In that moment, Celine wanted nothing more than to slip into this woman’s expensive shoes, just for a breath of time. To sink her teeth into something decadent, heedless of all else around her.
“Oh!” Pippa said, startled by a sudden tongue of fire leaping from another table. A white-gloved maître d’hôtel swished the burning contents of a small pan, a blue blaze dancing around its edges. The concoction appeared to be a strange kind of creamy fruit covered in mounds of brown sugar, then doused with bourbon before being set aflame. A delectable perfume of warm caramel curled into the air, countless pairs of eyes drifting toward it.
This was beyond unfair.
Celine’s soul cried out in protest, her memories of the flavorless stew she’d consumed earlier taunting her tongue. What would happen to Celine if she ordered a meal right now and could not pay for it? Would she be forced to wash dishes all night? Perhaps put in a stockade and pelted with rotten vegetables, like in the time of Shakespeare?
Would it be worth it?
Resolve coursed through her. At some point, Celine would partake in a meal at this restaurant. She might even entice Pippa to join her. Maybe.
Pippa’s stomach grumbled, and a smile toyed at the edges of Celine’s lips.
Just then, the imposing figure positioned near the kitchen’s swinging door turned his attention toward them. He cut his eyes, appraising them from afar. This man had to be the individual with the sinful voice and the ring through his right ear that Odette had mentioned at their first meeting earlier today.
Before Celine could move in his direction, the man shifted from his post, striding toward the front of the restaurant, where Celine and Pippa stood. He moved with purpose, though his attention remained sharp, watching for signs of missteps among his staff, ready to rebuke at any turn. As he wove through the space, he pointed behind him, and another liveried gentleman stepped seamlessly into position beside the swinging kitchen door.
Celine admired his poise. The respect he commanded. Less than ten years ago, men with his skin color were held as slaves in the southern part of America, forced to work in endless fields beneath a blazing hot sun. Celine knew they still were not seen as equals, much less granted prestigious positions in elegant restaurants, directing white men in perfectly pressed jackets.
The sight of this man of color helming an establishment like Jacques’ emboldened Celine in a way she could not quite understand.
He stopped before them, standing directly in front of Celine. Her eyes widened as he towered over her, his gaze a tinge un-welcoming. “May I help you, mademoiselle?” he asked in a lightly accented tone. “If you wish to reserve a table tonight, it is best for you to join the queue out front.” His voice reminded her of an approaching storm. A distant rumble, a swirl of clouds.
Though Celine should have felt unsettled by his cold de-meanor, she found herself unaffected. Calm.
“Hello,” she began, her tone unwavering. “My name is Celine.”
He cast her an arched glance. And said nothing more.
“I was told to disregard the queue,” Celine continued, “and ask to be taken to Odette.”
His gaze softened. “My apologies.” A fond light entered his eyes. “You should have begun with that, mademoiselle.” He snapped his fingers in the air, and all around them bodies moved in concert, clearing a path.
“Je m’appelle Kassamir.” He introduced himself while adjusting his golden cuff links, their shining surfaces embossed with the same symbol of a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a lion. “I am in charge of this restaurant. As friends of Mademoiselle Valmont, you are most welcome at Jacques’, and please know that all those in my employ are here to attend to your needs.” He began leading them toward the curving staircase near the back.
“C’est un plaisir de vous recontrer, Kassamir,” Celine replied with a smile.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . . Kassamir,” Pippa echoed, her voice resembling the squeak of a mouse.
A grin flickered across Kassamir’s face. “Please call me simply Kassamir, mademoiselle. My surname is of little consequence, as it is not one I care to use.”
Celine wanted to ask what Kassamir meant by saying that, but stopped herself after an inadvertent glance over one shoulder. The sight of Pippa bravely marching forward despite her earlier concerns sent a flurry of guilt across Celine’s skin. Once again, she’d placed Pippa in an uncomfortable situation. And a friend in truth would check on her companion more often.
The trio ascended the curving staircase, trepidation rippling through Celine, starting from her toes, rising up her spine. She nearly stumbled as the steps grew narrower the closer they climbed toward the top.
Anticipation spiked around her heart when the fear reached her throat. It was a strange sensation, this mixture of emotions. For as long as Celine could remember, she’d relished this particular thrill. The boys who lived on her street had called her “une petite sotte” when she’d balanced along her balcony’s ledge on a single foot. “You little fool,” they’d cried from far below, safe and smug in their superiority. “Veux-tu mourir, Marceline Rousseau?”
They could not have been more wrong. Celine hadn’t wanted to die then, just as she had no desire to die now. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She simply wanted to revel in the excitement that always accompanied danger.
That chance to feel truly alive.
But those little tyrants in their worn woolen caps weren’t completely wrong when they called her a fool. Even then, she’d known it was the height of foolishness to court danger so openly. To crave it like a slice of warm chocolate cake. Were the Mother Superior present now, Celine knew she would urge them away from this place with all haste. Signs of peril lurked everywhere, even in the sinister coil of the wrought- iron railing.
The second floor came into view, and Celine glimpsed a multitude of gas lamps turned down low, rendering the room beyond in muted tones. The air around them condensed. Turned cooler, as if they’d passed from day to night in the span of a single staircase.
They neared the top, Kassamir continuing to move at a leisurely pace. Here, the banisters were fashioned of gleaming brass, faceted on all sides with a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.
As if the symbol had intentionally followed Celine all day long.
Or perhaps led her to this place, without words.
Something began coiling through her stomach. An unseen force. It spread through her limbs like a slow shudder. Beside her, Pippa gripped Celine’s arm, undoubtedly experiencing the same unsettling sensation. That feeling of hovering above the threshold between light and dark.
Kassamir turned toward them, his sharp gaze appearing as though it could bore holes into her soul. “Bienvenue à La Cour des Lions.”