The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  And yet the words fell from her lips with surprising ease.

  Bastien studied her while they walked. Whatever his thoughts were, he concealed them well.

  Her head remarkably cool, Celine trained her eyes on the grey pavestones ahead. “When my father and I came to Paris, I was very young. He told me to keep who my mother was a secret. He said if the world knew, I would live with derision for the rest of my life. So I listened, and I lied. And . . . I feel ashamed for it. It’s as if this lie has become an essential part of my truth, like a kind of twisted keystone. So much so, that I don’t know how to”—she struggled for a moment—“how to think or behave any differently, lest the whole thing crumble to pieces.”

  There. Several painful truths unmasked. Truths she’d been incapable of admitting even to herself. It surprised her that—of all the people she’d encountered thus far—she’d decided to share these truths with Bastien.

  Celine waited in silence for a time, pondering this realization. Wishing she could ignore the meaning behind it.

  “I’m sorry for your pain, Celine,” Bastien said in a subdued tone. “Thank you for trusting me with your truth.”

  A sharp twinge cut through her chest, making it difficult to respond at first.

  Finally Celine spoke, her voice a soft brush of sound. “And I’m sorry for your pain, Bastien. I think trust is a precious thing. Know that I will always treat yours as such.”

  He looked at her, his eyes a liquid silver. “Merci, mon coeur. From my heart to yours.”

  They walked the rest of the way toward the Ursuline convent with nothing accompanying them but the chirruping of insects and the whispering of palm fronds. Once they rounded the final bend—the convent looming tall in the darkness—Celine tilted her head toward the lace of stars around the sickle moon, their cool light surging through her veins. Bastien stopped beside her, though he did not follow her gaze.

  “Are the stars that captivating?” he teased in a gentle tone.

  “Of course they are,” she said without looking away. “They’re infinite. They see all and know all. These same stars hung in the sky during the times of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  Bastien sighed, the sound grim. “I’ll never understand the fascination with the infinite. There is an end to everything, to good things as well.”

  “Chaucer was an ass.” Celine glanced at him, a brow quirked with amusement. “And the infinite captivates us because it allows us to believe all things are possible. That true love can last beyond time.”

  He did not reply. Instead his eyes bored into hers, the lashes above them thick. Deliciously sooty. When Celine looked away, Bastien cleared his throat, pausing to check his pulse.

  “You did it again,” Celine said.

  “What?”

  “You often check your pulse. I’m curious as to why.”

  A sardonic smile took shape on Bastien’s face. “To remind myself I’m human.”

  That same strange feeling gripped Celine again. That feeling of something eluding her grasp. Something . . . important. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Are you?”

  Her question caught Bastien off guard. He stared down at her, his perfect lips pushing forward with slow deliberation. Then he took her hand and pressed it to the side of his neck. Beneath Celine’s fingertips drummed a steady heartbeat. One that began to race at her touch, its warmth tingling through her body. Bastien held both their hands there for a time, aware his pulse betrayed him. Aware and seemingly unconcerned.

  The heart doesn’t lie, Michael had said.

  Celine let her shaking hand fall. And decided to ignore all common sense. “Since we’re dealing in truths for this one night, I wanted to say I’m attracted to you.”

  “And I’m attracted to you.” Bastien did not hesitate in this admission.

  She stared up at him, her eyes unflinching. “Earlier this evening, I wanted to kiss you.”

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we first saw each other in Jackson Square.”

  “You remembered,” she murmured. “I thought you had forgotten.”

  Bastien canted his head. “How could I forget? You surprised me. It had been a long time since anything surprised me.”

  Celine blinked. “I surprised you?”

  He laughed. Then his expression turned serious. “One day, someone should tell you how beautiful you are in the moonlight,” Bastien said softly.

  Heat pooled in Celine’s stomach, licking through her chest, rising into her throat. “Someone should.” She swallowed. “But . . . I don’t think it should be you.”

  “I agree.” Again, Bastien did not hesitate.

  “Don’t fall in love with me,” she warned again, her words breathless. “You’re not good for me. And I’m not good for you.”

  “I agree, on all counts.”

  “Most likely, you require a young woman with wealth and pedigree. An established place in society,” Celine continued. “And I require a proper young gentleman.”

  The angles in Bastien’s face sharpened, betraying a spark of emotion too slight to discern. “Correct on all counts,” he said. “You lack the right pedigree.” A half smile curved up his face. “And I am not a gentleman.”

  “Nevertheless, I appreciate what you did for me tonight, more than words. And in the future”—Celine inhaled—“I would not be offended if you chose to maintain your distance.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. If you agree, I believe we’re safe being passing acquaintances.” Bastien paused as if he intended to say something more. Then kept silent, his lips curling upward.

  But . . . who wants to be safe? Celine banished the reckless thought from her mind and held out her hand. “Thank you again. I will not forget your kindness.”

  “You’re welcome, mon coeur.” Instead of bending to kiss her hand, Bastien shook it, as he would an equal, his signet ring winking back at the stars.

  A wave of satisfaction rippled through Celine. “Do passing acquaintances use such terms of endearment?”

  “They do in my world.”

  She smiled through a flicker of sadness. “Your world is beautiful, Bastien. I wish I could stay.”

  “As do I.”

  With that, Celine slid her hand from his, the tips of her fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then she turned toward the convent, surprised to realize it was possible to feel both gladdened and gutted in the same instant.

  THE WITCHING HOUR

  From the corner of her eye, Celine watched their last candle begin to flicker and wane.

  Not yet, she silently implored. Please not yet.

  Her tongue slipped between her teeth as she hastened her efforts, basting the pieces of lustrous fabric together in a race against the sputtering light. Just as she was about to reach the end of the seam, the door to Pippa’s cell creaked open. A faint breeze blew through the space, snuffing out the flame before Celine could blink, swallowing her in sudden darkness.

  “Oh,” Pippa said, her petite figure silhouetted by a beam of moonlight. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” With her foot, she propped the door halfway open. “But I come bearing gifts.” She sidestepped into the room. Between her hands rested a simple wooden tray laden with what appeared to be food and the stub of a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder.

  It took a moment for Celine’s eyes to adjust to the blue darkness. “Apologies are unnecessary, especially if you brought cheese.”

  “And ham and Dijon mustard, as well as tea, a crust of warm bread . . . and a piece of fresh honeycomb I filched earlier from a hive of glorious bees!” Pippa said triumphantly.

  Celine could almost hear Pippa smiling. It was in these moments that she appreciated her the most. Philippa Montrose was sunlight and goodness. A honeycomb in her own right. Perhaps it sounded silly, but
having a friend like Pippa helped Celine believe she was welcome in the eyes of decent society, despite everything that had happened in the last few weeks.

  Grinning, Celine pinned her needle to the shimmering white fabric and shifted back from her makeshift workstation to stretch her arms above her head. Briefly she considered waiting to eat. It would be wise to take advantage of the tiny candle Pippa had finagled to finish the last bit of basting before retiring for the night. After all, a single week remained before the masquerade ball. Celine had never completed a gown in such a short amount of time, much less without assistance.

  But she was famished. She’d already forgone dinner because she’d been so consumed with her work. When Pippa had suggested they pool their meager rations of light to make them last longer, Celine was beyond appreciative of the gesture. Ever since arriving to the convent less than three weeks ago, she’d lamented its dearth of oil lanterns.

  Once the sun had set, Celine had moved her things to Pippa’s slightly larger cell, where Pippa had chosen to work on her watercolors while Celine stitched by the light of their shared candle flames.

  Now Pippa bustled about the space, humming a familiar melody as she lit the short taper and positioned a stool in the center of the room, placing the tray on the seat to form a makeshift table.

  On the opposite side of the cell, Celine stepped back to survey her work.

  It pleased her how much she’d managed to complete in only two days. As soon as dawn had broken the past morning, she’d consulted with a carpenter on Rue Bienville, who’d been recommended to her by the Mother Superior. After Celine explained how the baroque-style panniers should look— extending sideways at each hip in an exaggerated fashion, the front and back silhouettes held close to the body—he suggested they use willow branches, as they would be light, pliable, and readily available. Perfect for constructing hoops that had been out of fashion for nearly a century. To Celine’s immense pleasure, he’d assured her he would have a sample for her to test in three days’ time.

  Celine had proceeded to pour herself into fashioning Odette’s gown with a single-minded focus. It had helped distract her from the many unanswered questions spinning through her mind.

  The first time Celine had visited Jacques’, she’d come to the conclusion that the members of La Cour des Lions were not ordinary humans. Of course that knowledge raised the question: if they weren’t exactly human, then what were they?

  Celine didn’t have the slightest clue. Were they goblins or changelings? Witches or warlocks? Perhaps some kind of dark fairy or ephemeral sylph? These were among the more fanciful possibilities. The kind Celine borrowed from books or stole from stories she’d heard as a child. It felt safer to believe they were tricksters like Puck or fey gentry from a shimmering forest, like Oberon and Titania. Safer to think that than believe they might be creatures so terrible, the worst of Celine’s nightmares could never have conceived of them.

  After all, if magic was possible, anything was possible.

  The thought that alarmed her most was the likelihood that La Cour des Lions had something to do with Anabel’s murder. That Bastien intended to protect the culprit when he concealed the yellow ribbon.

  Or that he was in fact the culprit.

  Perhaps Celine lacked the stomach for the truth. Perhaps she wished to remain blissfully ignorant, a worry that disconcerted her all the more.

  Her mind a tangle of thorns, Celine ran her fingers over the pieces of cut fabric she’d stacked in a neat pile atop Pippa’s rope bed. What had begun this morning as nothing more than a list of measurements and bits of scattered muslin had transformed into the beginnings of a grand ball gown.

  Celine let her mind be consumed by the challenge. Welcomed the diversion.

  The next part of the project could prove to be the most difficult task she’d ever undertaken. A portion of Odette’s masquerade ball costume was intended to be a surprise. Thusly Celine could not rely on her help to complete it. She would have to recruit assistance from elsewhere. Perhaps Pippa would be a good option. Her frame was similar in size and shape to that of Odette, despite their disparity in height.

  “Have you finished for the evening?” Pippa asked while clearing away the last of her watercolor accoutrements.

  Celine stretched again, a yawn tugging at her mouth. “More or less.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone labor for such a long period of time without stopping. As if you would happily work well into the witching hour had you not been interrupted.”

  “It’s true I’m enjoying myself.” Celine sent her a tired smile. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the chance to create something so grand. The masquerade ball is barely a week away. Usually I have months to make a dress this intricate. It’s fortunate Odette had in her possession a great deal of lace and beadwork for me to use.” She knelt before the makeshift table and poured a cup of tea for Pippa. “I didn’t see you earlier this afternoon. Did you go to the market with Antonia or to the milliner with Catherine?”

  Pippa shook her head. “I met Phoebus Devereux’s mother for tea.” She stirred a drop of cream into her tea, the pale color swirling about the cup.

  “I almost forgot about that,” Celine said, as she daubed coarse grain mustard on a piece of bread, then layered slices of Gruyère and salted ham on top. “How was it?”

  Pippa pursed her rosebud lips to one side. “Odd. She said her son has been a bit ill these last two days. The doctors are struggling to determine what might be ailing him. Thankfully he’s on the mend. She wants me to meet with him soon. Phoebus will issue an invitation when he is well again.”

  “If all goes according to his mother’s plan, how do you feel about being courted by him?” Celine bit into the bread, savoring the sharpness of the mustard and the salt of the cheese.

  Pippa broke off a piece of honeycomb, letting the golden honey dribble into her tea while she considered how to respond. “In all honesty, I’m more concerned about what will happen to me if I fail to find a match. When I can no longer reside in a convent without being a nun.” She licked the honey from her fingertips, her expression morose.

  Her friend’s bleak honesty angered Celine. “And if you didn’t have to worry about such things? Would marrying a boy like Phoebus suit your sensibilities?”

  “I suppose so. It would be nice to have something of my own. A space to draw. Paint. Play music. Be myself. The Devereux family appears to be of comfortable means.” Pippa paused. “I would be well cared for if I married Phoebus, should he choose to ask.” Resignation tugged at the edges of her lips.

  Celine sipped her tea, wishing she could speak plainly about how much this situation troubled her. That a girl as wonderful as Pippa would have to forgo her desires in order to have comfort and protection. “I suppose this all sounds reasonable and prudent.” And disheartening, she added to herself.

  “I know this frustrates you.” Pippa paused again in consideration. “I’m just—I don’t have the temperament to wait and hope for something better. I worry all the time what will happen to me. Even reasonable goals can be unattainable when you’re a young woman without prospects,” she said simply, the light dulling in her eyes. “I learned this back home in Yorkshire, when it became clear that no amount of effort on my part or the part of my mother could atone for my father’s failings.”

  Atonement. A concept that also haunted Celine of late. “Do you think it’s possible your father could ever atone for his sins?”

  “To me or to God?”

  “To you.”

  Pippa didn’t reply, a frown settling into the lines of her face, as if the thought troubled her.

  Celine took in a careful breath. “I suppose I’m asking if it’s possible for anyone to truly atone for their sins. To ask for forgiveness and truly be forgiven.”

  For a beat, Pippa lingered in contemplation. “For quite some time now, I’ve though
t sin isn’t as black and white as they’d like us to believe,” she replied in a pensive tone. “I suppose there are times in which sin lies in the eyes of the beholder.”

  “When we first met, I would not have thought you capable of saying such a thing.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult?” Pippa grinned good-naturedly.

  “It’s a compliment. I’m thankful you feel comfortable sharing such thoughts with me.” Celine chewed at the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps what one might consider a sin, another might consider . . . survival.”

  “Like when Jean Valjean stole a loaf of bread to feed his family in Les Misérables.” Pippa nodded in agreement, then prepared a ham-and-cheese tartine for herself. An easy silence settled between them as they finished their midnight meal.

  Just as Celine swallowed the dregs of her lukewarm tea, Pippa angled her head to one side. “Celine . . . there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for quite some time. I might muck it up, but I hope you’ll bear with me while I try.”

  Celine’s stomach tightened with dread. “Of course.” She forced herself to smile.

  “I think all of us who came to the convent are here because we didn’t have a better choice,” Pippa began. “It’s possible some of us are trying to . . . escape something from our pasts.” She wavered for an instant. “But I believe you’re a wonderful person, with a good heart and a warm soul. Whatever you may have done in your past life, I think that—no, I know that—God can forgive you.”

  A knot formed in the base of Celine’s throat. “Pippa, I—”

  “Wait, wait, there’s more.” Pippa took in a deep, steadying breath. “If God forgives you, so can I.” Determination etched across her brow. “So should we all.” She swallowed, her lips gathering sheepishly. “I made a hash of that, didn’t I? It sounded much better in my head. Ever so much more poignant and meaningful.”