“Sébastien will meet you on the terrace in twenty minutes.”
TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN
The scent of dying flowers wafted past the open doors, weaving toward Celine. It reminded her of the praline vendor who idled on the corner of Rue Bourbon and Rue Toulouse every Saturday, Christmas bells on his wrists and ankles, a homemade pipe dangling from his lips. Beneath the moonlight, the travertine balustrade at her fingertips glowed a pale shade of pink, spidered with veins the color of dried blood. Vines of bougainvillea and peach begonias wrapped around the terrace railing, dew glistening on their downy petals.
From this vantage point, Celine considered her next move.
She’d successfully secured what she most wanted: a moment alone with Bastien. As a result of the count’s efforts to keep them apart after Nigel’s murder, Celine had yet to share what she’d realized while studying the clues on Michael’s slate chalkboard.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
At the very least, it was possible she’d learned the location of the killer’s lair. What they should do with this information remained to be seen. She’d considered taking it to Michael, but he’d already refused to help her once, and the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had thus far been stymied in all their attempts to catch this otherworldly demon.
Celine didn’t know how much time Nicodemus would give them now. Would it be enough to secure Arjun’s or Odette’s help as well? The prospect seemed unlikely. Bastien might be willing to defy his uncle to catch Nigel’s murderer, but it would be foolish of Celine to expect the same of anyone else in the Court, especially given their recent encounter outside police headquarters several nights ago.
No matter. Celine intended to use every second of her borrowed time with Bastien, especially if it meant they might lure the killer into the light.
Several other couples mingled at the edge of the balcony. A trio of young women huddled together, laughing at bawdy jokes. Their levity brightened the tenor of Celine’s thoughts. For an instant, she even considered joining them. Especially when she overheard one of their ranks speaking in animated tones about Odette Valmont’s costume. How Sébastien Saint Germain’s scandalous lover had dared to wear fitted breeches beneath her open mantle, as well as a gentleman’s cravat.
Mischief gleamed in one girl’s brown eyes. “Whom do you suppose wears the trousers in bed?”
“Neither of them, if they’re doing it correctly,” the young woman next to her replied.
“Zut alors!” the last girl cried with delight.
Despite everything, Celine could not help but laugh. She’d meant it when she’d told Nicodemus she liked it here. New Orleans was a world of contrasts. A city of life and death. A raw and rich tableau.
It suited her.
She traced her fingers along the stone balustrade, sketching through the thin layer of moisture collecting along its surface. A pair of footsteps came to an abrupt halt over her shoulder, too close to be by chance. She turned at once, her words swallowed by a gasp.
“Pippa.” Alarm scalded through Celine’s body.
Anger pinched her lovely friend’s features. “I came here because I wanted to tell you something.”
“Please, you can’t be seen with—”
“No,” Pippa interrupted. “This time, you will be the one to listen.”
Celine tugged her deeper into the shadows, glancing about wildly, her features tight. “You don’t understand, I—”
“No!” Tears pooled in Pippa’s eyes as she wrenched herself free. “I don’t want to give you a chance to offer me an explanation. You’ve . . . wounded me. Immensely. I’ve worried about you every day. A single word or note would have sufficed. But you’ve cut me out of your life, and I won’t pretend to know why.” She gesticulated as she spoke, her lace sleeve snagging on the elegant silver frogging across her baroque stomacher. “Oh, bother,” she moaned.
“Let me help,” Celine said, reaching for the lace.
Pippa moved to stop her. The next instant, her shoulders fell, her sigh one of defeat. “Blast it all,” she muttered. “I came outside intent on making an impression, yet here I am in your debt.” Her wig of powdered sausage curls slid down her brow, the cross on her golden chain catching on a loose tendril. “And to make matters worse, I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Don’t fret.” A smile tugged at Celine’s lips. “I’ll be sure to heed your warnings, no matter how portentous.”
Cutting her gaze, Pippa sighed once more. “I need you to know how angry I am . . . and that it doesn’t matter if you ignore me or push me away. I’ll always be here, Celine. I love you dearly, and that doesn’t change simply because you’re behaving like a wretch.” She yanked her wig straight, a cloud of powder diffusing about her head.
Celine detangled the last of the snarled lace. “I love you dearly, too, and I’m beyond sorry for behaving like a wretch,” she said in a soft voice. “Please know I have my reasons for keeping my distance. One day soon, I’ll tell you everything.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.” Pippa nodded. “But never forget that I am here, if ever you need me.”
A lump gathered in the base of Celine’s throat. “I won’t forget. Ever.”
Pippa nodded again, her expression turning morose. “I suppose I should return to the ball. I sent Phoebus for some refreshments, and only a total lummox would get lost on his way to the punch bowl.”
“Is Monsieur Devereux such a lummox?” Celine teased in a gentle tone.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Pippa cast her an arched glance. “But if you meet me for tea next Thursday, I’m sure—together—we can divine the truth.”
A part of Celine desperately wanted to be the kind of girl who could make plans next Thursday with a dear friend. But she had no idea what the next hour would hold, much less the next few days. It seemed that, no matter where she went in the world, these two warring sides of her were destined to come to an impasse. Two sides of the same coin. For Celine was every bit the girl in a jewel-toned dress who longed for the love and laughter of an afternoon tea. Just as she was every bit the girl in black, her heart filled with murderous designs, intent on bringing about a killer’s demise.
Could two such opposing forces ever coexist in the same soul?
“I’d love to have tea with you next Thursday,” Celine replied with conviction.
The best she could do was hope. After all, hope was its own kind of magic.
* * *