by Renee Ahdieh
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Also by Renée Ahdieh
Flame in the Mist
Smoke in the Sun
The Wrath & the Dawn
The Rose & the Dagger
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R E N é E A H D I E H
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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G. P. Putnam’s Sons
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
p
Copyright © 2019 by Renée Ahdieh
Map illustration © 2019 by Jessica Khoury
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing
Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ahdieh, Renée, author.
Title: The beautiful / Renée Ahdieh.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2019]
Summary: “In 19th century New Orleans, Celine, a dressmaker from Paris, becomes embroiled in a murder mystery that’s connected to
a glamorous supernatural cohort”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019014461 (print) | LCCN 2019017774 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781524738181 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524738174 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Supernatural—Fiction. | Dressmaking—Fiction. |
Murder—Fiction. | New Orleans (La.)—History—19th century—Fiction. |
Mystery and detective stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A328 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.A328 Be 2019 (print) |
DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014461
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 9781524738174
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Design by Theresa Evangelista
Text set in Warnock Pro
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To the city of New Orleans,
for reminding me there is magic around every corner
And to Victor, always
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NO
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
From “Auguries of Innocence”
by William Blake
PQ
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J’ai voulu c NO
e matin te rapporter des roses;
Mais j’en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes
Que les noeuds trop serrés n’ont pu les contenir.
Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées.
Dans le vent, à la mer s’en sont toutes allées.
Elles ont suivi l’eau pour ne plus revenir.
La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.
Ce soir, ma robe encore en est toute embaumée . . .
Respires-en sur moi l’odorant souvenir.
I wanted to bring you roses this morning;
But I had closed so many in my sash
That the knots were too tight to contain them.
The knots split. The roses blew away.
All blew off to the sea, borne by the wind,
Carried to the water, never to return.
The waves looked red as if inflamed.
Tonight, my dress is still perfumed . . .
Breathe in the fragrant memory.
From “Les Roses de Saadi”
by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
PQ
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HIVER, 1872
RUE ROYALE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
New Orleans is a city ruled by the dead.
I remember the moment I first heard someone say
this. The old man meant to frighten me. He said there was a
time when coffins sprang from the ground following a heavy
rain, the dead flooding the city streets. He claimed to know of
a Créole woman on Rue Dauphine who could commune with
spirits from the afterlife.
I believe in magic. In a city rife with illusionists, it’s impos-
sible to doubt its existence. But I didn’t believe this man. Be faithful, he warned. For the faithless are alone in death, blind and terrified.
I feigned shock at his words. In truth, I found him amusing.
He was the sort to scare errant young souls with stories of a
shadowy creature lurking in darkened alcoves. But I was also
intrigued, for I possess an errant young soul of my own. From
childhood, I hid it beneath pressed garments and polished
words, but it persisted in plaguing me. It called to me like a
Siren, driving me to dash all pretense against the rocks and
surrender to my true nature.
It drove me to where I am now. But I am not ungrateful.
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For it brought to bear two of my deepest truths: I will always possess an errant young soul, no matter my age.
And I will always be the shadowy creature in darkened
alcoves, waiting . . .
For you, my love. For you.
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JANVIER 1872
ABOARD THE CGT ARAMIS
Not What It Seemed
i
The Aramis was supposed to arrive at first light, like it did in Celine’s dreams.
She would wake beneath a sunlit sky, the brine of the ocean
winding through her nose, the city looming bright on the
horizon.
Filled with promise. And absolution.
Instead the brass bell on the bow of the Aramis tolled in the twilight hour, the time of day her friend Pippa called “the
gloaming.” It was—in Celine’s mind—a very British thing to say.
She’d begun collecting these phrases not long after she’d met
Pippa four weeks ago, when the Aramis had docked for two
days in Liverpool. Her favorite so far was “not bloody likely.”
Celine didn’t know why they mattered to her at the time. Per-
haps it was because she thought Very British Thin
gs would
serve her better in America than the Very French Things she
was apt to say.
The moment Celine heard the bell clang, she made her way
portside, Pippa’s light footsteps trailing in her wake. Inky ten-
drils of darkness fanned out across the sky, a ghostly mist
shrouding the Crescent City. The air thickened as the two girls
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listened to the Aramis sluice through the waters of the Missis-sippi, drawing closer to New Orleans. Farther from the lives
they’d left behind.
Pippa sniffed and rubbed her nose. In that instant, she looked
younger than her sixteen years. “For all the stories, it’s not as pretty as I thought it would be.”
“It’s exactly what I thought it would be,” Celine said in a re-
assuring tone.
“Don’t lie.” Pippa glanced at her sidelong. “It won’t make me
feel better.”
A smile curled up Celine’s face. “Maybe I’m lying for me as
much as I’m lying for you.”
“In any case, lying is a sin.”
“So is being obnoxious.”
“That’s not in the Bible.”
“But it should be.”
Pippa coughed, trying to mask her amusement. “You’re ter-
rible. The sisters at the Ursuline convent won’t know what to
do with you.”
“They’ll do the same thing they do with every unmarried
girl who disembarks in New Orleans, carrying with her all her
worldly possessions: they’ll find me a husband.” Celine refrained from frowning. This had been her choice. The best of the worst.
“If you strike them as ungodly, they’ll match you with the ug-
liest fool in Christendom. Definitely someone with a bulbous
nose and a paunch.”
“Better an ugly man than a boring one. And a paunch means
he eats well, so . . .” Celine canted her head to one side.
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“Really, Celine.” Pippa laughed, her Yorkshire accent weaving through the words like fine Chantilly lace. “You’re the most
incorrigible French girl I’ve ever met.”
Celine smiled at her friend. “I’d wager you haven’t met many
French girls.”
“At least not ones who speak English as well as you do. As if
you were born to it.”
“My father thought it was important for me to learn.” Celine
lifted one shoulder, as though this were the whole of it, instead of barely half. At the mention of her father—a staid Frenchman
who’d studied linguistics at Oxford—a shadow threatened to
descend. A sadness with a weight Celine could not yet bear. She
fixed a wry grin on her face.
Pippa crossed her arms as though she were hugging herself.
Worry gathered beneath the fringe of blond on her forehead as
the two girls continued studying the city in the distance. Every
young woman on board had heard the whispered accounts. At
sea, the myths they’d shared over cups of gritty, bitter coffee
had taken on lives of their own. They’d blended with the stories
of the Old World to form richer, darker tales. New Orleans was
haunted. Cursed by pirates. Prowled by scalawags. A last refuge
for those who believed in magic and mysticism. Why, there was
even talk of women possessing as much power and influence as
that of any man.
Celine had laughed at this. As she’d dared to hope. Perhaps
New Orleans was not what it seemed at first glance. Fittingly,
neither was she.
And if anything could be said about the young travelers
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aboard the Aramis, it was that the possibility of magic like this—a world like this—had become a vital thing. Especially for
those who wished to shed the specter of their pasts. To become
something better and brighter.
And especially for those who wanted to escape.
Pippa and Celine watched as they drew closer to the un-
known. To their futures.
“I’m frightened,” Pippa said softly.
Celine did not respond. Night had seeped through the wa-
ter, like a dark stain across organza. A scraggly sailor balanced along a wooden beam with all the grace of an aerialist while
lighting a lamp on the ship’s prow. As if in response, tongues
of fire leapt to life across the water, rendering the city in even more ghoulishly green tones.
The bell of the Aramis pealed once more, telling those along the port how far the ship had left to travel. Other passengers
made their way from below deck, coming to stand alongside
Celine and Pippa, muttering in Portuguese and Spanish, En-
glish and French, German and Dutch. Young women who’d
taken leaps of faith and left their homelands for new opportu-
nities. Their words melted into a soft cacophony of sound that
would—under normal circumstances—soothe Celine.
Not anymore.
Ever since that fateful night amid the silks in the atelier,
Celine had longed for comfortable silence. It had been weeks
since she’d felt safe in the presence of others. Safe with the riot of her own thoughts. The closest she’d ever come to wading
through calmer waters had been in the presence of Pippa.
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When the ship drew near enough to dock, Pippa took sudden hold of Celine’s wrist, as though to steel herself. Celine gasped.
Flinched at the unexpected touch. Like a spray of blood had
shot across her face, the salt of it staining her lips.
“Celine?” Pippa asked, her blue eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”
Breathing through her nose to steady her pulse, Celine
wrapped both hands around Pippa’s cold fingers. “I’m fright-
ened, too.”
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A Study in Contrasts
i
Twenty-three passengers disembarked from the Aramis,
each bearing a simple trunk filled with their worldly pos-
sessions. After consulting the ship’s manifest, the officer sta-
tioned in the customhouse allowed them onto American soil.
An hour later, seven girls boarded a humble equipage and pro-
ceeded through the darkened city streets toward the Ursuline
convent. The rest had their futures awaiting them at the docks.
The open-air wagon trundled along the cobblestones. All
around them, boughs hung heavy with brightly colored blos-
soms. Cicadas and click beetles droned in the shadows, whis-
pering of a haunted history. A tropical breeze stirred through
the branches of a live oak abutting a small square. The warmth
of its embrace felt strange against Celine’s skin, especially when contrasted with the slight chill of a late-January evening.
But she knew better than to complain. Outside her home in
Paris, snow likely dotted the pavers, and it would be weeks be-
fore she could don the comfortable muslin dress she now wore.
Celine recalled when she’d fashioned it last June, from the
rem
nants of an elegant tea gown she’d designed for a wealthy
woman known for hosting infamous salons. At the time, Celine
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imagined attending one of these gatherings and mingling with the chicest members of Parisian society. She would dazzle them
with her love of Shakespeare and Voltaire. She would wear this
exact dress, its rich aubergine hue a lovely contrast against her fair skin, the overskirt replete with elaborate frills and flounces.
And she would style her black curls in a mass atop her crown,
the latest coiffure to grace the city’s fashion plates.
Celine laughed to herself, amused by the memory of the
seventeen-year-old girl she used to be. The things this girl had
dreamed of experiencing. The things she’d wished to have and
hold: entrée into the society of elegant young women she fitted
for gowns they would discard days later. A chance to fall in love with a handsome young man who would steal her heart with
poetry and promises.
Now she sneered at the very idea.
After weeks at sea—buried deep in a timber trunk—the rum-
pled gown Celine wore tonight reflected the sharp turn her life
had taken. It wasn’t fit for Sunday Mass, much less a salon. At
the thought, Celine adjusted her position on the wooden seat,
her corset digging into her ribs. The whalebone pinched her
breasts as she took a deep breath.
And was met with a scent so delicious, it left her distracted.
She scanned the square for its source. On the corner opposite
the live oak stood an open-air bakery that reminded Celine of
her favorite boulangerie on the Boulevard du Montparnasse.
The smell of fried dough and slowly melting sugar wafted
through the waxy magnolia leaves. Nearby, a set of balcony
shutters slammed shut, and a trellis laden with bright pink
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bougainvillea shook, the blossoms trembling as if in fear. Or perhaps in anticipation.
It should have been beautiful to behold. But the lovely tab-
leau felt tinged with something sinister. As though a pale finger had slipped through a drawn curtain, beckoning her into a dark
abyss.
Wisdom told her to heed the warning. Nevertheless, Celine
found herself enchanted. When she glanced at the six other
girls in the wagon—seated four on one side, three on the
other—Celine caught an expanse of wide-eyed gazes, their ex-
pressions a study in trepidation. Or perhaps excitement? Like
