His words struck Celine like a blow to the face. As if the count had peered into her very soul and unmasked her greatest fear of all. She flinched when a final gust of wind preceded the last arrival. The one she’d been expecting for quite some time. She’d braced herself for it, knowing this wound would cut her to the quick. But that did not lessen the sting. She felt it keenly, like a string snapping on a harp, the sound reverberating deep in her bones.
Odette did not meet Celine’s gaze as she moved into position at Nicodemus’ left. Her shoulders were rounded, her features somber. But still she came to stand beside Bastien’s uncle, her steps unfaltering.
“I’m sorry, mon amie,” Odette said, her sable eyes downturned. “You are my friend. But they . . . are my family.”
With this final cut, the count drew an invisible line in the sand.
Celine could trust no member of the Court. It was laughable to think their loyalties could ever be with her. If Nicodemus ordered them to leave her to her fate—to fend for herself, no matter the circumstances—they would do as he asked.
Michael had already refused to use Celine as bait. If Nicodemus prevented Bastien from helping Celine, she would be utterly alone, as the count had promised.
With a killer lurking in her shadow.
Perhaps I’ll resort to praying once more. Her thoughts turned grim. In the premier pew of Saint Louis Cathedral, where all the best sinners take refuge.
Awareness prickled through her limbs.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
Knowledge kindled within Celine, its cool light surging through her veins. She knew where to set her trap. And the devil take her if she would wait for a boy to defy his family before she made plans. She would do as she always did: whatever needed to be done. In Paris, Celine Rousseau had struck down her attacker in his prime, with no one to depend on but herself. She’d traveled half the world to start a new life, with not a single promise on her horizon.
And no one—human or demon alike—would stand in her way now.
HIVER, 1872
JACKSON SQUARE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
I believe tonight will end in blood
and I alone know for whom.
Maybe she will trap me, with her
evil little
Masque, her clever little mind.
It will all be for naught, for she knows not what she does.
Love is proof that blood alone means nothing.
I am thankful my blood is thicker than oil
Et brille plus fort que le soleil (And burns brighter than the sun).
BEAUTIFUL DECAY
Celine had lived and breathed French fashion for the better part of five years.
In Paris she’d learned the importance of one’s choice in garments. How it spoke for a girl, perhaps before she was able to speak for herself. Clothes opened doors as surely as they closed them. On a practical level, the way a young lady chose to dress indicated not only her station in life, but where she wished to go.
There was an art to dressing. Of all the reasons to love fashion, Celine had fallen in love with this one the most. The idea that she could drape her body in colors to match her soul. How a simple dress could convey her hopes and fears and dreams. How bolts of silk could be molded into armor in the right person’s hands.
This was the spirit that had inspired Celine to create the gown she wore now. It was completely unsuitable for the event in question, yet perfect in all other respects. The battle regalia of a lunar goddess. Or perhaps an homage to a queen of darkness.
Celine smiled to herself. Sometimes a girl must make her own magic.
She filled her lungs with the sultry air of a warm evening. The last of the afternoon showers had ended just before the sun sank below the horizon. All the packed streets of New Orleans glimmered like newly polished silver, the air smelling of iron and smoke. Her hem swept over a pool of mirrored water, the black taffeta whispering in her wake.
Just beyond the arch of the main entrance to the Orléans Ballroom, Celine paused midstep. For an instant, she imagined it to be the exact spot the Marquis de Lafayette himself had once stood.
Though it was unlikely he would have arrived to a fête two hours late.
Celine had needed the time. She’d spent most of her waking hours sequestered at police headquarters, finishing her costume. Just yesterday she’d managed to complete Odette’s ensemble. She’d even attempted to deliver the garments to Jacques’, only to be rebuffed at the door by the same Titian-haired individual who manned the lift at the Dumaine. After confiscating her parcels and rendering payment in full, Ifan had turned Celine and the officers in her company away, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. Consequently, she’d been denied the opportunity to see Bastien or perform a final fitting on Odette. Her first glimpse of the finished costume—a daring hat tip to Madame du Barry—would be tonight when she saw Odette at the ball.
Celine hoped her friend would delight in her surprise as much as she had delighted in creating it.
From dawn until dusk, Celine had poured her efforts into the black taffeta confection she wore now. It had begun as a gown of mourning, the kind readily available in any dress shop. She’d taken it apart and pieced it back together in a nod to the baroque silhouette. Within the gown’s skirts, she’d incorporated the first set of wide pannier hoops the carpenter on Rue Bienville had fashioned.
The overall effect wasn’t perfect. Perhaps if she’d had more time, Celine would have added more flounces. She might have trimmed the black lace dripping from her pagoda sleeves into something more dramatic. But even in its imperfection, it was her, for better or for worse. Reckless, incomplete, and inappropriate.
But here all the same.
Celine rested her right foot on the bottom step, taking a moment to steel her spine.
Bastien’s uncle would undoubtedly be present tonight, as would several members of La Cour des Lions. Still, Celine was uncertain if Bastien would be in attendance, so soon after Nigel’s death. The masquerade ball at the Orléans Ballroom was to be the soirée of the carnival season. His absence would be noted among those in society. Would this be enough to ensure his presence?
Celine hoped it would.
All the best and brightest of the Crescent City were sure to make an appearance. This year’s theme had been announced at the culmination of last year’s event. Twelve long months of anticipation for a tribute to the dazzling courts of Louis XV and his son Louis-Auguste, in that glimmer of time just before the French Revolution. Every invited guest had been instructed to garb themselves in white, from head to toe.
And here Celine stood in nothing but black, from the domino on her face to the tips of her dyed slippers . . . save for the silver dagger concealed beneath her skirts, of course. This should have frightened her. In Paris, it would have been shocking to contemplate such a thing. But Celine was not in Paris anymore. Nor was she the same girl who’d fled the atelier that terrible night, her hands bloodied, her features frantic. That girl was a creature of distant memory. One unsure of her place, her toes lingering on a step leading into the unknown.