Celine reached for Bastien’s hand without thought. He threaded his fingers through hers as if it were natural. As if the only thing that made sense amid the confusion was the touch of his skin to hers.

  Celine drew alongside Bastien, her eyes wide-open, a smile threatening to take shape on her face. Swallowed by the sea of moving bodies, they were soon carried past a narrow alley-way where a young, well-dressed couple shared an ardent kiss in the shadows, as though they were the only two souls in existence, her fingers winding through his hair, his hands gripping her hips.

  Her cheeks flushing, Celine averted her gaze. It was wrong to watch something so intimate.

  To watch them. To want to be them.

  “Faites attention!” a man yelled as the crowd made a sudden surge.

  “Nom de Dieu,” Celine cursed as she almost collided with a stout man clutching an empty bottle of port. Bastien pulled back in a seamless motion, spinning them about, away from the budding confusion.

  Before they could take in a breath, three young women turned the corner, pulling short a hairsbreadth from Bastien and Celine. Blue ostrich feathers fanned about their heads, their wide belts fashioned of satin and sparkling beads in an array of rainbow colors, their skirts constructed of layers of translucent tulle. Fabric rosettes covered the centers of their breasts.

  The rest of their pale skin was bare.

  Bastien laughed as the women harrumphed at a stu
nned Celine, rounding her with ease.

  “Faites attention,” he whispered in her ear, his tone teasing.

  She glanced over her shoulder—armed with a retort—when a tall figure wearing a terrifying mask lunged for them, the fur around its face trembling, its walnut-shell claws nearly grazing their shoulders.

  Celine stifled a cry as she stepped back into Bastien, who wrapped a steadying arm around her waist.

  The man in the furred mask angled his head to the sky. Bayed once. “Méfiez-vous du rougarou!” He drew out the last word into another howl, then spun about in an awkward dance.

  Celine’s eyes went wide. Though her heart still pounded, a smile tugged at the edges of her lips. Bastien laughed, then bowed at the masked man, who proceeded to lope in another direction.

  “Beware the . . . what did he say?” Celine tilted her head, struggling to be heard over the commotion.

  “The rougarou.”

  Celine blinked. “What is a rougarou?” she asked loudly.

  “A creature of darkness meant to instill fear in the hearts of children.” Bastien sent her a lighthearted grin, his gaze glittering. “Half man, half wolf, it prowls the swamps and forests beneath the light of the moon, hunting for its next kill.”

  Though he spoke in obvious jest, Celine could not ignore the strange pull in her stomach. Something inhuman had attacked her less than half an hour ago. The worst of her nightmares had become very real possibilities. Was this a creature of fact or fiction?

  Bastien’s features softened with understanding. “Don’t worry. A rougarou exists only in our imagination.”

  “And in your imagination, what does it kill?” she asked carefully.

  “Bad Catholics.”

  A rush of unexpected laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You can’t be serious.”

  He peaked a brow. “Make sure you keep all your promises during Lent.” He leaned close, electrifying the skin beneath her ear, sending a chill from her neck down to her toes. “Or méfiez-vous du rougarou.”

  Celine laughed again, shoving him away.

  “Regardez!” a throaty voice commanded nearby.

  Bastien and Celine followed the directive, turning to look to one side.

  Four elderly women with dark skin stood in a semicircle, the eldest at its center waving a hand in Bastien’s direction.

  “C’est un beau diable,” she declared, the other women around her chortling in response. “Do you not agree?” she asked Celine.

  Celine answered with a humorless nod. Bastien was indeed a beautiful devil.

  The lady held out her wrinkled hands. “Dance with me, beau diable,” she ordered Bastien.

  Without the slightest hesitation, he swept her up in his arms as the beat of a festive quadrille blared into the night sky, the drums and violins soaring in tandem. Soon other couples joined in, until a small corner of the street moved in a familiar pattern, changing partners, weaving in and out of each other like the reeds of a basket coming together.

  Celine found herself pulled into the mêlée, brushing past hands and shoulders, flashing around blurring faces, the sweat dripping from her brow, the hem of her salmon-striped skirt kicking up a whirl of red dust around her feet.

  When the quadrille ended—a new melody quick to take its place—Celine laughed loudly and clapped with the dispersing crowd. Then she glanced across the way to find Bastien watching her, a strange look on his face.

  They held each other’s gazes as they all but collided in the center of the street.

  “You dance well,” Celine said with an awkward smile.

  “As do you.”

  She made a face. “I was a bit uncertain about the steps. There haven’t been many occasions for me to dance.”

  “We should remedy that.” Bastien brushed the settling dust from his shoulders. “And dancing well isn’t about knowing the steps. It’s about knowing yourself.”

  “That’s a bit trite, don’t you think?”

  His lips pushed forward. “Trite? Why would it be trite to know oneself?”

  “I only meant—do we ever truly know ourselves?”

  “I should hope so. Knowing who you are is necessary in order to determine who you want to be.” Bastien looked to Celine for cues on where to proceed. Without a word, she began winding through the fringes of the crowd, moving in the direction of the convent, reassured by the feeling of his palm against the small of her back.

  Once they’d cleared the parade, Celine shifted beside Bastien, at ease for the first time since leaving Jacques’, when her chief concern had been the recent humiliation she’d suffered at Odette’s hands. Celine almost laughed at herself. To think that had happened less than an hour ago.

  But none of it mattered now. Not much, at least.

  Her fingers no longer trembled. Her ribs no longer constricted her heart. She didn’t yet feel entirely safe, but at least she no longer felt afraid.

  And she was thankful.

  For the length of the next city block, Celine considered the last thing Bastien had said. “If knowing who you are is a necessary part of knowing who you will become, then who are you, Sébastien Saint Germain?”

  He snorted. “I should warn you, turnabout is fair play.”

  Celine paused in deliberation. “Tonight, I agree. From this point onward, let’s deal only in truths.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “We’ll return to cloaking ourselves in comfortable lies.”

  Bastien laughed, the sound rich and resonant. “Very well, then. Who am I?” he mused. “I’m . . . a man.” Something glinted in his gaze.

  Celine eyed him sidelong, her expression sardonic.

  “I’m the son of people from different worlds,” he continued, his smile lingering. “My mother was a free woman of color, and my father was Taíno.” He paused. “For too short a time, I was also”—a shadow crossed his face—“a brother. After I lost my family, I became a nephew. My uncle brought me back to New Orleans at the age of nine, and I lived here until I was sent to the academy, where—barring a rather unfortunate incident—I almost became a soldier.” A hint of bitter amusement touched his lips. “Now I handle my uncle’s affairs when he is away on business.” He raised a shoulder. “I suppose that’s the whole of it.”

  Celine refrained from calling him out. Bastien may not have told any falsehoods, but he’d obfuscated the truth, distilling the whole of his life down to nothing more than a few particulars. A fount of questions gathered in her throat. Michael’s admonition from days earlier rang through her mind, spurring her to press Bastien for details, so that she might understand the full extent of the Ghost’s unhappy tale.

  She chose to ignore this desire. It would be easier to take on those concerns tomorrow than bear their weight tonight.

  “You can ask me, Celine,” Bastien said. “After all, Michael didn’t tell you everything.” Caustic humor laced his words.

  “Of course he didn’t. I’m certain it hasn’t escaped your notice how much he hates you.”

  “The feeling is most assuredly mutual.” His grin reeked of arrogance.

  “May I ask why?”

  “You may. But I may not answer. Since I promised not to lie.”

  Celine’s lips were caught between silence and speech for an instant. “Very well,” she grumbled. “For what it’s worth, Arjun is a wretched spy.”

  He snorted. “As well as an excellent attorney.”

  “For fiends and scoundrels alike.” She paused. “But in all seriousness . . . what happened to your family?” This, at least, she wished to know in this moment.

  A look of blank apathy settled onto his beautiful face. “My mother died six months after my sister. Following their deaths, my father took me from New Orleans to Saint Domingue. He fell ill soon thereafter, so we moved to his home in San Juan.”

 
“And . . . how did your sister die?”

  “She was killed in an accident, at the age of fifteen.” Though Bastien’s reply sounded indifferent, his features hardened for an instant, anger flashing behind his eyes before his artful mask slipped back into place. There was a story there. A source of immense pain. But Celine did not wish to press Bastien on the matter. Not yet. “My father succumbed to his illness a short while later, after which I returned to New Orleans,” he finished.

  An invisible hand gripped Celine’s heart in a vise. It troubled her how Bastien spoke about loss in such a matter-of-fact tone. Perhaps that was how he talked about things that truly mattered to him, in cold, detached fashion.

  “I’ve heard many people say tragedy shapes us,” Bastien continued. “But I am not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, nor am I the worst thing I’ve ever done. Nothing in life is that simple.” He looked across the darkened streets of New Orleans, his gaze steady. Determined.

  His words were like a blow to Celine. Every day she denied parts of herself. Tried to hide the worst thing that had happened to her, the worst thing she’d ever done. Her entire life, she’d denied who her mother was, as if it were some kind of great shame. Because of this, she knew nothing about half her past. Half of her own story.

  Since the age of four, she’d been told this was the only way.

  “Do you ever wish you could be someone else?” Celine asked, her tone solemn.

  “Often. Especially when I was a boy.” Bastien turned toward her. “And you?”

  Celine blanched.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Bastien repeated her earlier words: “Tonight we deal only in truths.”

  “Which is . . . difficult, since my whole life is built on a lie.”

  It was honest. More honest than Celine had ever been with anyone in her life.

  She breathed in deeply through her nose. “My mother was from a Far Eastern country. I was never told which one. But . . . I am of mixed heritage, from a marriage of East and West,” Celine blurted, almost as if her own admission startled her. “I’ve never said that to a soul,” she finished in a rush.