by Renee Ahdieh
the bougainvillea, it was impossible to be certain.
The wagon paused on a bustling street corner, the large
draft horse at its lead tossing its mane. People in all manner of dress—from the wealthy with their golden watch chains to the
humble with their threadbare linen—crossed Decatur Street,
their steps focused and harried, as though they were on a mis-
sion. It felt unusual for a time of day marked by endings rather
than beginnings.
Since Pippa was situated closest to the driver, she leaned for-
ward to address him. “Is there something of note occurring to-
night? Something to explain the gathering crowd?”
“The parade,” the gruff man replied, without turning around.
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “There’s a parade gettin’ started near
Canal Street. On account of the carnival season.”
“A carnival parade!” Pippa exclaimed, turning toward Celine.
Antonia—the young woman seated at Celine’s left—looked
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about excitedly, her dark eyes round and bright, like those of an owl. “Um carnaval?” she asked in Portuguese as she pointed
toward the sounds of distant revelry.
Celine nodded with a smile.
“It’s a shame we’ll miss seeing it,” Pippa said.
“I wouldn’t worry, lass,” the driver replied, his tongue roll-
ing over the words with a hint of Irish burr. “There’ll be plenty o’ parades and celebrations all month long during the carnival
season. You’ll see one, to be sure. And just you wait for the masquerade ball on Mardi Gras. ’Twill be the finest of them all.”
“I heard talk about the carnival season from a friend in
Edinburgh,” Anabel—a lissome redhead with an attractive
smattering of freckles across her nose—exclaimed. “The entire
city of New Orleans rings in the time before Lent with soirées
and balls and costume parties for weeks on end.”
“Parties!” the twins from Germany repeated as soon as they
recognized the word, one of them clapping her hands with
delight.
Their glowing faces struck Celine. Moved something behind
her heart. An emotion she’d banned herself from feeling ever
since the events of that dreadful night:
Hope.
She’d arrived in a city amid celebration. One with weeks of
fêtes to come. The crowd was filled with that same spirit of an-
ticipation she saw in the girls who now shared her fate. Maybe
their expressions did not have to be about trepidation. Maybe
the bougainvillea was simply jostled awake instead of trembling
with worry.
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Maybe Celine did not have to live her life in fear of what might happen tomorrow.
As they waited for the streets to clear of passing pedestri-
ans, Celine leaned forward, her spirits on the cusp of taking
flight. She tried to catch a bit of ivy dangling from an intricate wrought-iron railing. The clattering of footsteps to her left stole her attention as the crowd parted to allow their wagon through.
No.
It was not to allow them passage.
It was for something else entirely.
There—beneath the amber haze of a gas lamp—stood a lone
figure poised to cross Decatur Street, a Panama hat pulled low
on his brow, shrouding his features.
Without hesitation, their driver granted the man immediate
deference, dipping his head in the figure’s direction as though
he were bowing . . . or perhaps keeping his eyes averted.
The man crossed the road, moving from light to shadow
and back again, gliding from one street corner to another. He
moved . . . strangely. As though the air around him were not air
at all, but water. Or perhaps smoke. His polished shoes struck
the cobblestones at a clipped pace. He was tall. Broad shoul-
dered. Despite the evening silhouette about him, Celine could
tell his suit was made of exquisite material, by a practiced hand.
Likely Savile Row. Her training at Madame de Beauharnais’ ate-
lier—the finest couturière in Paris—had granted her a particu-
lar eye for such things.
But his clothes did not intrigue Celine nearly as much as
what he’d managed to achieve. He’d cleared the street without
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uttering a single word. He’d scattered women with parasols and children with powdery beignets and men in elegant top
hats, with nary a glance in their direction.
That was the kind of magic she wished to possess.
Celine craved the idea of wielding such power, simply for the
freedom it would afford her. She watched the man step up to
the curb, envy clouding her gaze, filling her heart, taking place of the hope she’d barely allowed purchase a minute ago.
Then he looked up. His eyes met hers as though she’d called
out to him, without words.
Celine blinked.
He was younger than she’d expected. Not much older than
she. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps, no more. Later Celine would
try to remember details about him. But it was as though her
memory of that moment had gone hazy, like oil swiped across
the surface of a mirror. The only thing she remembered with
distinct clarity was his eyes. They shone in the flame of the gas lamp as though they were lit from within.
Dark grey. Like the barrel of a gun.
He narrowed his gaze. Tipped his hat at her. And walked
away.
“Oh, my stars,” Pippa breathed.
Murmurs of assent—spoken in several languages—rippled
across the rows of seated young women. They leaned into each
other, an air of shared excitement passing over them. One of
the twins from Düsseldorf said something in German that
made her sister titter behind her hands.
Only Celine continued staring at the rapidly receding figure,
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her eyes narrowed, as his had been. As though she were in disbelief.
Of what, she did not know.
Their wagon continued making its way toward the convent.
Celine watched the boy fade into the darkness, his long, lean
legs carrying him through the night with an otherworldly con-
fidence.
She wondered what made everyone at the crossing yield to
him without question. Longed for the barest measure of it. Per-
haps if Celine were someone to command such respect, she
would not have been forced to leave Paris. To lie to her father.
Or murder a man.
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To the Stars
i
I shouldn’t be here.
That thought rang in Noémie’s head like an endless re-
frain.
It was dark. Late. The water lapped along the pier at the edge
of the Vieux Carré, the sound lulling. Hypnotic.
She never should have agreed to meet anyone in this place,
no matte
r the enticement. Noémie knew better. Her par-
ents had taught her better. The church had taught her better.
She drew her light spring shawl around her shoulders and
straightened the pink silk ribbon around her neck. When she
turned, her garnet earbobs struck the sensitive skin along her
jawline.
Earbobs and silk ribbons, on a pier in the middle of the night?
What was she thinking?
I shouldn’t be here. Whom did she expect to impress with such fripperies?
Not this kind of man, to be sure.
Any young man who asked to meet her in the dead of night
was not a gentleman. But Noémie supposed the kind of woman
who agreed was not quite a lady either. She sighed to herself.
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Martin, her erstwhile beau, never would have invited her to a clandestine meeting long past sunset.
Of course, Martin had never made her skin tingle or her
breath catch in her throat.
Not like her mysterious admirer had.
But if he didn’t show his face soon, Noémie would go home,
sneak back through her mother’s wisteria, and slip into the win-
dow of her bedroom before anyone was the wiser.
Noémie paced along the length of the pier, swearing to the
stars that this was the last chance she would give him. Beneath
her skirts, her booted heels struck the warped wooden boards,
her bustle bobbing in time with her steps. A breeze swept along
the bend in the river, bringing with it the stench of spoiling
fish—remnants of the day’s catch.
In an effort to ward off the smell, she pressed a bare finger
beneath her nose.
I shouldn’t be here. The pier was too close to the Court’s lair.
These streets and everything surrounding them were con-
trolled by its shadowy denizens. Never mind that they routinely
donated to the church. Never mind that Le Comte de Saint
Germain had box seats to the opera and hobnobbed with New
Orleans’ best and brightest. The Court brought with them the
worst kind of people, those without scruples.
And here Noémie was, waiting alone in the dark, in the thick
of their domain.
She touched her throat, her fingers grazing the soft silk there.
The color of her ribbon—pale pink, like the petals of a peony—
was all the rage right now. Empress Eugénie had first ushered it
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into fashion not long ago. Now countless young ladies of New Orleans were keen to put their long, swanlike necks on display.
Supposedly the gentlemen favored it.
With a bitter smile, Noémie faced out to the water for her
final trek along the pier.
Damn her impressive admirer and all his lies. No amount
of sweet words or scintillating promises should have drawn
Noémie from the safety of her home.
Just as she was about to reach the end of the pier, the thud
of solid footsteps resounded behind her. They slowed as they
neared, moving at their master’s leisure.
Noémie did not turn immediately, wanting him to know she
was angry.
“You kept me waiting a long time,” she said, her voice
honeyed.
“My sincerest apologies, mon amour,” he breathed from be-
hind her. “I was caught up at dinner . . . but I left before dessert.”
A smile tugged at Noémie’s lips, her pulse racing. She turned
slowly.
No one was there. The pier looked deserted.
She blinked. Her heart skipped about in her chest. Had
Noémie dreamed the whole thing? Had the wind played a trick
on her? “Where did you—”
“I’m here, my love,” he said in her ear, behind her once more.
She gasped. He took her by the hand, his touch cool and steady.
Reassuring. A jolt passed down her spine as he nibbled along
her earlobe. Shockingly. Teasingly.
Martin would never do such a thing.
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She reached back to caress his face, the scruff on his jaw abrading her skin, the blood soaring through her veins. He
kissed her fingertips. When she pulled away, her hands were
warm. Sticky. Wet.
Stained bright red.
“Je suis désolé,” he murmured an apology.
A horrified scream began to collect in Noémie’s chest.
Her swanlike throat was torn out before she could utter a
sound.
The last thing Noémie saw were the stars winking merrily
above.
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Your Name Is Marceline
Béatrice Rousseau
i
Seven girls took up residence in the dormitory of the Ur-
suline convent: Celine; Pippa; the twins from Düsseldorf,
Marta and Maria; Anabel, the redhead from Edinburgh;
Antonia from Lisbon; and Catherine from Liverpool.
The Catholic Church had sponsored their passage to New
Orleans, and in return, these seven young women were ex-
pected to help run its attached hospital, teach the young girls
who attended school there, and assist in any efforts to raise
funds on behalf of the diocese. That is, until the sisters of the convent were able to find appropriate matches for them.
For Celine, the day following their arrival was a day marked
by consternation.
A day marked by the choices of others.
More than anything, she did not want the sisters to place her
as a teacher. It was such a vaunted position, with so much re-
sponsibility. Celine had never been an appropriate role model.
She laughed too loudly at bawdy jokes and enjoyed eating at
social events at which girls were to be seen rather than sated.
She’d never understood the notion. Turn her back on a pain au
chocolat? Sacrilege.
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But all too expected.
For these reasons, Celine was relieved to learn that Catherine
had been a governess for a family of four in Liverpool. The
spectacled young woman smiled when told she would essen-
tially be resuming her duties.
Celine would not have minded being placed in the hospital,
but Pippa informed her that Marta and Maria had assisted a
midwife in Düsseldorf; thusly, they were recruited there along
with Antonia, who was an expert in herbs and other natural
remedies.
Soon Pippa, Anabel, and Celine found themselves in a shared
predicament. All three girls proved difficult to place within the whitewashed walls, as their respective interests did not naturally segue into life at the convent. Anabel possessed a head for figures and a knack for business, neither of which was a quality
to admire in a young woman.
Pippa had studied art history most of her life and was an ac-
complished violinist and painter, but the school already had a
teacher specializing in the arts.
Though no one could deny that Celine’s work with ruched
silk and delicate Alençon lace was unmatched, it did her no fa-
vors here. Knowing how to design gowns for the Parisian elite
was not exactly high on the list of achievements at a convent.
Which was why Pippa, Anabel, and Celine were sitting in the
shade of Saint Louis Cathedral a week after their arrival, ped-
dling their wares beneath a lace of oak leaves in Jackson Square.
Despite the lovely warm day, Celine could not help but feel for-
lorn. Every place she went, life insisted on confining her.
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Perhaps she deserved it. Her sins were many, her pardons few.
On the corner of the square farthest from Celine, beignets
were being served alongside steaming cups of café au lait, the
scent an intoxicating mixture of butter, sugar, and chicory. At
her left, the cathedral’s spires rose into a blue sky offset by the kind of clouds Celine most loved, for they resembled chiffon.
To her right sat a row of artists and traders and purveyors of
mystical goods, their merchandise positioned along the tines of
black iron enclosing the cathedral’s courtyard.
Celine wanted to stroll the lanes and peruse their many offer-
ings. Take in the city’s sights and relish this newfound chance at life. But—as she’d come to realize in the past week—the things
she wanted and the things expected of her were like oil and
water in a baker’s mixing bowl.
The day the other girls were placed in their respective posi-
tions, Pippa, Celine, and Anabel had been instructed to raise
money for the expansion of the parish orphanage. They’d de-
voted the following week to its preparation.
Pippa had painted delicate teacups with religious vignettes,
like the time Jesus had turned water to wine or fed a crowd
of thousands with nothing but seven loaves and fishes. Anabel
had designed their booth and devised the best way to attract
people to it. And Celine had embellished small squares of
pressed linen with a scalloped edging that mimicked the finest
needlepoint lace.
Since their arrival in port last week, none of them had been
permitted to attend a parade. Instead, every night—once they’d
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completed their designated tasks—they were directed to read vespers aloud to each other before retiring to their cells.
Yes. Their rooms were called cells. It was the reason Celine
