The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  Celine’s mouth had gone dry. “You didn’t make a hash of it. I . . .”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.” With a tender smile, Pippa placed the last of the honeycomb on the edge of Celine’s tea saucer.

  For a time, Celine’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She blinked them back and averted her gaze, fighting to collect herself. “Thank you,” she said in a thick voice. Then she brought the piece of sun-drenched honeycomb to her lips.

  Pippa couldn’t know what she’d done for Celine. What Pippa’s halting statement had meant to her.

  It suddenly struck Celine how the simplest words often carried the most weight.

  Yes and no. Love and hate. Give and take.

  For the first time since she’d killed a man and fled France, she felt understood. Seen.

  Safe.

  * * *

  “Ooofff,” Pippa gasped as she tripped over an uneven stone in the darkened corridors of the Ursuline convent. The basket of basted fabric in her hands almost spilled across the floor, but she managed to hold fast to it.

  “Are you all right?” Celine asked in a loud whisper, a few steps behind her.

  Pippa’s laughter was soft. Rueful. “My hands are slippery from the water and the soap. Perhaps we should have gone to wash for the night after returning your things to your cell.” She righted herself, her motions awkward as a result of her burden.

  “Or perhaps we should have saved the last taper for something besides mocking Catherine.”

  “I didn’t mock her!”

  “Well, you watched me mock her. And you laughed, which is just as awful.”

  “It is not.” Pippa smothered a snicker.

  Celine smiled to herself, her soul awash in warmth. At this point, she’d truly lost count of how many times she’d offered silent thanks for Pippa. Perhaps if she’d had a sister—as she’d so often wished when she was younger—she could understand better what it felt like to have an ally by her side through thick and thin. Someone with whom to brave the darkest of nights.

  A flash of movement caught Celine’s eye at the end of the arched corridor. Like a shadow stretching in a beam of sunlight.

  She stopped short, her last footstep echoing in her ears.

  The memory of that shapeless creature gnashing its teeth and scuttling up the side of the building flickered through Celine’s mind, causing her breath to lodge in her throat. Pippa’s skirts swished across the stone floor a few steps ahead, the sound reminiscent of the creature taking flight in a tangle of wind-swept branches.

  Celine’s skin bristled as if she’d wandered into a spiderweb. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight. She stared at the opposite end of the hallway, half of her willing the shadows to shift once again, the other half praying they did not.

  A moment later, she decided her tired mind had played tricks on her. With a firm set to her shoulders, she adjusted her grip on her wicker basket and proceeded to follow Pippa.

  Outside the door to her cell, Celine rested the basket of sewing bric-a-brac on one hip, then braced herself to push open the heavy wooden door. Just before she took hold of the handle, she turned toward Pippa. “Do you have a free moment tomorrow for me to measure a length of fabric on you?”

  “Of course not.” Pippa grinned. “I abhor the idea of being draped in shimmering silk. It’s as if you don’t know me at all.”

  Celine snorted. “So then I’ll see you at noon?” She turned the handle of her cell.

  The door blew back all at once, drawn by an unexpected draft.

  Pippa yelped as Celine’s basket of sewing instruments crashed to the stone floor. Without pausing for breath, Celine yanked a set of shears from the pile beside her feet, brandishing the sharp point as if it were a blade.

  The smell hit her first. A mixture of old pennies and the stench of a butcher’s shop.

  Of a place in which animals were slaughtered.

  “Pippa,” Celine said, her voice even, despite the fear roiling beneath her skin. “Go find the Mother Superior.”

  “I’m not leaving you. What if—” Pippa’s words were swallowed in a gasp. A large shadow flitted from the floor of the cell to the ceiling, moving too quickly to distinguish.

  “Who’s there?” Celine demanded, her heart thundering in her chest.

  Behind her, Pippa struggled to light a long match, the box falling beside her feet in a scatter of twigs.

  “Go!” Celine demanded. But Pippa persisted, refusing to leave her side.

  The creature hovering on the ceiling chittered, its teeth grating together, causing Celine’s shoulders to pull back and a shudder to course down her spine. On the floor beneath her open window, another creature moaned, the sound a feeble whistle. As though it were caught in the throes of death.

  It took an instant for Celine to understand. The demon in the shadows had attacked something in her cell. She moved to help the wounded soul beneath the window, but her toes slid in something wet, her right foot skidding out from under her. Gripping the wall to steady herself, Celine looked up as a dry cackle emanated from above.

  Terror racing through her veins, Celine fought to stand straight, her knees threatening to buckle out from under her. Pippa screamed and backed away.

  “Be gone from here!” Celine demanded into the blackness looming above her, her fingers trembling around her shears.

  The thing blurred from the ceiling to the floor like a tempest across a field of wheat. Then it stood slowly, its long figure unfolding in a beam of waning moonlight. Before Celine could blink, it rushed toward her, taking her by the wrist, slamming her back against the rough plaster wall. It drew close, smelling of blood and rain. The damp of the earth. It breathed deeply of Celine’s neck, its teeth grazing the lobe of her left ear, leaving a trail of sticky wetness.

  “Each time you evade me, I only want you more,” it gasped, its voice like metal against stone. “You cannot escape. You are mine.” Then it dragged its bloody fingers across her face, as if it were marking her.

  A horrified scream caught in Celine’s throat. She kept rigid, her eyes unblinking, struggling to detect anything of note. Anything that might help identify the creature in the light of day. But the room was too dark, the demon far too close. Pippa’s footsteps pounded down the corridor, her screams jumbled and nonsensical.

  “Death leads to another garden. Welcome to the Battle of Carthage,” the thing whispered in Celine’s ear, its words a crazed rasp, its accent refined. “To thine own self, be true.”

  Celine stabbed it in its chest with her sewing shears. Roaring, the demon shoved her to one side with inhuman strength, an earsplitting cry rending through the darkness. Celine’s head struck the floor in a dull thud, her vision distorting from the blow. She fought to focus on the figure looming above her. All she could distinguish was the silhouette of what appeared to be a man, tall and well muscled, his chest heaving, the sleeves and hem of his coat tattered.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Celine said in a hoarse tone.

  The demon’s laughter was a wet gurgle. “You will be.”

  Commotion rang through the hallways beyond Celine’s cell. Doors banged open, and the cries of young women layered through the thick darkness, their footsteps pattering across the stone floors, their candles wavering over the walls.

  Then the demon leapt out of Celine’s window with preternatural grace.

  Her skull buzzing and her vision hazy, Celine reached for the fallen box of matches. Labored to sit up and light one, her toes slipping through the pool of sticky warmth collecting by her feet. Her fingers shook as the match burst into flame, the peppery scent of gunpowder suffusing the air.

  Celine’s heart hammered in her temples, her limbs bereft of warmth. The moment the match’s flame stretched tall to spread its light, Pippa burst through the entrance of the cell, br
andishing a fireplace poker like a fencing épée. Her resounding scream turned into many, mounting like ripples across a pond. Horrified, sleep-laden faces craned for a glimpse beyond the doorway, regretting their curiosity in the next instant.

  For nothing could have prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.

  Strewn across the sill of Celine’s open window was a man’s mangled body. One of his legs was crooked at an unnatural angle, an arm bent behind him, nearly torn from its socket. His wispy beard trailed onto the stone floor. Red bubbles frothed around his mouth as the blood from a gash in his neck trickled downward, seeping between the cracks in eerie tributaries.

  Above his body—painted onto the wooden shutter—was another symbol, sketched in crimson:

  THE LONELY FREEDOM OF A MISTY STREET

  Numbness enveloped Celine, settling on her shoulders, winding about her limbs. She welcomed it. Wished it would swallow her whole.

  A demon had touched her. Marked her.

  Taken another life.

  William, the kind gardener who resembled a wizard, had been murdered tonight in Celine’s cell, on the cusp of the witching hour. He’d perished much like Anabel, his throat torn out in gruesome fashion, the blood spilling from his body as fast as his heart could pump it. This time the killer had been far less fastidious. Instead of draining William entirely of blood, he had allowed it to spatter everywhere, as if there had been a struggle. Or perhaps the demon had chosen to toy with its prey.

  Neither thought was reassuring.

  Celine sat on the steps beyond the vestibule of the Ursuline convent. A light rain dusted the air, sprinkling her skin, though she could not feel it, courtesy of the blessed numbness. Around her, muted speech and rapid footfalls punctuated the night, every so often laced with intermittent wails.

  Thankfully—following the initial onslaught of questions—no one thought to trouble Celine or draw anywhere near. It was as if they’d come to the same realization she had. That she was a curse. A blight upon all their lives.

  It could not have been a coincidence that Anabel had been killed after following Celine into a den of iniquity. Nor could it be mere chance that William had met his gruesome end in her cell. With the exception of the seemingly unrelated murder along the docks, the killer looked to be targeting anyone tied to Celine Rousseau, for reasons beyond all their ken. There appeared to be no logic to any of it, save for the victims’ associations with her and with the Ursuline convent.

  Was it possible the young woman along the docks was also connected in some way?

  At this point, no detail, however far-fetched, could be ignored.

  Each time you evade me, I only want you more.

  You cannot escape. You are mine.

  Celine winced as she stared at the granite pavers beside her feet, watching the rain glisten across their gritty surfaces. She stiffened when Pippa crouched next to her, then glanced at her friend sidelong, meeting blue eyes wide with worry. Without a word, Pippa handed her a clean linen handkerchief. Then waited attentively while Celine wiped the blood from her face, the dried bits flaking onto her damp dress, causing her stomach to churn and acid to bubble in her throat.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Pippa asked, her voice gentle.

  You can leave me alone. Rage coursed through Celine at how little regard Pippa seemed to hold for her own self-preservation. By now, she should know better than to seek out the company of a blight like her.

  By now, they should all have run for the hills.

  “May I get you some tea?” Pippa asked.

  Celine drew back and said nothing. She worried if she opened her mouth, a torrent of foul words—the worst of her fears given voice—would flow from her mouth. Things no one deserved to hear, least of all Pippa.

  Though Celine had not responded to Pippa’s query—or even acknowledged her presence in any meaningful fashion—Pippa kept close, hovering in a way that aggravated Celine further.

  Why doesn’t she know to save herself? Does she have a death wish? Celine’s thoughts turned vicious. Senseless in their rage.

  A wall of black wool stepped before her, obscuring her vision. As always, Celine smelled the Mother Superior before she took in the elder woman’s face. That same scent of a wet hound in a haystack. Pippa stood at once, Celine remaining on the stairs, all sense of decorum scattered to the winds.

  The wall of wool remained stalwart in its approach, watching and waiting. A dark streak of amusement sliced through Celine. She longed for a return to the day she’d believed the matron of the Ursuline convent to be her worst enemy. When the most memorable of Celine’s afternoons had been spent trying to imagine creative ways to thwart her.

  For an instant, Celine pondered whether there was a single point at which she could have foiled her fate. At what precise moment had she wandered down the wrong path? Alas, there was nothing she could do about that now. But perhaps there was a way to stop this fearful turn of events from happening again in the future.

  The Mother Superior cleared her throat, wordlessly demanding Celine’s attention, the wooden beads of her rosary dangling from her waist. Celine studied the small cross swaying before her. Observed the rain as it slid downward.

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a grim tone. “I wanted to—”

  “Why did you send Anabel to spy on us?” Celine asked, her voice hollow, her eyes leveled on the wall of black wool positioned before her.

  A sharp intake of breath resounded from above. Celine looked up. The Mother Superior’s features were tight. Weary. Her habit had been tilted askew, rain trickling from its hem.

  “You could have refused to let us go,” Celine continued. “You didn’t need to use Anabel as a pawn in your scheme. You sent her to her death.” Her accusation was low. Pitiless.

  “Celine!” Pippa chastised softly.

  In the deepest recesses of Celine’s mind, she knew how unfair it was to accuse the Mother Superior of being responsible for Anabel’s death. But her heart demanded answers. The wound around it continued to grow with each passing moment, the pain searing through her chest, burning into her lungs. She had to put a stop to it. To all of it.

  “Why?” Celine repeated.

  “I—” The Mother Superior hesitated, her expression oddly uncertain. Then her frown turned severe, the lines around her mouth deepening. Celine braced herself for a harsh rebuke.

  “I am human,” the Mother Superior said simply. “As such, I made a mistake.”

  Celine shook her head. “That’s not an answer. Please”—she stood at once, drops of rain cascading from the tip of her nose—“help me understand. I need to understand why.”

  The Mother Superior considered Celine, her eyes flitting to and fro. “Because I saw in you the kind of reckless spirit that craves danger, and I desired proof. A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden.”

  The ache in Celine’s chest intensified. “So you sent a young girl out by herself, simply to prove I was rotten to the core? Why didn’t you just ask me? Je vous l’aurait dis, Mère Supérieure!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

  The Mother Superior took hold of Celine’s left wrist, gripping it tightly, pulling her closer. For a breath of time, Celine thought the matron might strike her. But then the elder woman’s grey brows gathered, her features pinching with sorrow. “You are in pain right now, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” she said gently. “I, too, am in pain. I, too, long to point a finger of blame. But it serves no purpose now. I entreat you to sit with your pain. To let it pass, not to lash out. It will do you no good.” She released her grip on Celine’s wrist. “Trust in this important lesson I learned long ago: Rage is a moment. Regret is forever.”

  Celine struggled to marshal her fury. She wasn’t ready to relinquish her rage and succumb to the sadness that was sure to follow. If she did, it meant she accepted everyt
hing that had happened tonight. She didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to fight it. To shatter its truth into oblivion.

  But the Mother Superior was right. What good did it do to rail against an elderly woman? Anabel and William had not died because of the Mother Superior.

  They’d died because of her.

  Celine blinked back the rain. Forced the tension in her shoulders to abate. “Yes, Mère Supérieure.” She swallowed. Realized she was shivering and that her temple throbbed. “I apologize for my behavior. It won’t happen again.”

  The Mother Superior nodded. “Are you in need of anything right now? Is there anything I might provide for you?”

  Celine shook her head.

  A sigh fell from the Mother Superior’s lips. “Should you change your mind at any time—now or in the future—do not hesitate to tell me. I am here to assist you in any way.” She paused to hold Celine’s gaze, her features somber. “The next few days will not be easy ones, my child.”

  Celine nodded, already knowing what the Mother Superior intended to say next.

  “Many of my fellow sisters have come to me in the last hour,” the Mother Superior continued in a hushed tone. “The consensus is that it might be time for us to find you alternate lodging.”

  Celine kept nodding.

  The Mother Superior reached out once more. This time she took hold of Celine’s hand, her touch gentle and warm, despite the coolness of the rain. “I’ve already begun making inquiries. We will not throw you out on the street, and it is not necessary for you to leave tonight. It is simply no longer safe for you to stay here.” She paused. “Please know this is not at all what we want to do. But I agree it is the best course of action. For the sake of all who remain within these walls.”

  “A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden,” Celine said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.

  With another sigh, the Mother Superior nodded. Squeezed Celine’s hand. And let go.

  Straightening her spine, Celine met the matron’s wrinkled gaze. “Thank you for giving me a chance to begin my life in a new world, Mère Supérieure. I . . . don’t know what would have happened to me without it.”