But she knew better than to complain. Outside her home in Paris, snow likely dotted the pavers, and it would be weeks before she could don the comfortable muslin dress she now wore. Celine recalled when she’d fashioned it last June, from the remnants of an elegant tea gown she’d designed for a wealthy woman known for hosting infamous salons. At the time, Celine imagined attending one of these gatherings and mingling with the chicest members of Parisian society. She would dazzle them with her love of Shakespeare and Voltaire. She would wear this exact dress, its rich aubergine hue a lovely contrast against her fair skin, the overskirt replete with elaborate frills and flounces. And she would style her black curls in a mass atop her crown, the latest coiffure to grace the city’s fashion plates.
Celine laughed to herself, amused by the memory of the seventeen-year-old girl she used to be. The things this girl had dreamed of experiencing. The things she’d wished to have and hold: entrée into the society of elegant young women she fitted for gowns they would discard days later. A chance to fall in love with a handsome young man who would steal her heart with poetry and promises.
Now she sneered at the very idea.
After weeks at sea—buried deep in a timber trunk—the rumpled gown Celine wore tonight reflected the sharp turn her life had taken. It wasn’t fit for Sunday Mass, much less a salon. At the thought, Celine adjusted her position on the wooden seat, her corset digging into her ribs. The whalebone pinched her breasts as she took a deep breath.
And was met with a scent so delicious, it left her distracted.
She scanned the square for its source. On the corner opposite the live oak stood an open-air bakery that reminded Celine of her favorite boulangerie on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. The smell of fried dough and slowly melting sugar wafted through the waxy magnolia leaves. Nearby, a set of balcony shutters slammed shut, and a trellis laden with bright pink bougainvillea shook, the blossoms trembling as if in fear. Or perhaps in anticipation.
It should have been beautiful to behold. But the lovely tableau felt tinged with something sinister. As though a pale finger had slipped through a drawn curtain, beckoning her into a dark abyss.
Wisdom told her to heed the warning. Nevertheless, Celine found herself enchanted. When she glanced at the six other girls in the wagon—seated four on one side, three on the other—Celine caught an expanse of wide-eyed gazes, their expressions a study in trepidation. Or perhaps excitement? Like the bougainvillea, it was impossible to be certain.
The wagon paused on a bustling street corner, the large draft horse at its lead tossing its mane. People in all manner of dress—from the wealthy with their golden watch chains to the humble with their threadbare linen—crossed Decatur Street, their steps focused and harried, as though they were on a mission. It felt unusual for a time of day marked by endings rather than beginnings.
Since Pippa was situated closest to the driver, she leaned forward to address him. “Is there something of note occurring tonight? Something to explain the gathering crowd?”
“The parade,” the gruff man replied, without turning around.
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “There’s a parade gettin’ started near Canal Street. On account of the carnival season.”
“A carnival parade!” Pippa exclaimed, turning toward Celine.
Antonia—the young woman seated at Celine’s left—looked about excitedly, her dark eyes round and bright, like those of an owl. “Um carnaval?” she asked in Portuguese as she pointed toward the sounds of distant revelry.
Celine nodded with a smile.
“It’s a shame we’ll miss seeing it,” Pippa said.
“I wouldn’t worry, lass,” the driver replied, his tongue rolling over the words with a hint of Irish burr. “There’ll be plenty o’ parades and celebrations all month long during the carnival season. You’ll see one, to be sure. And just you wait for the masquerade ball on Mardi Gras. ’Twill be the finest of them all.”
“I heard talk about the carnival season from a friend in Edinburgh,” Anabel—a lissome redhead with an attractive smattering of freckles across her nose—exclaimed. “The entire city of New Orleans rings in the time before Lent with soirées and balls and costume parties for weeks on end.”
“Parties!” the twins from Germany repeated as soon as they recognized the word, one of them clapping her hands with delight.
Their glowing faces struck Celine. Moved something behind her heart. An emotion she’d banned herself from feeling ever since the events of that dreadful night:
Hope.
She’d arrived in a city amid celebration. One with weeks of fêtes to come. The crowd was filled with that same spirit of anticipation she saw in the girls who now shared her fate. Maybe their expressions did not have to be about trepidation. Maybe the bougainvillea was simply jostled awake instead of trembling with worry.
Maybe Celine did not have to live her life in fear of what might happen tomorrow.
As they waited for the streets to clear of passing pedestrians, Celine leaned forward, her spirits on the cusp of taking flight. She tried to catch a bit of ivy dangling from an intricate wrought-iron railing. The clattering of footsteps to her left stole her attention as the crowd parted to allow their wagon through.
No.
It was not to allow them passage.
It was for something else entirely.
There—beneath the amber haze of a gas lamp—stood a lone figure poised to cross Decatur Street, a Panama hat pulled low on his brow, shrouding his features.
Without hesitation, their driver granted the man immediate deference, dipping his head in the figure’s direction as though he were bowing . . . or perhaps keeping his eyes averted.
The man crossed the road, moving from light to shadow and back again, gliding from one street corner to another. He moved . . . strangely. As though the air around him were not air at all, but water. Or perhaps smoke. His polished shoes struck the cobblestones at a clipped pace. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Despite the evening silhouette about him, Celine could tell his suit was made of exquisite material, by a practiced hand. Likely Savile Row. Her training at Madame de Beauharnais’ atelier—the finest couturière in Paris—had granted her a particular eye for such things.
But his clothes did not intrigue Celine nearly as much as what he’d managed to achieve. He’d cleared the street without uttering a single word. He’d scattered women with parasols and children with powdery beignets and men in elegant top hats, with nary a glance in their direction.
That was the kind of magic she wished to possess.
Celine craved the idea of wielding such power, simply for the freedom it would afford her. She watched the man step up to the curb, envy clouding her gaze, filling her heart, taking place of the hope she’d barely allowed purchase a minute ago.