The resulting gown did not fit Celine well, but she spent the latter part of the day remaking it to suit the occasion, an outdoor event held alongside a manse in the wealthiest lane of the Garden District. To be sure, it was in poor taste for Celine to be attending a party of any kind, mere days after she’d been cast out of the convent.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
Proper society didn’t hold a place for Celine anyway. It was high time she removed herself from its confines.
After she finished applying the final details of her costume, Celine placed Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her borrowed gown. She planned to reach inside every so often to pinch the piece of parchment between her fingers, imagining it was his neck.
The idea alone steeled her spine. He might have avoided her earlier summons, but Sébastien Saint Germain would not be able to elude Celine tonight. Tonight she would have her answers. She would know the truth about the yellow ribbon. About his involvement in these murders. What exactly all the members of La Cour des Lions were.
Finally she would know where they all stood.
If they weren’t fighting with her, they were against her. And Celine intended to use every tool in her arsenal to protect those she cared about—and herself—from whatever may come.
Even if Hell itself unleashed all its monsters on the Crescent City.
* * *
Rapturous screams rang along the hedge of ochre rosebushes at Celine’s back. A man streaked past the entrance to the garden maze, his garments covered in leaves, twigs placed strategically throughout his hair, champagne dribbling from his fluted glass. He laughed, glancing over his left shoulder while he ran. A young woman in diaphanous skirts dyed the color of palest jade almost rammed into Celine in her efforts to trail after the drunken gentleman. The girl raced into the boy’s arms, and they crashed into each other before dissolving in a fit of laughter.
Celine inhaled slowly. It might have been a mistake for her to come here.
The longer she wore this gown, the more she realized how ill it suited her. Its basque of emerald silk polonaise was hot, its layers of cream-colored underskirt heavy. Worse still, its smaller size had forced her to tightlace into her stays. And—as evinced by the other “costumes” guests had chosen for a soirée themed after Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—all her efforts had clearly been for naught.
The members of New Orleans’ upper echelons had taken the party’s theme as nothing more than a light suggestion. Already Celine had caught sight of people dressed as forest nymphs or fairy sprites, replete with paste gems, translucent garments, and twigs affixed to their elegant frock coats. At least five satyrs were in attendance. Five young men from prominent families dressed as randy goats. One was already too many, in Celine’s opinion.
Had they even seen or bothered to read the play?
Celine had hoped to channel Hermia, a character named after the god of trade. As such, it felt fitting to don a dress the color of greed. Along her cheekbones and around her eyes, she’d stippled flakes of paper-thin gold leaf into the shape of coins, positioning them as if they were falling from the crown of ebony curls at the top of her head. Actual bills had been pinned to her coif, half of which she’d left down, thrown carelessly over one shoulder. It had been years since society had deemed it appropriate for Celine to wear her hair unbound in public.
Hang society anyway. Well, hang it halfway at least.
At Odette’s insistence, a final touch of powder made from crushed pearls had been dusted across Celine’s face and décolleté. “You simply must, my dear,” Odette had said, as if this made a sliver of sense.
Every time Celine bent one way or leaned to reach for something, she could hear the seams of the emerald basque start to scream. She’d laced her stays as tightly as they would go, and still the rich green fabric across her bust was holding together on little but a prayer. By the end of the night, her breasts were likely to burst free from her corset, a sight that would draw a certain kind of ignominy. Though it would advance Celine’s removal from proper society, it might bring about this conclusion in an abrupt manner. One with which she was not yet entirely comfortable.
But from the way the evening looked to be progressing, it might not be the most scandalous event of the night.
The moment Celine and Odette had entered the glittering foyer of this magnificent home, champagne had been poured liberally, to any and all who wished to partake. Hours later, the glitziest pillars of New Orleans society were well into their cups. Already couples were disappearing into the hedgerow deep within the impressive labyrinth, seeking shadowy corners awash in fervent whispers.
Celine fiddled with the low-cut edge of her emerald gown, trying in vain to tug it higher.
“Stop fretting over it, mon amie. You’ll only draw more attention to the impressive swath of bare skin there,” Odette said from beside Celine, her long sheath dress falling from her shoulders in a cascade of lavender organza, her hair cocooned in a shimmering net atop her head. She’d styled herself in Regency garb, with a hint of Greco-Roman influence. A skein of whisper-thin tulle stained a deep Tyrian purple had been draped across her chest, its ends left to trail down her back. Around her waist was a golden girdle inspired by the character Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.
“I don’t mind a swath of bare skin,” Celine retorted. “I do mind my bare breasts spilling over the top of my dress at a party replete with satyrs.”
Odette laughed, her ivory fan fluttering her loose brunette curls. “If that happens, you’ll have ten marriage proposals by the end of the evening.”
“I have no intention of becoming the future Madame Goat.” Celine sniffed. “Besides that, I feel like a ham trussed up for holiday dinner.”
Odette’s laughter rang into the starlit sky. “One glass of champagne, and you’re far more entertaining than the Bard himself.” The edges of her lovely face crinkled as she gazed upon Celine, her expression warm. “Before I forget, you look divine in that color. It’s a perfect match for your eyes.”
Her words caused Celine to flinch. Her tormentor that night in the Quarter had used that word. Divine. Meaning “of the gods.” She certainly didn’t feel “of the gods” tonight.
“I should have gone dressed as a tree,” Celine said in a flat tone. When her gaze ran the length of the hedgerow, she caught a glimpse of yet another satyr, his goat ears high on his curly head, a tail fashioned of wool and feathers pinned to the back of his gabardine trousers.
Exasperation rippled through her chest. “Have any of these fools actually read the play?”
Odette cackled with merriment, her long purple mantle swirling about her feet.
A familiar figure caught Celine’s attention across the way. Her heart missed a beat when a pair of sapphire eyes skimmed dangerously close to where Celine stood, the smile below them sweet and serene.