do. No way to convey how amazing this meal was. Simply be-
yond belief.” She let out a protracted sigh. “Perhaps if I could
dance like a winged fairy, I could better serve this cause.”
Another bout of laughter lilted into the air. “That is my favor-
ite thing you’ve ever said, mon amie.”
“Also the truest.” Celine breathed in deeply, then reached be-
yond her golden cutlery for the crystal stem of her wineglass.
Celine had spent most of her seventeen years in Paris. As
such, she’d lived a stone’s throw from some of the finest cu-
linary establishments in the world. Unfortunately the cost of
frequenting these establishments had been too much for her
family. Far too out of reach for most people she knew.
But on special occasions, her father would take her to a
bistro around the corner from their flat. The shiny-faced
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cook helming the kitchen was famous for her decadent roast chicken, served with small golden potatoes bathed in duck
fat for hours on end. As a child, Celine loved popping a per-
fectly round pomme de terre into her mouth when it was still
too hot, the crispy skin crackling on her tongue as she blew
around the potato, struggling to cool it and consume it all
at once. Her father had scolded her for being so unladylike,
though he’d fought to conceal his smile.
It had been Celine’s favorite meal.
Every year on her birthday, her father would bring home a
single mille-feuille from a well-known bakery in the eighth ar-
rondissement. A cake of a thousand leaves. Paper-thin layers
of puff pastry separated by whipped crème pâtissière, crushed
almonds, and thin dribbles of chocolate.
These were some of Celine’s fondest memories. Despite her
father’s sternness and austerity, he’d managed to show his
love in simple ways. Ways she’d often brought to mind during
some of her darkest moments on the transatlantic crossing, for
they’d given her comfort when she most needed it.
But they were all pale shadows when compared with tonight.
Tonight—at seventeen—Celine was certain she’d consumed
the best meal of her life.
Langoustines poached in butter, white wine, and thyme.
Pistachio-encrusted turbot garnished with flakes of white truffle.
Roasted quail served with a crème d’olive alongside root veg-
etables sautéed in herbes de Provence, then topped with edible
flowers. Not to mention the little delicacies and perfect wine
pairings offered throughout.
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All of it, sublime to the last drop. The fanciful side of Celine dreamed of one day bringing her father here. Of sharing this
meal with him, too.
Odette dabbed at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin
before gesturing to one of the waiting maîtres d’hôtel, who set
a large brass bowl filled with rose petals beside her on a marble pedestal. Then he filled the basin with bubbling champagne so
Odette could rinse her hands. So indulgent. So wasteful. Once
her fingers were clean, Odette smoothed her bodice of duchess
satin, her thumb grazing the ivory cameo at her breast, tilting
it askew.
“You wear that brooch often. It must hold a great deal of
meaning to you,” Celine commented while the maître d’hôtel
poured an entirely new bottle of champagne and roses. The
bubbles tickled her wrists, the heady perfume of the petals
curling into her throat.
“Mmmmm,” Odette hummed in reply. “It does indeed.” She
straightened the cameo, her gestures careful. A mischievous
gleam shone in her eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you
it was enchanted? That it kept the most shadowy of my secrets
safe?” She winked.
“After this much food and wine, I would believe just about any-
thing.” Celine groaned as she tried in vain to slouch in her chair.
“Tell me, Odette, why must we wear corsets even while we eat?”
“Because men enjoy keeping us in cages at every waking hour.”
Odette swirled her wine. “That way we’re contained. They’re afraid of what would happen if we were free.” She grinned. “But
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different tune. Alas, we can’t all be blessed with a tiny waist and a naturally heaving bosom,” she teased.
“It . . . isn’t as wonderful as you would expect.” Celine winced, the wine causing her thoughts to spin. “Ever since my twelfth
birthday, I’ve dreaded the way men look at me. As if I were
something to eat.”
Odette canted her head, an odd light in her gaze. “I never
thought of it that way.” She paused in consideration. “Forgive
me for speaking out of turn.” Conviction flashed across her
face. “C’est assez! None of us should have to wear corsets un-
less we decide to wear them. In the meantime, I say we take to the square and burn them all.”
Celine’s eyes sparkled. “The corsets?”
“No, the men, of course.”
A peal of laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You do talk scan-
dalously.”
“I merely speak the truth. Men are wretched, my dear. I’ve
sworn off them entirely. I’ll keep them as friends, but they re-
main forever unwelcome in my heart.”
Delight flared in Celine’s chest. “Please share your secret with
me. I wish to be rid of them as well.” She could think of one or
two in particular.
“It isn’t a secret.” Odette pushed aside her plate of Limoges
porcelain to rest her elbows along the scalloped table’s edge.
“I simply have no interest in them.” She paused, her expression
thoughtful. “In truth, I much prefer the company of women,
in all respects.” Odette pronounced this plainly, watching for
Celine’s reaction.
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It took Celine a moment to comprehend the full meaning behind Odette’s admission. Her eyes went wide the next instant, color creeping up her neck. “Please know how flattered
I am, but—”
Odette snorted. “I don’t mean you specifically, you delicious
narcissist. Though you are genuinely beautiful . . . and would
undoubtedly prove to be a genuine nuisance as a result. Years
ago I swore never to love anything more beautiful than myself.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Thankfully that leaves my options
wide and varied.”
Laughter caught in Celine’s throat just as she took a sip of
wine. It burned at the back of her tongue, causing her to cough
like a silly young woman in her cups.
“But let’s not lie to each other, mon amie,” Odette said above
Celine’s coughing. “You don’t wish to be rid of all men, do you?”
“I do.” Celine cleared her throat and wiped the tears from be-
neath her lashes. “They are no
thing but a bother.”
Odette wagged a finger at Celine. “Menteuse. I see the way
you look at Bastien.” She leaned closer, her expression sly.
Knowing.
Celine startled, her hand jostling her water goblet. “What are
you—” She sat up, her heart hammering in her chest. “How do
I look?”
“Parched, mon amie. Like you wandered the desert for forty
years, seeking the Promised Land.”
“I look . . . thirsty?” Celine groaned, her cheeks reddening.
A mixture of anger and embarrassment washed through her
veins. She considering denying it. Tried in vain to conjure a
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plausible explanation. Then lifted her chin in defiance. Why should she have to lie?
“Very well,” Celine announced. “I won’t deny it. I’m attracted
to Bastien. I think he’s . . . too beautiful to be real.”
Odette clapped as if she’d just heard the world’s foremost so-
prano perform her favorite aria. “This is now my favorite thing you’ve ever said.” She proceeded to giggle in a way that reminded Celine of being a small girl. She didn’t know anyone who giggled like that anymore. “Now”—Odette paused to tap an index
finger along her chin—“what to do about this situation . . .”
“Nothing,” Celine said determinedly. “There is nothing to
do. I have no intention of pursuing anyone like Sébastien Saint
Germain, Odette,” she warned. “Nothing will come from your
rather naked attempts to interfere. You know as well as I do that Bastien isn’t a proper young gentleman.”
“And you require a proper young gentleman?”
“I do.” Celine nodded with conviction.
Her expression dubious, Odette pursed her lips. “We’ll dis-
cuss this later.” She shifted tack with the ease of a dancer. “Tell me what you think about my idea for the masquerade ball.”
Grateful that Odette had changed the subject, Celine did not
hesitate to reply. “I think you shouldn’t go as Marie Antoinette.
I daresay there will be at least fifteen other women dressed ac-
cordingly for the occasion. Because it’s expected. I say you do
something unexpected.” A shrewd gleam alighted her gaze.
“Don’t go as the wife. Go as the mistress.”
“Pardon?” Odette let out a burst of laughter. “This, from the
girl who requires a proper young gentleman!”
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Celine waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. You should go as Madame du Barry.”
“Scandaleux!” Odette clapped gleefully. “The society matrons
will be positively bug-eyed!”
“And it will be the dress no one forgets,” Celine promised.
“I’ll do it . . . but I must insist you accompany me to the mas-
querade ball, as well as another soirée I’m keen to attend.”
Odette toyed with the silk ribbon about her neck. “Rumor has
it the host—a member of a new krewe known as the Twelfth
Night Revelers—plans to decorate his gardens after A Midsum-
mer Night’s Dream.”
Though both ideas tantalized Celine with possibility, she
shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Not even if Bastien is there, in all his impropriety?” Odette
winked.
“Especially not if he’s there.”
“Ah, don’t be so difficult, mon amie.” Odette paused meaning-
fully. “You already admitted he’s . . . how did you say it?”
Celine groaned, regret blooming in her stomach. “Too beau-
tiful to be real.”
Something clattered to the floor behind her.
The blood drained from Celine’s face in a sudden rush. She
froze in her seat, her eyes wide. It took only a glance in Odette’s direction to confirm the obvious.
Sébastien Saint Germain was standing behind Celine.
Listening to every word she’d just said.
j
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“Je suis désolée.” Odette wrinkled her nose, clearly not sorry at all.
Celine considered balling up the silk napkin in her hand and
hurling it toward Odette’s doll-like face. She reconsidered in
the next instant. Although it might prove satisfying in the mo-
ment, it would do little to help her situation. Her pulse wreak-
ing havoc through her body, Celine turned around.
And immediately wished she could shrink into nothingness.
Bastien stood at the top of the curved staircase, as striking as
ever, his Panama hat in hand. Flanking him were several mem-
bers of La Cour des Lions, each sporting varying degrees of
amusement.
Before anyone could speak, Arjun bent to retrieve his leather
notebook, an apologetic expression on his face. If Celine had to
guess, he’d dropped it on purpose.
She tamped down a flare of gratitude. He’d dropped the note-
book too late, that traitor.
A hero was only a hero if he managed to save the damsel in
time.
Mortified, Celine stood at once, the legs of her gilded chair
catching on the plush carpeting, her salmon-striped skirts a
tangle about her feet. Gritting her teeth, Celine allowed her
embarrassment to mushroom into anger. She curled her hands
into fists and lengthened her neck so she could peer down at
the recent arrivals with unmistakable disdain.
One of the elegant women with the rings laughed. “Comme
une reine des ténèbres.”
Like a queen of darkness.
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Easy laughter rippled around the room. Bastien kept silent, his gunmetal eyes unflinching, his handsome features
unreadable.
Celine’s heartbeat drummed in her ears like the wings of a
hummingbird. It would not do for her to appear weak. She
would never be able to show her face again in this place if she
succumbed to mortification.
Her fists gripping the striped fabric of her gown, Celine nod-
ded once. “Hello.”
In response, Bastien bowed low, his hat held out at his side.
When he stood once more, the suggestion of a smile played
across his lips.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice silken. Sinful.
Celine wanted to stomp her foot and flee. To scream like a
bean sídhe, loud enough to damage her own hearing.
“Bonsoir, Bastien,” Odette replied with a simpering grin.
Before another word could be spoken, the carved longcase
clock along the wall began tolling the hour in furtive tones, its weighted brass pendulum swinging back and forth.
The interruption afforded Celine the perfect opportunity.
“I’m afraid I must be going.” She pushed past the table, her face flushed.
“Not yet!” Odette stood, her sable eyes round, beseeching.
“You must at least taste the îles flottantes.”
“Floating islands?”
“It’s a dessert Kassamir has been keen to add to the menu. We
were to be among the first to try it. Clouds of perfect meringue
floa
ting in a decadent sauce of crème anglaise.”
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Celine smiled sadly. “While that sounds heavenly, I’m afraid the hour is late. My friends at the convent will worry.”
Odette pouted, tucking a brunette curl behind an ear. “Then
at least wait while I call for the carriage.”
“No,” Celine replied, straightening her skirts, keenly aware of
their audience. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a few blocks to the convent.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Odette countered. “You simply can’t
walk home alone, not after everything that’s happened recently.”
Frustration gripped Celine’s stomach. She needed to leave
now. “Very well, then. I’ll hail a hired conveyance.”
“But that’s not necessary,” Odette protested. “Not when—”
“Odette,” Celine said through gritted teeth. “Thank you so
much for the wonderful meal and the consummate hospitality.
I’ll find my own way home.”
“I can’t in good conscience—”
“Let her be, Odette,” Bastien interrupted softly, the sound of
his voice causing Celine to stiffen where she stood. “Tu ne peux
pas tout contrôler.”
Odette moved from her side of the table. “Mais, Bastien, elle
ne—”
“I’ll be fine, mon amie,” Celine said with another smile. “Please tell Kassamir the meal was a work of art. I’ll begin fashioning
your gown for the masquerade ball immediately. Feel free to
send the bolts of fabric and all the supplies to the convent first thing tomorrow.”
With that, Celine lifted her chin and made her way toward the
stairs leading to the first floor of Jacques’. The members of La
Cour des Lions—who’d stood silent and watchful throughout
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the entirety of this humiliating exchange—moved aside to grant Celine leave, though she could feel their eyes following her as
she descended the steps, Boone inhaling deeply as she passed by.
Her hands trembled in her skirts, but she did not falter. She
was a mountain, a tower, a hundred-year-old oak in the—
Behind her, soft laughter rose into the coffered ceiling.
Damn them all to Hell.
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Meet Your Maker