by Renee Ahdieh
“Of course,” Antonia said, placing Queen Elizabeth on the floor beside the till.
“I can’t wait to try it,” Pippa chimed in. “Would you like me to offer my opinion?”
Eloise’s smile was warm. “Of course. I’d like everyone here to try it once it’s ready. I just haven’t quite mastered my mother’s recipe, and Antonia’s advice on medicinal herbs has been une révélation. Would you mind waiting until the next batch?”
Pippa nodded just as the mischievous corgi made an attempt to flee. A brief spate of chaos rang throughout the shop as the three young women attempted to corner the puppy, who decided the entire enterprise was a most amusing kind of game. Soon Antonia managed to capture the little queen, holding the corgi tightly as she followed Eloise into the storeroom with Pippa in tow. A moment later, the dog yipped in outrage. Likely she’d been returned to her little box in the corner to contemplate her actions. Antonia began to sing a Portuguese lullaby, her rich alto swirling through the air in tandem with the puppy’s cries.
Celine bit back a smile as she adjusted the chintz drapes around the front of the shop window until they hung just so. She stepped back, pleased with the overall effect. Soft fabric and jewel tones surrounded her. A tufted chaise covered in ivory damask lined the back wall, along with four matching stools, one for each corner. Framing three of the shop’s walls were freshly painted shelves lined with bolts of fabric, rolls of ribbon, and stacks of the newest fashion plates from Paris, bound like books by the ever-industrious Eloise. Oiled ladders glided along brass casters, reminding Celine of her favorite library on Rue de Richelieu in Paris.
Their shop was almost perfect.
To be sure, a few lingering issues remained. The sign in front of the shop had yet to be hung. Two of the covers for the gas lamps had cracked in transit, their replacements scheduled to arrive by the end of the week. But even before their doors were officially open, six orders had been placed. Two seamstresses in the Marigny had been hired to begin the work, based on Celine’s designs. Every so often, a potential customer would ring the bell outside or knock on the narrow double doors to make an inquiry.
Toting a rag and a bucket of sudsy water, Pippa emerged from the storeroom to begin cleaning Queen Elizabeth’s mess from the carpet.
“It’s nice to see you smile,” Pippa remarked as she rolled up her sleeves.
Celine turned in place. “Today has been a rather good day.”
Pippa beamed. “I agree.” She dipped the rag in the water and wrung it out. “And how did you fare last night? Did you sleep well?”
Celine’s smile faltered. “Of course.”
“Don’t lie to me, dearest. I heard you tossing and turning through the walls of our flat,” Pippa replied, her Yorkshire accent winding through the words. “Was it the same dream?”
Unease brought color to Celine’s cheeks. “I think so. But it’s . . . difficult to recall. Like trying to hold on to a handful of water.”
“Dreams often are.” Pippa’s expression turned pensive. She gnawed at her lower lip while she scrubbed the carpet. “And the doctor did say you would have trouble with your memory for the next few months because of your head injury.”
Celine pressed her fingers to her temple, irritation drawing her dark brows together.
Pippa stood at once, bubbles dripping down her hands. “Does your head hurt?”
“No. I’m just . . . frustrated.”
“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be, given the situation?” She gnawed at her lip again.
“There’s no need to look so guilty, Pippa,” Celine joked. “You didn’t strike me in the skull or break my ribs.”
Pippa toyed with the chain of the golden cross around her neck. “You’re right. But perhaps . . . I could have done more to protect you. And I wish—I wish I could restore your memories. At least fill in some of the holes.”
“It would make it easier,” Celine agreed. “But the doctor says it is better for me to find them on my own, so that my mind might seek order for itself in its own time . . . or whatever that’s supposed to mean.” Her sigh was rueful. “Michael’s grandmother agreed. She told me when Luca returned from fighting for the Union forces in the war, she didn’t push him to tell her all that he’d seen or suffered. She waited for him to come to her when he was ready. Perhaps I should do the same and wait until my mind is ready.”
Pippa nodded. “It makes a great deal of sense. In any case, it’s best to heed the doctor’s advice.” She took in a deep breath. Then forced an even brighter smile on her face before stooping to finish her work. “Did I tell you Phoebus has invited me to dinner tonight?”
Celine sat on the carpet beside Pippa, her amethyst skirts pooling around her. “You did not. Where is he taking you?”
“All he said was that it would be to the most celebrated dining establishment in the Vieux Carré.”
Celine’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think he might—”
“Propose?” Nervous laughter flew from Pippa’s lips. “Goodness, no. He only promised a dinner with cut crystal and sparkling chandeliers and centerpieces of glorious hothouse flowers. Perhaps that famous dessert they set on fire. Nothing more.”
A sudden image—of champagne being poured into a brass basin filled with rose petals, of meringue islands floating in a sea of sweetened cream, of caramel and bourbon bursting into blue flame—flashed through Celine’s mind. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them once more, a name flickered along her periphery, a sign written in elegant script with a blurred symbol beneath it. “Are you talking about Jacques’?”
Pippa paled. “I—how would—I mean, yes, I am.”
“Have I been there before for a meal?”
“No, no. Not for a meal.” Pippa waved a dismissive hand. “We went there once, for a short amount of time, to take measurements for Miss Valmont’s masquerade costume.” Another smile bloomed across her face. “It’s wonderful that you remember it, though. That’s progress.”
“Strange,” Celine said softly. “I could have sworn I’ve eaten there. I can almost taste the food on my tongue.”
“Or perhaps you heard someone speak of it?” Pippa gathered the bucket and the rag. “Jacques’ is famous even outside the city. If the food is as wonderful as it is touted to be, we should go sometime. Perhaps even to celebrate the opening of the shop?”
Pippa’s babbling struck Celine as unusual, for it was so uncharacteristic. Coupled with the strange way Pippa kept chewing at her lip, Celine became convinced her friend was hiding something from her, in the same way she felt Michael had been lying three nights ago along Rue Royale.
Hell and damnation.
Why was everyone acting as if Celine were too frail to handle the truth?
Her annoyance spiked hot in her stomach. She was about to corner Pippa and demand honesty when the bell in the front of the shop chimed. Celine turned to answer it, but Pippa raced past her, clearly thankful for the distraction.
The gentleman who stepped across the threshold possessed a bearing reminiscent of a painting. One depicting a victor surveying a field of battle. Though he was not tall, something about him struck Celine as regal. Even the way he strode into the shop demanded respect.
He seemed . . . familiar.
The young man studied her without speaking. Celine met his gaze, certain she would recall him if she stared at him long enough.
He appeared to be from the Far East. When the light of the setting sun touched his brow, Celine had the strangest feeling he didn’t like it. As if the rays of sunlight caused him pain. He looked to be in his early twenties, though his features retained a suggestion of youth. His eyes—a deep, dark brown—shone with a bright light, almost as if he were feverish. He turned his back to the window and gave her a curt bow, his top hat in hand.
“Good evening,” Celine said with a smile. “How may we help you?�
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“I would like to order a gift, please.”
“Is there something in particular you are looking for, sir?” Pippa’s words were clipped. Tinged with an odd sort of irritation. As if she did not wish to welcome the young man into their establishment.
He ignored Pippa, choosing instead to offer Celine a stiff kind of smile. “Perhaps some gloves, a hat, or a set of lace handkerchiefs?”
“Of course,” Celine replied. She turned to find Pippa hovering beside her, an anxious expression lining her brow. Celine shooed her away.
“You’ll have to forgive my colleague,” Celine said to their customer. “It’s unusual for a gentleman to come into our shop alone. Is there a certain color or type of fabric you prefer? We can assist you with the gloves and the handkerchiefs, but the milliner two streets over would better suit your needs if you’re interested in a hat or a bonnet.”
The unusually laconic customer made his way toward a small white table with a neat arrangement of embroidered gloves. When he reached for them, Celine noticed a set of vicious scars on the back of his hand. A gasp flew from her lips.
He pivoted at once, his eyes narrowing. “Is something wrong?”
When Celine looked back down at his hands, the skin there appeared unblemished once more. As if she’d imagined the scars in the first place. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw something.”
“May I ask what it was?” His lips formed a thin line.
“Please excuse my strange behavior. It’s clear I’m in need of rest.”
The gentleman continued watching her. He cocked his head to one side, like a bird. Then the edges of his face began to shimmer like the surface of a stone baking under the summer sun.
Celine blinked. Took a startled step back.
For an instant, the gentleman before her looked entirely different. As if the whole of his body was marred by the same smattering of crosshatched scars she’d seen on his hands. Even his face was marked in the same fashion. His features became more angular, the tips of his ears tapering to points. When one side of his mouth rose in the suggestion of a smile, Celine could swear he had fangs, like those of a demon.
She shook her head. Squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, he appeared to be a normal man once more. Fear ricocheted through her blood.
Celine blinked again. “I apologize. Please—excuse me,” she stammered. “Pippa, would you mind assisting the gentleman at the till?” Then she fled to the storeroom, feeling the unsettling young gentleman’s gaze follow her with every step.
I
Unbeknownst to those inside, a stranger in a bowler hat studied the scene unfolding within the dress shop. He cracked his gloved knuckles once, then removed a graphite pencil and a pad of paper from his left breast pocket.
No more than a minute was spent jotting down today’s observations. Then the stranger smoothed his handlebar mustache and vanished around the nearest street corner.
JAE
Here he is, that strange Chinaman.”
Jae was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the hatred aimed at him like the barrel of a gun. He paused just before the entrance to his building, listening to the elderly woman speak from the gallery above.
He knew it was her. It was always her.
“I still have trouble believing they allowed those boys to take up residence here,” the woman continued, her words soaked in spite.
Her friend beside her clucked in agreement. “It couldn’t be helped. Le Comte de Saint Germain owns this building. He gave them leave to reside here, for Lord knows what reason.”
“The count should care what the neighbors think. To let a Chinaman and that peculiar dark-skinned boy from the East Indies live among us . . .” She tsked. “They aren’t Christian, I tell you,” she whispered. “I’m almost certain I saw one of those profane statues in their hallway.”
“That Indian boy grows strange herbs on his balcony. They smell wretched and attract flies.”
“He’s nowhere near as bad as the Chinaman. He’s like a ghost, the way he walks without making a sound. Why, this one time . . .”
Jae listened to their continuing conversation, a variation on a theme from three days ago. He focused on it. Let their ignorance flow through him and around him, bathing in the heat of their hate.
Then he let it go. Released it, like the petals of a flower on a passing breeze.
It had been the same wherever he went. The lesson he had learned the moment he set foot on Western soil. If he fought against these falsities—if he tried to reason with the unreasonable—matters would only escalate, to no one’s satisfaction.
One time in Dubrovnik, he murdered a man for proudly wearing the badge of his prejudice. In the moment, Jae relished the feeling of crushing the man’s windpipe in his fist after draining him dry. But the next night he discovered another putrid sack of hate in his place.
It wasn’t about the individual. It was about the collective.
Until hate was untaught as it had been taught, this would be Jae’s lot in life. Arjun’s lot in life. Hortense’s and Madeleine’s lots in life. Indeed, even Odette—with her pale skin and radiant smile—was subjected to hatred for loving as she did, against someone else’s beliefs.
Strangely this thought was comforting to Jae. The only place he’d ever lived where he’d not had to explain himself was in New Orleans, among his brethren in the Court of the Lions. And he was thankful for every member of his chosen family. For the bonds they formed together as outsiders, in more ways than one.
Jae took the stairs three at a time. He paused on the landing beside the elderly woman’s flat. Nodded once in mocking salute before resuming his climb to the top floor of the four-storied building. Using an ornate key, he unlocked the door to the two-bedroom flat he shared with Arjun. The wards spelled into the floor beside his feet glowed in welcome as he crossed the threshold. One of only two individuals permitted solo entry.
Then Jae removed his cap and checked to make sure the small blades concealed in the cuffs of his shirt were accessible. That the revolver in his shoulder holster was still loaded with silver bullets. It was his ritual. Had been for years. The first thing he did before letting down his guard at home was to check and make sure each of his weapons was ready and close at hand.
Jae strode past Arjun’s statue of Ganesha—the deva’s elephant head tilted to one side—toward the full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. A strange thing for two young men of seemingly modest means to possess in this day and age. Framed in tarnished brass, the mirror’s surface appeared aged, the silver dotted with dark speckles.
He stared at his reflection. Pondered what had happened earlier this evening with Celine Rousseau. She’d pierced through his glamour. Of that Jae could be certain. The question was how.
As he stared at the scars on his right cheek—tracing them with his eyes, as he always did—his reflection shimmered. The surface of the mirror turned to liquid mercury, like a lake disturbed by a sudden breeze.
Jae was not alarmed to see this. Rather he expected it. It was time for him to answer for his most recent transgressions. He waited until the surface of the mirror settled. Until it no longer reflected an image of his own face. Instead a large rowan tree bloomed to life, flanked by a copse of emerald ash, their trunks covered in tiny blossoms. Pale green, pink, purple, and blue peonies covered the base of the gnarled rowan tree. The edges of each petal appeared to be dusted with flakes of gold. When a breeze coiled through the branches above, a powder made of crushed diamonds trailed in its wake. The feathers of the lone bird that flitted by glowed from within, its beak gleaming of sharpened iron and its eyes the sinister red of rubies.
A single glance was all it took to realize this was not the kind of forest that existed on the mortal plane.
From behind the rowan tree emerged a stunning woman, the layers of her thin organza
gown rustling around her bare feet. She said nothing as she floated into view, her slender shoulders draped with a white silk cape trimmed in fox fur. A silver coronet rested across her pale brow, her face highlighted by crushed pearls, her lips lacquered black. Her long ebony hair hung past her waist, her sloe-shaped eyes alert. Focused.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said in the language of Jae’s childhood, the Korean words soothing to his ears. “I find it unforgivable. Were you a lesser creature, I would have fed you to my mole rats. They do enjoy a disappointing meal.”
Jae bowed low. “Deepest apologies, my lady. There is no excuse for my behavior. Please do not hesitate to summon me whenever you desire, for whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”
She blinked once. Perused his face, her chin tilting to the right. A gentle smile softened her expression, the pearl powder along her cheekbones glowing. “Our last interaction left much to be desired. Perhaps I have been avoiding you, too.” Her smile grew, causing her jet-black eyes to crinkle at the edges. “Forgive my rash words, Jaehyuk-ah. There was little you could have done to keep Celine safe. It was wrong of me to blame you.”
“I did fail in my task to protect her, my lady. Your anger is warranted.”
A furrow formed across her regal forehead. “My anger should not be with you. The Fallen have crossed me one too many times. For Nicodemus to take liberties with a daughter of the Vale’s memory is something I cannot allow to stand.” Her voice rose as she spoke, its dulcet tones weaving through the branches above, shaking free a cascade of leaves. Then all at once her features returned to serene. “But that is a matter for another time. I wish to accelerate our plans. You must bring Celine to me at once.”
Alarm flickered across Jae’s face. “My lady, respectfully, I do not think that would be wise. The mist will be lifted from her sight soon. Her eighteenth birthday is less than three months away. Would it not be better to wait and—”
