Then he looked up. His eyes met hers as though she’d called out to him, without words.
Celine blinked.
He was younger than she’d expected. Not much older than she. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps, no more. Later Celine would try to remember details about him. But it was as though her memory of that moment had gone hazy, like oil swiped across the surface of a mirror. The only thing she remembered with distinct clarity was his eyes. They shone in the flame of the gas lamp as though they were lit from within.
Dark grey. Like the barrel of a gun.
He narrowed his gaze. Tipped his hat at her. And walked away.
“Oh, my stars,” Pippa breathed.
Murmurs of assent—spoken in several languages—rippled across the rows of seated young women. They leaned into each other, an air of shared excitement passing over them. One of the twins from Düsseldorf said something in German that made her sister titter behind her hands.
Only Celine continued staring at the rapidly receding figure, her eyes narrowed, as his had been. As though she were in disbelief.
Of what, she did not know.
Their wagon continued making its way toward the convent. Celine watched the boy fade into the darkness, his long, lean legs carrying him through the night with an otherworldly confidence.
She wondered what made everyone at the crossing yield to him without question. Longed for the barest measure of it. Perhaps if Celine were someone to command such respect, she would not have been forced to leave Paris. To lie to her father.
Or murder a man.
TO THE STARS
I shouldn’t be here.
That thought rang in Noémie’s head like an endless refrain.
It was dark. Late. The water lapped along the pier at the edge of the Vieux Carré, the sound lulling. Hypnotic.
She never should have agreed to meet anyone in this place, no matter the enticement. Noémie knew better. Her parents had taught her better. The church had taught her better. She drew her light spring shawl around her shoulders and straightened the pink silk ribbon around her neck. When she turned, her garnet earbobs struck the sensitive skin along her jawline.
Earbobs and silk ribbons, on a pier in the middle of the night?
What was she thinking?
I shouldn’t be here. Whom did she expect to impress with such fripperies?
Not this kind of man, to be sure.
Any young man who asked to meet her in the dead of night was not a gentleman. But Noémie supposed the kind of woman who agreed was not quite a lady either. She sighed to herself. Martin, her erstwhile beau, never would have invited her to a clandestine meeting long past sunset.
Of course, Martin had never made her skin tingle or her breath catch in her throat.
Not like her mysterious admirer had.
But if he didn’t show his face soon, Noémie would go home, sneak back through her mother’s wisteria, and slip into the window of her bedroom before anyone was the wiser.
Noémie paced along the length of the pier, swearing to the stars that this was the last chance she would give him. Beneath her skirts, her booted heels struck the warped wooden boards, her bustle bobbing in time with her steps. A breeze swept along the bend in the river, bringing with it the stench of spoiling fish—remnants of the day’s catch.
In an effort to ward off the smell, she pressed a bare finger beneath her nose.
I shouldn’t be here. The pier was too close to the Court’s lair. These streets and everything surrounding them were controlled by its shadowy denizens. Never mind that they routinely donated to the church. Never mind that Le Comte de Saint Germain had box seats to the opera and hobnobbed with New Orleans’ best and brightest. The Court brought with them the worst kind of people, those without scruples.
And here Noémie was, waiting alone in the dark, in the thick of their domain.
She touched her throat, her fingers grazing the soft silk there. The color of her ribbon—pale pink, like the petals of a peony—was all the rage right now. Empress Eugénie had first ushered it into fashion not long ago. Now countless young ladies of New Orleans were keen to put their long, swanlike necks on display. Supposedly the gentlemen favored it.
With a bitter smile, Noémie faced out to the water for her final trek along the pier.
Damn her impressive admirer and all his lies. No amount of sweet words or scintillating promises should have drawn Noémie from the safety of her home.
Just as she was about to reach the end of the pier, the thud of solid footsteps resounded behind her. They slowed as they neared, moving at their master’s leisure.
Noémie did not turn immediately, wanting him to know she was angry.
“You kept me waiting a long time,” she said, her voice honeyed.
“My sincerest apologies, mon amour,” he breathed from behind her. “I was caught up at dinner . . . but I left before dessert.”
A smile tugged at Noémie’s lips, her pulse racing. She turned slowly.
No one was there. The pier looked deserted.
She blinked. Her heart skipped about in her chest. Had Noémie dreamed the whole thing? Had the wind played a trick on her? “Where did you—”
“I’m here, my love,” he said in her ear, behind her once more. She gasped. He took her by the hand, his touch cool and steady. Reassuring. A jolt passed down her spine as he nibbled along her earlobe. Shockingly. Teasingly.
Martin would never do such a thing.
She reached back to caress his face, the scruff on his jaw abrading her skin, the blood soaring through her veins. He kissed her fingertips. When she pulled away, her hands were warm. Sticky. Wet.
Stained bright red.
“Je suis désolé,” he murmured an apology.
A horrified scream began to collect in Noémie’s chest.
Her swanlike throat was torn out before she could utter a sound.
The last thing Noémie saw were the stars winking merrily above.
YOUR NAME IS MARCELINE BÉATRICE ROUSSEAU
Seven girls took up residence in the dormitory of the Ursuline convent: Celine; Pippa; the twins from Düsseldorf, Marta and Maria; Anabel, the redhead from Edinburgh; Antonia from Lisbon; and Catherine from Liverpool.
The Catholic Church had sponsored their passage to New Orleans, and in return, these seven young women were expected to help run its attached hospital, teach the young girls who attended school there, and assist in any efforts to raise funds on behalf of the diocese. That is, until the sisters of the convent were able to find appropriate matches for them.