The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(39)

But no. In the darkest of her dreams, she’d known the truth.

In Celine, evil had found the perfect vessel.

She’d meant to destroy the young man, as surely as he’d meant to destroy her. While she’d watched the blood seep from his body, she’d searched her soul for a drop of regret, a hint of remorse. She’d found none. She’d clutched the candelabra tighter. Prepared the lie to tell her father, knowing she could not stay where she was.

Once more, a muted thud vibrated in her skull.

Who would believe Celine had been the victim? After all, she was not the one lying cold and motionless on the atelier floor. The dream version of herself stared at the growing circle of crimson. Stepped back so it would not stain the hem of her skirts.

And then . . . something new and curious began to take shape in the blood pooling about her feet. Usually Celine was barefoot in this memory, her toes sliding across the cold marble, trying to avoid any contact with the boy she’d killed.

Tonight, a symbol formed beside her toes. The same symbol she’d seen earlier, smeared in the wood next to Anabel’s body.

Something soft brushed across the tip of Celine’s nose. She looked up. A flutter of golden-yellow petals cascaded around her, settling into the widening pool of blood, turning into hundreds of embroidered handkerchiefs the instant they touched the marble floor. Then the lunar goddess dragged her chariot across Celine’s dream. The thudding in her ears grew louder. More insistent.

Everything dissolved in a sea of black.



* * *





Celine woke with a start.

Though her room was dark, all was not still.

The thuds were sharper now. No longer muffled. A clatter of wood against stone. She flinched as a cool mist dampened her skin. The shutters outside her window had blown open. A storm raged beyond them, sending sheets of rain sideways, driving water into her tiny room until everything it touched felt alive.

Celine stood. Almost slipped as her bare feet slid across the wet stone floor. She took the few short steps to the window of her cell. Then sighed.

“Merde,” she cursed to no one.

It couldn’t be helped. If she was to secure the latch once more, she would have to lean forward and be drenched.

Celine considered wrapping herself in a shawl. It would be appropriate to do so. Her nightshift was fashioned of thin cotton. If rain soaked through the garment, it would be inappropriate for her to stand beside the window and risk being seen.

Her expression hardened when she realized her shawl was nowhere within reach. The wind continued beating at her shutters, the rain gusting through her room.

Propriety be damned.

Celine battled a particularly harsh gale, then reached over the windowsill to grasp the wooden latch.

Signs of motion caught her eye. She froze, though the rain continued bearing down on her, soaking through her hair, seeping through to her skin. Celine blinked back the drops. It looked as though a figure hovered in her periphery, positioned beside a pillar near the gate of the convent’s wrought-iron fence. She blinked again.

The silhouette vanished.

Celine’s heart crashed through her chest, the blood thinning in her veins.

She yanked the shutters closed, latching them together in a seamless motion. Then she reached for a length of thick cotton. The blood continued pounding in her body as she stripped off her nightshift and pulled a clean chemise from her meager chest of clothing.

One thing was certain: something had shifted tonight.

Ever since that evening in the atelier nearly six weeks ago—when evil had taken refuge in her bones—Celine had felt torn. Certainly, between right and wrong. But more than that, between who she was and who she thought she should be.

Celine Rousseau was a girl who believed in justice. That young man had meant to rape her—to destroy her, body and soul.

Was it wrong for her to destroy him instead?

She knew the right answer. The one the Bible taught. Because Celine was also a girl raised on the Ten Commandments, and it was wrong to kill.

But were there ever times it could be right?

Could Celine Rousseau be a girl who valued life, as well as a girl who had taken it from someone, without a shred of remorse?

It was like walking the edge of a cliff. If Celine fell to one side, she would be good evermore. If she fell to the other? She would be consumed by evil and lose all chance at redemption. Celine knew it sounded silly, but to her it felt true.

It wasn’t possible for good and evil to reside in the same person.

Was it?

Celine blinked hard into the damp darkness. After the events of this evening, she shouldn’t be concerning herself with such things. She should be trembling in her nightdress, poisoned by a different kind of worry.

Tomorrow—despite her best efforts—Celine’s world could crumble like a castle made of sand. In the afternoon, Detective Grimaldi would come to the convent to finish questioning them. It had been his favor to the Mother Superior, a woman well acquainted with his family. Celine had watched in quiet shock as the elderly matron had advocated for her and for Pippa. Begged the young detective’s forbearance.

“Miss Rousseau and Miss Montrose are fine, upstanding young women,” she’d said. “They will be more than happy to cooperate. Of course they will answer any question you pose to them. But please grant them this night to mourn the loss of their friend. To reflect on the actions that brought about this unfortunate turn of events.”