“Cochon de lait!” a man with a soot-caked mustache called out in a strange French accent. He hovered above what looked like a beast of iron and black smoke about the size of a large trunk. When he rolled back its lid, Celine saw meat roasting above a makeshift spit, the aroma of burning pecan wood and sugarcane wafting through it. He poured a concoction that smelled of melted butter, white wine, hot peppers, and minced garlic all over the smoked cochon. A delicious steam sizzled from the smoldering embers, weaving through and around them. Then the man with the mustache poked a large fork in one side of the meat, and a piece of cochon fell from the bone onto a waiting piece of bread. Immediately a crowd formed a queue around the man and his iron beast.
Celine desperately wished she carried with her a single coin. A single chance to partake in something so mouthwatering. She knew it was a bad idea to move closer to the merriment of the incoming parade, but it had been so long since this kind of unbridled joy had taken root in her heart. She supposed that was the way of it, when one was guilty of committing unspeakable acts like murder.
Joy did not live in a heart full of fear.
Pippa saw the look on her face. “We can’t linger here, Celine,” she said in a grim tone. “We can’t watch the parade.”
“I know.” Celine inhaled deeply. “I’m just imagining that we could. That we did. And it was glorious.”
A sympathetic smile curled up Pippa’s face. “I want to see it, too. But if the Mother Superior finds out we disregarded her wishes—that we did not go straight to our meeting and immediately return—she’ll never let us venture into the city alone again.”
“Of course.” Celine nodded. But her feet remained fixed to one spot.
“Please,” Pippa continued, taking her hand. “Life is much more difficult when those around us do not have faith in us.”
Celine sighed. As usual, Pippa wasn’t wrong. In the past, Celine’s penchant for recklessness had proved problematic. Disastrous on at least one occasion. The sense of joy that had bloomed in her chest only a moment before wilted like a rose beneath the hot sun.
“You’re right,” Celine said softly. Regretfully. She turned away from the crowd and all its delightful promises.
Pippa linked arms with her as they began walking in the opposite direction. “I just don’t have the same sense of adventure as you.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Celine grinned. “You did board a ship sailing into the unknown.” And lie for me tonight, she added without words.
It was impossible to miss the dark cloud passing over Pippa’s features. Curiosity warmed through Celine again. It was the first time in five weeks that she’d seen a shadow descend on Pippa’s face when confronted with questions concerning her past.
Was it possible Pippa harbored a dark secret as well?
It just seemed so unlikely.
“There was nothing left for me in Liverpool,” Pippa began, as though she could read Celine’s mind, “except my family’s good name and a legacy of debt. My father . . . wasted his life and our fortunes in gambling hells and in the arms of fallen women.” She winced. “It was better that I leave and make my own path.”
Anyone listening would sense how much it pained Pippa to disclose these truths. A part of Celine felt honored that Pippa had chosen to confide in her. She wrapped her arm more tightly around Pippa’s, but could not ignore the dread coiling through her stomach.
Pippa would expect Celine to return the gesture. To trust her with details of Celine’s past. Sure enough, Pippa gazed at Celine as they made their way down the Avenue des Ursulines. Celine did not need to ask why. Her friend waited expectantly for Celine to offer her own tale of woe.
To share her painful truth.
More than anything, Celine wished to tell Pippa what had happened. But how would Pippa—her only friend in the New World—look upon her if she learned Celine had killed a man and fled Paris in the aftermath? Pippa had said it herself: what kind of monster takes a human life? At best she would stop looking upon Celine with the eyes of a friend. At worst?
Celine shuddered to think.
The result would be the same: she would have no one. So Celine kept to her story, offering Pippa a shrug of her shoulders. A dismissive smile.
“I completely understand about wanting to make your own way,” she said. “There was nothing left for me in Paris. It was better for me to begin anew elsewhere, too.”
Pippa said nothing. For a time she did not look away from Celine. Then she nodded, as though she’d made a decision to leave things be. For now.
* * *
The two girls made their way down Rue Royale, on the lookout for a sign that read Jacques’. As they turned a corner, they passed a narrow side street that reeked suspiciously of refuse. The alleyway was unlit. Removed from the realm of civilized folk.
Celine stopped short when the suggestion of a scuffle emanated from its shadows. It struck her like a bolt of lightning, electricity sizzling across her skin. A man cried out, begging for his life in a guttural mix of French and English. His words were followed by the sound of a fist against flesh.
What if a murder was occurring only steps from where they stood?
Celine knew it was wiser to continue on their course. To remain ambivalent. Safe.
But if a monster takes a life, what kind of creature refuses to save one?
Pippa tugged on Celine’s arm. Celine ignored her. Someone was being beaten to death in the alley, without recourse. The parable of the Good Samaritan rang in her ears, admonishing her to take notice. To act.
The man cried out again, and Celine took a step closer.
“Celine!” Pippa exclaimed in a loud whisper.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called from the alleyway’s obscured center.
Without blinking an eye, Celine yanked Pippa into a fall of nearby shadows, her heart thudding in her chest. She peered around the corner—into the narrow alleyway—allowing her sight to adjust to the darkness.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Pippa whispered in Celine’s ear, her eyes wide with terror, her breaths heavy. “We should leave at—”
Celine pressed a finger to Pippa’s mouth and shook her head. She focused on the scene unfolding in the depths of the small side street. It took an instant to form an understanding.
A man lay on his side amid a pile of desiccated fruit peelings, his words garbled, his predicament clear. One hand was raised in supplication. His shoulders shook uncontrollably.
Two other men stood on either side of this poor soul, bracketing him like a pair of suited specters. Through the darkness, the shorter man lit a cheroot. A flash of firelight shone on a set of perfect white teeth and the bleached linen of his rolled shirtsleeves.