The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

“Nom de Dieu,” Celine cursed as she almost collided with a

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  stout man clutching an empty bottle of port. Bastien pulled back in a seamless motion, spinning them about, away from the

  budding confusion.

  Before they could take in a breath, three young women turned

  the corner, pulling short a hairsbreadth from Bastien and

  Celine. Blue ostrich feathers fanned about their heads, their

  wide belts fashioned of satin and sparkling beads in an array of

  rainbow colors, their skirts constructed of layers of translucent tulle. Fabric rosettes covered the centers of their breasts.

  The rest of their pale skin was bare.

  Bastien laughed as the women harrumphed at a stunned

  Celine, rounding her with ease.

  “Faites attention,” he whispered in her ear, his tone teasing.

  She glanced over her shoulder—armed with a retort—when

  a tall figure wearing a terrifying mask lunged for them, the fur

  around its face trembling, its walnut-shell claws nearly grazing

  their shoulders.

  Celine stifled a cry as she stepped back into Bastien, who

  wrapped a steadying arm around her waist.

  The man in the furred mask angled his head to the sky. Bayed

  once. “Méfiez-vous du rougarou!” He drew out the last word

  into another howl, then spun about in an awkward dance.

  Celine’s eyes went wide. Though her heart still pounded, a smile

  tugged at the edges of her lips. Bastien laughed, then bowed at

  the masked man, who proceeded to lope in another direction.

  “Beware the . . . what did he say?” Celine tilted her head,

  struggling to be heard over the commotion.

  “The rougarou.”

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  Celine blinked. “What is a rougarou?” she asked loudly.

  “A creature of darkness meant to instill fear in the hearts of

  children.” Bastien sent her a lighthearted grin, his gaze glit-

  tering. “Half man, half wolf, it prowls the swamps and forests

  beneath the light of the moon, hunting for its next kill.”

  Though he spoke in obvious jest, Celine could not ignore the

  strange pull in her stomach. Something inhuman had attacked

  her less than half an hour ago. The worst of her nightmares had

  become very real possibilities. Was this a creature of fact or

  fiction?

  Bastien’s features softened with understanding. “Don’t worry.

  A rougarou exists only in our imagination.”

  “And in your imagination, what does it kill?” she asked

  carefully.

  “Bad Catholics.”

  A rush of unexpected laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You

  can’t be serious.”

  He peaked a brow. “Make sure you keep all your promises

  during Lent.” He leaned close, electrifying the skin beneath

  her ear, sending a chill from her neck down to her toes. “Or

  méfiez-vous du rougarou.”

  Celine laughed again, shoving him away.

  “Regardez!” a throaty voice commanded nearby.

  Bastien and Celine followed the directive, turning to look to

  one side.

  Four elderly women with dark skin stood in a semicircle, the

  eldest at its center waving a hand in Bastien’s direction.

  “C’est un beau diable,” she declared, the other women around

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  her chortling in response. “Do you not agree?” she asked Celine.

  Celine answered with a humorless nod. Bastien was indeed a

  beautiful devil.

  The lady held out her wrinkled hands. “Dance with me, beau

  diable,” she ordered Bastien.

  Without the slightest hesitation, he swept her up in his arms

  as the beat of a festive quadrille blared into the night sky, the drums and violins soaring in tandem. Soon other couples joined

  in, until a small corner of the street moved in a familiar pattern, changing partners, weaving in and out of each other like the

  reeds of a basket coming together.

  Celine found herself pulled into the mêlée, brushing past

  hands and shoulders, flashing around blurring faces, the sweat

  dripping from her brow, the hem of her salmon-striped skirt

  kicking up a whirl of red dust around her feet.

  When the quadrille ended—a new melody quick to take its

  place—Celine laughed loudly and clapped with the dispersing

  crowd. Then she glanced across the way to find Bastien watch-

  ing her, a strange look on his face.

  They held each other’s gazes as they all but collided in the

  center of the street.

  “You dance well,” Celine said with an awkward smile.

  “As do you.”

  She made a face. “I was a bit uncertain about the steps. There

  haven’t been many occasions for me to dance.”

  “We should remedy that.” Bastien brushed the settling dust

  from his shoulders. “And dancing well isn’t about knowing the

  steps. It’s about knowing yourself.”

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  “That’s a bit trite, don’t you think?”

  His lips pushed forward. “Trite? Why would it be trite to

  know oneself?”

  “I only meant—do we ever truly know ourselves?”

  “I should hope so. Knowing who you are is necessary in

  order to determine who you want to be.” Bastien looked to

  Celine for cues on where to proceed. Without a word, she

  began winding through the fringes of the crowd, moving in

  the direction of the convent, reassured by the feeling of his

  palm against the small of her back.

  Once they’d cleared the parade, Celine shifted beside

  Bastien, at ease for the first time since leaving Jacques’, when

  her chief concern had been the recent humiliation she’d

  suffered at Odette’s hands. Celine almost laughed at herself. To

  think that had happened less than an hour ago.

  But none of it mattered now. Not much, at least.

  Her fingers no longer trembled. Her ribs no longer constricted

  her heart. She didn’t yet feel entirely safe, but at least she no longer felt afraid.

  And she was thankful.

  For the length of the next city block, Celine considered the

  last thing Bastien had said. “If knowing who you are is a neces-

  sary part of knowing who you will become, then who are you,

  Sébastien Saint Germain?”

  He snorted. “I should warn you, turnabout is fair play.”

  Celine paused in deliberation. “Tonight, I agree. From this

  point onward, let’s deal only in truths.”

  “And tomorrow?”

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  “We’ll return to cloaking ourselves in comfortable lies.”

  Bastien laughed, the sound rich and resonant. “Very well,

  then. Who am I?” he mused. “I’m . . . a man.” Something glinted

  in his gaze.

  Celine eyed him sidelong, her expression sardonic.

  “I’m the son of people from different worlds,�
�� he continued,

  his smile lingering. “My mother was a free woman of color, and

  my father was Taíno.” He paused. “For too short a time, I was

  also”—a shadow crossed his face—“a brother. After I lost my

  family, I became a nephew. My uncle brought me back to New

  Orleans at the age of nine, and I lived here until I was sent to the academy, where—barring a rather unfortunate incident—I almost became a soldier.” A hint of bitter amusement touched his

  lips. “Now I handle my uncle’s affairs when he is away on busi-

  ness.” He raised a shoulder. “I suppose that’s the whole of it.”

  Celine refrained from calling him out. Bastien may not have

  told any falsehoods, but he’d obfuscated the truth, distilling the whole of his life down to nothing more than a few particulars. A

  fount of questions gathered in her throat. Michael’s admonition

  from days earlier rang through her mind, spurring her to press

  Bastien for details, so that she might understand the full extent of the Ghost’s unhappy tale.

  She chose to ignore this desire. It would be easier to take on

  those concerns tomorrow than bear their weight tonight.

  “You can ask me, Celine,” Bastien said. “After all, Michael

  didn’t tell you everything.” Caustic humor laced his words.

  “Of course he didn’t. I’m certain it hasn’t escaped your notice

  how much he hates you.”

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  “The feeling is most assuredly mutual.” His grin reeked of arrogance.

  “May I ask why?”

  “You may. But I may not answer. Since I promised not to lie.”

  Celine’s lips were caught between silence and speech for an

  instant. “Very well,” she grumbled. “For what it’s worth, Arjun

  is a wretched spy.”

  He snorted. “As well as an excellent attorney.”

  “For fiends and scoundrels alike.” She paused. “But in all

  seriousness . . . what happened to your family?” This, at least,

  she wished to know in this moment.

  A look of blank apathy settled onto his beautiful face. “My

  mother died six months after my sister. Following their deaths,

  my father took me from New Orleans to Saint Domingue. He

  fell ill soon thereafter, so we moved to his home in San Juan.”

  “And . . . how did your sister die?”

  “She was killed in an accident, at the age of fifteen.” Though

  Bastien’s reply sounded indifferent, his features hardened

  for an instant, anger flashing behind his eyes before his art-

  ful mask slipped back into place. There was a story there. A

  source of immense pain. But Celine did not wish to press

  Bastien on the matter. Not yet. “My father succumbed to

  his illness a short while later, after which I returned to New

  Orleans,” he finished.

  An invisible hand gripped Celine’s heart in a vise. It troubled

  her how Bastien spoke about loss in such a matter-of-fact tone.

  Perhaps that was how he talked about things that truly mat-

  tered to him, in cold, detached fashion.

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  “I’ve heard many people say tragedy shapes us,” Bastien continued. “But I am not the worst thing that’s ever happened to

  me, nor am I the worst thing I’ve ever done. Nothing in life

  is that simple.” He looked across the darkened streets of New

  Orleans, his gaze steady. Determined.

  His words were like a blow to Celine. Every day she denied

  parts of herself. Tried to hide the worst thing that had hap-

  pened to her, the worst thing she’d ever done. Her entire life,

  she’d denied who her mother was, as if it were some kind of

  great shame. Because of this, she knew nothing about half her

  past. Half of her own story.

  Since the age of four, she’d been told this was the only way.

  “Do you ever wish you could be someone else?” Celine asked,

  her tone solemn.

  “Often. Especially when I was a boy.” Bastien turned toward

  her. “And you?”

  Celine blanched.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Bastien repeated her earlier words: “Tonight

  we deal only in truths.”

  “Which is . . . difficult, since my whole life is built on a lie.”

  It was honest. More honest than Celine had ever been with

  anyone in her life.

  She breathed in deeply through her nose. “My mother was

  from a Far Eastern country. I was never told which one. But . . .

  I am of mixed heritage, from a marriage of East and West,”

  Celine blurted, almost as if her own admission startled her.

  “I’ve never said that to a soul,” she finished in a rush.

  And yet the words fell from her lips with surprising ease.

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  Bastien studied her while they walked. Whatever his thoughts were, he concealed them well.

  Her head remarkably cool, Celine trained her eyes on the

  grey pavestones ahead. “When my father and I came to Paris,

  I was very young. He told me to keep who my mother was a

  secret. He said if the world knew, I would live with derision

  for the rest of my life. So I listened, and I lied. And . . . I feel ashamed for it. It’s as if this lie has become an essential part

  of my truth, like a kind of twisted keystone. So much so, that

  I don’t know how to”—she struggled for a moment—“how to

  think or behave any differently, lest the whole thing crumble

  to pieces.”

  There. Several painful truths unmasked. Truths she’d been

  incapable of admitting even to herself. It surprised her that—

  of all the people she’d encountered thus far—she’d decided to

  share these truths with Bastien.

  Celine waited in silence for a time, pondering this realization.

  Wishing she could ignore the meaning behind it.

  “I’m sorry for your pain, Celine,” Bastien said in a subdued

  tone. “Thank you for trusting me with your truth.”

  A sharp twinge cut through her chest, making it difficult to

  respond at first.

  Finally Celine spoke, her voice a soft brush of sound. “And I’m

  sorry for your pain, Bastien. I think trust is a precious thing.

  Know that I will always treat yours as such.”

  He looked at her, his eyes a liquid silver. “Merci, mon coeur.

  From my heart to yours.”

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  j

  They walked the rest of the way toward the Ursuline convent

  with nothing accompanying them but the chirruping of insects

  and the whispering of palm fronds. Once they rounded the fi-

  nal bend—the convent looming tall in the darkness—Celine

  tilted her head toward the lace of stars around the sickle moon,

  their cool light surging through her veins. Bastien stopped be-

  side her, though he did not follow her gaze.

  “Are the stars that captivating?” he teased in a gentle tone.

  “Of course they are,” she said without looking away. “They’re

  infinite. They see all a
nd know all. These same stars hung in the sky during the times of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. Isn’t

  that fascinating?”

  Bastien sighed, the sound grim. “I’ll never understand the

  fascination with the infinite. There is an end to everything, to

  good things as well.”

  “Chaucer was an ass.” Celine glanced at him, a brow quirked with

  amusement. “And the infinite captivates us because it allows us to believe all things are possible. That true love can last beyond time.”

  He did not reply. Instead his eyes bored into hers, the lashes

  above them thick. Deliciously sooty. When Celine looked away,

  Bastien cleared his throat, pausing to check his pulse.

  “You did it again,” Celine said.

  “What?”

  “You often check your pulse. I’m curious as to why.”

  A sardonic smile took shape on Bastien’s face. “To remind

  myself I’m human.”

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  That same strange feeling gripped Celine again. That feeling of something eluding her grasp. Something . . . important. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Are you?”

  Her question caught Bastien off guard. He stared down at her,

  his perfect lips pushing forward with slow deliberation. Then

  he took her hand and pressed it to the side of his neck. Beneath

  Celine’s fingertips drummed a steady heartbeat. One that be-

  gan to race at her touch, its warmth tingling through her body.

  Bastien held both their hands there for a time, aware his pulse

  betrayed him. Aware and seemingly unconcerned.

  The heart doesn’t lie, Michael had said.

  Celine let her shaking hand fall. And decided to ignore all

  common sense. “Since we’re dealing in truths for this one night,

  I wanted to say I’m attracted to you.”

  “And I’m attracted to you.” Bastien did not hesitate in this

  admission.

  She stared up at him, her eyes unflinching. “Earlier this

  evening, I wanted to kiss you.”

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we first saw each other

  in Jackson Square.”

  “You remembered,” she murmured. “I thought you had

  forgotten.”

  Bastien canted his head. “How could I forget? You surprised

  me. It had been a long time since anything surprised me.”

  Celine blinked. “I surprised you?”

  He laughed. Then his expression turned serious. “One day,

  someone should tell you how beautiful you are in the moon-