by Renee Ahdieh
along the nearby pier.
Given all these facts, it was unlikely the Mother Superior
would permit Celine to go.
With this realization came a surprising rush of
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disappointment. Though Celine did not feel comfortable in the presence of this rambling, oddly attired girl, she nevertheless
felt . . . intrigued. Even a tad bit reckless.
When the girl sensed Celine’s reluctance, her lips puckered
with displeasure. “Of course I will pay you handsomely.”
Celine didn’t doubt it. The ivory cameo alone was worth a
fortune. But it was not about the money. It was about the right-
ness. She owed herself this second chance. And angering the
Mother Superior seemed unwise.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle.” Celine shook her head. “I just don’t
think it would be possible. The Mother Superior would not
permit it.”
“I see.” A long sigh passed the girl’s lips. “Thus conscience
doth make cowards of us all.”
“Pardon?” Celine’s eyes went wide. “Are you quoting . . .
Shakespeare?”
And Hamlet, at that.
“The one and only.” The girl grinned. “But, alas, I must be on
my way. Is there no chance you might change your mind? You
have but to name your price.”
A flicker of amusement passed through Celine. Hours ago,
from a place of insolence, she’d suggested it might be better to
earn money beneath the light of the moon. Here was an offer to
do so. One without limit.
In that moment—listening to this strange girl quote Shake-
speare and tantalize her with possibility—Celine realized she
wanted to go. Badly. It was the first time in recent memory
she’d felt this particular spark of anticipation ignite within her.
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She wanted to create something and be a part of the world instead of merely observing it. Already she’d begun envisioning
ways to fashion the wide-hooped, baroque-style panniers. To
construct a manteau with dripping pagoda sleeves. Her hesita-
tion now was a last effort to hold firm to her convictions.
To obey. Be a model of humility. Earn a measure of God’s
forgiveness.
“If money does not entice you”—the girl leaned closer, and
Celine caught a whiff of neroli oil and rosewater—“I can prom-
ise you an adventure . . . a trek through a den of lions.”
That. That was it.
It was as though the girl had found a window into the darkest
corner of Celine’s heart.
“It would be my pleasure to design a dress for you, made-
moiselle,” Celine said. As soon as the words left her mouth, her
pulse was set apace.
“I’m thrilled.” Beaming, the girl withdrew an ecru card with
gold calligraphy in its center. The script read
Jacques’
Beneath it was an address in the heart of the Vieux Carré, not
too far from the convent.
“Come here this evening, around eight o’clock,” she contin-
ued. “Disregard the queue outside. When a beautiful man with
a voice like sin and a ring through his right ear demands to
know what you are doing, tell him to bring you to Odette, tout
de suite.” She reached for Celine’s hand. Through the lace of her
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glove, her touch felt cool. Calming. The girl’s eyes widened for an instant, her grasp tentative at first. She canted her head, a
half smile curving up her doll-like face. “It’s lovely to meet you, Celine,” she said warmly.
“It was lovely to meet you as well . . . Odette.”
With another simpering grin, the girl named Odette sashayed
away, the train of her bustle gliding in her wake. The next in-
stant, Anabel turned toward Celine. “I ken I’m the last to go
on about making mistakes, Celine, but I’m not sure what came
over ye when ye agreed to meet this Odette creature tonight.
Are ye touched? Ye canna leave the convent after dinner. The
Mother Superior expressly forbade it. She said the happenings
in the Quarter after sunset—”
“Promote the kind of licentious behavior that will not be tol-
erated beneath her roof,” Celine finished in a weary voice. “I
know. I was there.”
“There’s no need to be testy.” Anabel blew back a tight red
curl from her face. “I’m only worried what’ll happen if you’re
caught.”
“I thought you were tired of all the humdrum,” Pippa teased.
Celine smiled, grateful to her friend for disarming the ten-
sion. “Ready to meet a sturdy young gentleman.”
“In my mind, he doesn’t even have to be young,” Pippa con-
tinued.
“Or a gentleman,” Celine finished.
“Och, you’re terrible!” Color flooding her face, Anabel made the sign of the cross. “Enough to make me take to church.”
Celine feigned ignorance, a black brow arching into her fore-
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head. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t be the wee hen that never laid away. Not with me, Ma-
demoiselle Rousseau.” Her eyes shifted to Celine’s chest. “And
certainly not with that bosom.”
“What?” Celine blinked.
“Don’t play the innocent,” Pippa translated with laughter.
“What does that have to do with my . . . bosom?”
Pippa bit her lip. “It was said in jest, dear. You must know you
have a lovely figure.” She patted Celine’s hand like she would a
child’s. The motion grated on Celine’s nerves. “Don’t take it to
heart. Gifts were bestowed on you.”
Gifts?
They thought her figure was a gift? The ridiculousness of it al-
most caused Celine to burst into laughter herself. There’d been
a time when she’d appreciated her body for its beauty and resil-
ience. But that time had passed. What she wouldn’t give to be
lithe and lean like Anabel. The “gifts” these girls chortled about now had brought Celine nothing but trouble.
And they’d left her far from innocent.
A flush rose in Celine’s cheeks. It flared across her skin, hot
and fast, as though—even in jest—these two girls could see the
truth she labored to conceal every day of her life. The worst of
her past washed through her memory. Blood seeped across her
vision, the smell of warm copper filling her nose, leaching the
light from the air.
But this was absurd. How would Pippa and Anabel know
what she had done? Why she’d fled her home five weeks ago?
Celine struggled to calm her nerves.
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They wouldn’t. No one would. As long as she didn’t breathe a word.
Your name is Marceline Béatrice Rousseau. That is all anyone
need know about you.
�
��I would never play the innocent, ladies.” Celine winked and
smiled brightly. “It just wouldn’t suit.”
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Malvolio
i
Anabel betrayed Celine at dinner, barely an hour after
they’d returned to the convent.
It took the Mother Superior the work of an instant to draw
out the truth from the loose-lipped girl. As soon as Anabel told
the gathered young women that Celine’s embroidered hand-
kerchiefs had been purchased full price in one fell swoop, the
hawk-eyed nun—with her perfectly pressed habit—had delved
for details.
Alas, Anabel proved to be a terrible liar. For all the stories
Celine had heard about Scots, she was profoundly disappointed
to have met the only Highlander incapable of spinning a tale.
Now Celine was stuck reviewing the scenery in the Mother
Superior’s office, her dinner of bland stew going cold on the
kitchen table. She searched the space for a distraction. All the
while, she tried to devise a believable lie for why she should be permitted to wander into the city past nightfall.
It was all so dramatic. So unnecessary.
Why was it that everyone Celine encountered insisted on tell-
ing her how to live her life?
Pippa sat in guilty silence nearby, wringing her hands like a
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character from a cautionary tale. Celine inhaled deeply, aware that Philippa Montrose could not be counted on to support
anything resembling perfidy. Pippa was simply too good. It was
a truth universally acknowledged by all those residing at the
convent, even the nuns themselves:
Pippa Montrose was trustworthy and obedient. Nothing like
the impetuous Celine Rousseau.
In fact, why had Pippa been summoned here at all? She
wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. Was her presence an effort to
highlight Celine’s misdeeds? Or perhaps intimidate Pippa into
betraying her as well?
Her gaze darkening at the thought, Celine scanned the room.
On one side of the wall was a large wooden cross that had been
donated by one of New Orleans’ oldest Spanish families, from
a time before the French had taken ownership of the port city.
Beyond the partially opened shutters, a slit of waning sunlight
bathed the outer reaches of the Ursuline convent.
If only the windows could be opened fully, to let the view of
the port seep onto its sloping floors. Maybe it would fill these
fallow rooms with life. The second day there, Celine had tried
to do this herself, but she’d been roundly chastised ten minutes
later; the windows of the whitewashed convent were always
shuttered in an effort to maintain the cloistered atmosphere.
As though it could be anything else at all.
The door scraped open. Pippa sat up straight in the same in-
stant Celine’s shoulders fell.
Even before the Mother Superior stepped over the threshold,
the wool of her black habit filled the room with her presence,
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smelling of lanolin and the medicinal ointment she used each night for her chapped hands.
The combination was like a wet hound in a haystack.
As soon as the door swung shut, the lines around the Mother
Superior’s mouth deepened. She paused for a breath, then
glared down at them, her expression severe. An obvious effort
to instill a sense of foreboding, like a tyrant of old.
Though it was inopportune, a smile threatened to take shape
on Celine’s face. Everything about this situation was absurd.
Less than five weeks ago, Celine had been apprenticed to one
of the most demanding couturières in Paris. A woman whose
frequent screams of rage caused the crystals to tremble in their
chandeliers. A true oppressor, who routinely ripped Celine’s
work to shreds—before her eyes—if a single stitch was out of
place.
And this tyrannical nun with chapped hands thought she
merited fear?
As Pippa would say, not bloody likely.
A snicker escaped Celine’s mouth. Pippa toed her chair in
response.
What could have caused the Mother Superior’s hands to be-
come so worn? Perhaps she labored on some clandestine craft,
deep in the hollows of her cell. A painter perhaps. Or a sculptor.
What if she was secretly a wordsmith by night? Even better if
she wrote entirely in asides or things laced with double mean-
ing, like Malvolio in Twelfth Night.
Be by my life, this is my lady’s hand, these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus she makes her great P’s.
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Celine coughed. Creases of irritation formed across the Mother Superior’s forehead.
The idea that this nun in a starched habit would say anything
untoward caused Celine to lock eyes on the polished stone
floor to keep from laughing. Pippa nudged her again, this time
more forcefully. Though her friend said nothing, Celine could
tell Pippa was not the least bit amused by their situation.
Rightly so. Nothing about angering the convent’s matron
should be funny. This woman had given them a place to live and
work. A means by which to find their way in the New World.
Only an ungrateful, troublesome girl would see otherwise. A
girl precisely like Celine.
Sobered by these thoughts, Celine chewed the inside of her
cheek, the room growing warmer, her stays pulling tighter.
“I expect you to explain yourself, Mademoiselle Rousseau,”
the Mother Superior began in a voice that was tinny and grav-
elly all at once.
Celine kept silent, her eyes cast downward. She knew better
than to begin by offering a defense. The Mother Superior had
not called them here with a mind to listen; she’d called them
here with a mind to teach. It was a lesson Celine understood
well. She’d been raised on it.
“This young woman you met in the square, why does she not
come to the convent in daylight or consult a local dressmaker?”
the Mother Superior asked. “If she wishes to hire you to de-
sign garments for her, it seems fitting for her to come here,
n’est-ce pas?”
When Celine still did not respond, the Mother Superior
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grunted. Leaned closer. “Répondez-moi, Mademoiselle Rousseau. Immédiatement,” she whispered, her tone laced with
warning. “Or you and Mademoiselle Montrose will regret it.”
At the threat, Celine raised her head to meet the Mother
Superior’s gaze. She licked her lips to bide time as she chose her next words.
“Je suis désolée, Mère Supérieure,” Celine apologized, “mais”—
she glanced to her right, trying to decide whether or not to
involve Pippa in this falsehood—“but, alas, her modiste is un-
familiar with the baroque style of dress. She expressed urgency
in needing the garments and a schedule that did not appear to
be flexible during the day. You see . . . she volunteers each afternoon with a ladies’ organization that knits socks for children.”
Even in profile, Celine saw Pippa’s eyes widen with dismay.
It was an abhorrent lie, to be sure. Fashioning Odette as
an angel with a soft spot for barefooted souls was among the
more . . . colorful stories Celine had told in her lifetime. But this entire situation was ridiculous. And Celine enjoyed prevailing
over tyrants, even by the barest of measures. Especially ones
who threatened her friends.
The Mother Superior’s frown softened, though the rest of her
expression remained doubtful. She linked her hands behind
her back and began pacing. “Be that as it may, I do not feel it is appropriate for you to travel through the city unescorted past
sundown. A young woman not much older than you . . . per-
ished along the docks only yesterday.”
In Celine’s opinion, perished was a rather subdued word for being ripped to pieces beneath a starlit sky.
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The Mother Superior paused in silent prayer before resuming her lecture. “During carnival season, there are many revelers in
the streets. Sin runs rampant, and I do not wish for a mind as
weak and susceptible as yours to be lured by danger.”
Though Celine bristled at the slight, she nodded in agreement.
“I, too, do not wish to be tempted by anything untoward.” She
pressed a hand over her heart. “But I believe this young woman
to be good and God-fearing, Mère Supérieure. And the money
she will give the convent for my work would undoubtedly be of
great benefit to us all. She made it clear—several times—that
cost was not an object.”
“I see.” The Mother Superior turned toward Pippa without
warning. “Mademoiselle Montrose,” she said, “it appears you
have little to offer on the matter. What have you to say about
this situation?”
Celine closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come.
She wouldn’t blame Pippa for telling the truth. It was simply in
her nature to do so. And who could blame Pippa for following
her natural inclination.
Pippa cleared her throat, her small hands tightening into
fists. “I . . . found the young lady quite trustworthy and virtuous as well, Mother Superior,” she said slowly. “Of course your concerns are not without merit, especially given what happened
