The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  as she began slowly drowning in her own mind.

  This was the way the dream always started.

  “T’as supplié pour mon baiser, n’est-ce pas?”

  You’ve been begging for me, haven’t you?

  His harsh whisper beside her ear. The feeling of his clammy

  hand against her skin, his palm slicked with sweat. The sicken-

  ing twist of her stomach.

  He’d been the younger brother of one of the atelier’s best

  clients. A wealthy wastrel, used to having whatever—and

  whomever—he wanted. Accustomed to spending his father’s

  money as though he alone had earned every franc. He’d stared

  at Celine for the last three months, a greedy light in his gaze. It had unnerved her then, but she’d known better than to anger

  him by drawing attention to it.

  Weeks later, she still recalled how his hands did not seem

  like the hands of gentleman, for they were callused and worn.

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  In truth, nothing about him—despite his breeding and his wealth—indicated he was a gentleman. His hands were roughened by horseback riding. Indeed, he was one of the finest rid-

  ers in his elite circle of friends.

  With these hands, he’d offered to soothe her. Offered to bring

  her something warm to drink. Asked if he could keep her com-

  pany. Celine had not known what to do when he’d come to

  the door of the atelier long after dusk, his fine cloak about his shoulders and his breath reeking of wine. She’d asked him to return home, but he’d been insistent, barreling into the workshop

  as though he owned it.

  In her dream, Celine observed the scene from above, as

  though the conscious part of her had separated from her body

  in sleep. She witnessed the events unfold with punishing slow-

  ness. Watched herself make mistake after mistake, as though

  God Himself wished to teach her a lesson.

  A dull thud sounded in her ears.

  Her striped chambray dress tore from her shoulder when

  the young man tried to stop her from fleeing. Everything after

  that was a haze. Celine counted herself lucky that he’d barely

  managed to take hold of her skirts before her fingers had flailed about, scrabbling for anything with which to defend herself.

  The candelabra had not been a choice. It had been the best

  weapon she could grasp.

  Celine often wondered—in moments to herself—if she’d

  meant to kill him. Surely she could have struck him using less

  force. Surely she did not have to aim for the side of his head.

  Surely she could have prevented his death.

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  But no. In the darkest of her dreams, she’d known the truth.

  In Celine, evil had found the perfect vessel.

  She’d meant to destroy the young man, as surely as he’d meant

  to destroy her. While she’d watched the blood seep from his

  body, she’d searched her soul for a drop of regret, a hint of re-

  morse. She’d found none. She’d clutched the candelabra tighter.

  Prepared the lie to tell her father, knowing she could not stay

  where she was.

  Once more, a muted thud vibrated in her skull.

  Who would believe Celine had been the victim? After all,

  she was not the one lying cold and motionless on the atelier

  floor. The dream version of herself stared at the growing circle

  of crimson. Stepped back so it would not stain the hem of her

  skirts.

  And then . . . something new and curious began to take shape

  in the blood pooling about her feet. Usually Celine was bare-

  foot in this memory, her toes sliding across the cold marble,

  trying to avoid any contact with the boy she’d killed.

  Tonight, a symbol formed beside her toes. The same symbol

  she’d seen earlier, smeared in the wood next to Anabel’s body.

  Something soft brushed across the tip of Celine’s nose. She

  looked up. A flutter of golden-yellow petals cascaded around

  her, settling into the widening pool of blood, turning into hun-

  dreds of embroidered handkerchiefs the instant they touched

  the marble floor. Then the lunar goddess dragged her chariot

  across Celine’s dream. The thudding in her ears grew louder.

  More insistent.

  Everything dissolved in a sea of black.

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  j

  Celine woke with a start.

  Though her room was dark, all was not still.

  The thuds were sharper now. No longer muffled. A clatter of

  wood against stone. She flinched as a cool mist dampened her

  skin. The shutters outside her window had blown open. A storm

  raged beyond them, sending sheets of rain sideways, driving

  water into her tiny room until everything it touched felt alive.

  Celine stood. Almost slipped as her bare feet slid across the

  wet stone floor. She took the few short steps to the window of

  her cell. Then sighed.

  “Merde,” she cursed to no one.

  It couldn’t be helped. If she was to secure the latch once more,

  she would have to lean forward and be drenched.

  Celine considered wrapping herself in a shawl. It would be

  appropriate to do so. Her nightshift was fashioned of thin

  cotton. If rain soaked through the garment, it would be inap-

  propriate for her to stand beside the window and risk being

  seen.

  Her expression hardened when she realized her shawl was

  nowhere within reach. The wind continued beating at her shut-

  ters, the rain gusting through her room.

  Propriety be damned.

  Celine battled a particularly harsh gale, then reached over the

  windowsill to grasp the wooden latch.

  Signs of motion caught her eye. She froze, though the rain

  continued bearing down on her, soaking through her hair,

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  seeping through to her skin. Celine blinked back the drops. It looked as though a figure hovered in her periphery, positioned

  beside a pillar near the gate of the convent’s wrought-iron fence.

  She blinked again.

  The silhouette vanished.

  Celine’s heart crashed through her chest, the blood thinning

  in her veins.

  She yanked the shutters closed, latching them together in a

  seamless motion. Then she reached for a length of thick cot-

  ton. The blood continued pounding in her body as she stripped

  off her nightshift and pulled a clean chemise from her meager

  chest of clothing.

  One thing was certain: something had shifted tonight.

  Ever since that evening in the atelier nearly six weeks ago—

  when evil had taken refuge in her bones—Celine had felt torn.

  Certainly, between right and wrong. But more than that, be-

  tween who she was and who she thought she should be.

  Celine Rousseau was a girl who believed in justice. That young

  man had meant to rape her—to destroy her, body and soul.

  Was it wrong for her to destroy him instead?

  She knew the right an
swer. The one the Bible taught. Because

  Celine was also a girl raised on the Ten Commandments, and it

  was wrong to kill.

  But were there ever times it could be right?

  Could Celine Rousseau be a girl who valued life, as well as a

  girl who had taken it from someone, without a shred of remorse?

  It was like walking the edge of a cliff. If Celine fell to one side, she would be good evermore. If she fell to the other? She would

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  be consumed by evil and lose all chance at redemption. Celine knew it sounded silly, but to her it felt true.

  It wasn’t possible for good and evil to reside in the same

  person.

  Was it?

  Celine blinked hard into the damp darkness. After the events

  of this evening, she shouldn’t be concerning herself with such

  things. She should be trembling in her nightdress, poisoned by

  a different kind of worry.

  Tomorrow—despite her best efforts—Celine’s world could

  crumble like a castle made of sand. In the afternoon, Detec-

  tive Grimaldi would come to the convent to finish questioning

  them. It had been his favor to the Mother Superior, a woman

  well acquainted with his family. Celine had watched in quiet

  shock as the elderly matron had advocated for her and for

  Pippa. Begged the young detective’s forbearance.

  “Miss Rousseau and Miss Montrose are fine, upstanding

  young women,” she’d said. “They will be more than happy to

  cooperate. Of course they will answer any question you pose

  to them. But please grant them this night to mourn the loss of

  their friend. To reflect on the actions that brought about this

  unfortunate turn of events.”

  Celine had looked away when she heard those words, her

  shame a dagger through her heart.

  Not a trace of guilt could be found on the Mother Superior’s

  face. But the wizened woman had spared Celine. Offered her a

  pardon on the steps of the gallows.

  Tomorrow Michael Grimaldi would renew his inquiries.

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  What if the detective looked into Celine’s past with his eerie, colorless eyes? What if he asked why she’d journeyed across the

  Atlantic?

  What if he learned she was a murderess?

  It could be her undoing.

  Celine’s hands shook as she wrapped the length of thick cot-

  ton around her hair, trying in vain to wring the waist-length

  strands dry. Her dreams taunted her. Her memories failed her.

  Her desires had become reapers in the dark.

  She struggled to marshal her emotions. If she did not take

  control of her life—of these fears—they would be sure to con-

  trol her. She could not allow this to happen. Succumbing to fear

  was the surest way to lose her footing.

  Celine made her way back to her narrow rope bed, deter-

  mined to fight for a measure of peace, so that she could prepare

  for what tomorrow might bring. When she reached for the

  coarse linen sheets at the foot of her mattress, she froze in her tracks. The golden petals. The embroidered handkerchiefs.

  She blinked once. Twice. The length of thick cotton wrapped

  around her hair unraveled to the stone floor at her feet. Her

  body trembled.

  Bastien had tucked away a folded piece of fabric in his trouser

  pocket. In the warm glow of the gas lanterns, it had looked like

  a buttery silk handkerchief.

  In the bright light of day?

  It would be yellow.

  Like the ribbon missing from Anabel’s hair.

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  A Surprise Visit

  i

  Celine’s dreams continued haunting her well into the

  waking hours. For the rest of the night, her sleep came

  in fits and starts. Amid the disquiet, she imagined she saw the

  silhouette outside her window draw closer, a splash of black in

  a sea of grey.

  As a child, these kinds of indistinct dreams came to her in

  waves, often in times of turmoil. In them, everything seemed

  vivid and alive and possible, even her most twisted nightmares.

  Twice, she imagined her mother had visited her in the dead of

  night. Once, she’d been cloaked in lambent fox fur, her eyes

  aflame. The following occasion, she’d been accompanied by the

  briny scent of the ocean, a pearl glowing between her teeth.

  Tonight Celine dreamed her mother whispered in her ear.

  She felt her draw near, the scent of safflower oil and incense

  thick about her.

  “Kah,” she said, her breath a cool wash on the shell of Celine’s ear. “Bhal-ee.”

  Celine shouldn’t know what these words meant. But her body

  froze, her eyes wide.

  Flee. Her breath came in a gasp. Quickly.

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  j

  As luck would have it, the next morning brought with it the

  clearest sky Celine had beheld since coming to New Orleans

  two weeks prior. As a result, the sun’s rays seeped unfiltered

  into every nook and cranny.

  By ten o’clock, the temperature had become sweltering.

  On top of that, one of Celine’s worst fears had come to pass.

  She was stationed at the front of a classroom, gazing down at

  twelve smiling young faces, the eldest no more than ten. To her

  right stood Catherine, her hands folded before her, the bespec-

  tacled epitome of a genteel young woman.

  Celine was expected to assist Catherine in teaching the young

  girls about proper comportment in society, in addition to

  instructing them on correct French pronunciation. S’il vous

  plaît, merci beaucoup, je vous en prie, pardonnez-moi, and the like.

  She supposed this was all a carefully orchestrated attempt on

  the part of the Mother Superior to shame her. To remind Celine

  of her place in life and in the world.

  “Ladies!” Catherine clapped. “Pay attention to Mademoiselle

  Rousseau. She’s here to teach you exactly what to do to impress,

  say . . . a handsome young gentleman sometime in the near

  future?” She sent a kind smile Celine’s way, but in its depths

  Celine detected a stab of resentment. Of course Catherine

  knew what had taken place last night. All the young women at

  the convent had been informed, the truth spreading like wild-

  fire through underbrush.

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  Unsurprisingly. One of their ranks had perished in horrifi-cally violent fashion.

  Perhaps Celine should not fault Catherine for the condescen-

  sion shaping her brow this morning. If Catherine had been

  linked to Anabel’s untimely death, Celine would surely be send-

  ing her a judgmental look as well.

  In an attempt to channel the confidence Celine lacked in this

  moment, she offered a toothsome smile to the roomful of wait-

  ing innocents. “Of course it is lovely knowing what to say
and

  do in society, but you should also pay attention simply for the

  sake of learning how to speak another language,” she said in a

  heedless tone. “We wouldn’t want to feel like everything we do

  is an attempt to catch a young man’s notice, now would we?”

  She laughed softly.

  A handful of the young girls in the room giggled with

  Celine, though most of them squirmed in their seats, their faces

  pinched in confusion.

  Fury shaped each of Catherine’s features before gathering

  above her brows. “Mademoiselle Rousseau, may I speak with

  you for a minute?” she ground out from between her teeth.

  Celine looked to the wooden beams along the ceiling, count-

  ing down from ten. She’d known it was a mistake for her to be

  teaching anyone anything. Especially a classroom of children

  under the watchful gaze of a former English governess. Jokes

  about Puritans and the Tower of Terror abounded in Celine’s

  mind before she silenced them the following instant.

  “Celine?” Catherine said even more softly. Even more heat-

  edly. She eyed the exit sidelong.

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  Wincing all the while, Celine nodded. As she followed Catherine toward the door, a bell-like voice piped up from the

  back of the room. “Mademoiselle Rousseau?” asked a girl with

  cat eyes and a mop of unruly hair.

  Grateful to have evaded the impending lecture, Celine swiv-

  eled around. “Yes?”

  The girl fiddled with a corner of her slate. “Is it true you’re

  from Paris?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Murmurs of admiration rippled through the space.

  “Why ever did you leave?” asked another girl near the front

  of the classroom.

  A stream of silent curses barreled from Celine’s throat. Briefly

  she considered repeating the foul word Bastien had used last

  night at their first encounter. Simply to see how it would feel to shock everyone present with nothing but a single syllable.

  Celine squeezed her eyes shut. “Because I wanted an adven-

  ture.” Another bright smile took shape on her face. “What kind

  of adventure would you like to have?”

  “I’d like to see the pyramids,” the first girl replied.

  A girl with blond pigtails tapped a finger against her chin.

  “Maybe travel on a boat one day?”

  “I want to try . . . squid!” still another called out from the right.