The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(61)

“And in your imagination, what does it kill?” she asked carefully.

“Bad Catholics.”

A rush of unexpected laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You can’t be serious.”

He peaked a brow. “Make sure you keep all your promises during Lent.” He leaned close, electrifying the skin beneath her ear, sending a chill from her neck down to her toes. “Or méfiez-vous du rougarou.”

Celine laughed again, shoving him away.

“Regardez!” a throaty voice commanded nearby.

Bastien and Celine followed the directive, turning to look to one side.

Four elderly women with dark skin stood in a semicircle, the eldest at its center waving a hand in Bastien’s direction.

“C’est un beau diable,” she declared, the other women around her chortling in response. “Do you not agree?” she asked Celine.

Celine answered with a humorless nod. Bastien was indeed a beautiful devil.

The lady held out her wrinkled hands. “Dance with me, beau diable,” she ordered Bastien.

Without the slightest hesitation, he swept her up in his arms as the beat of a festive quadrille blared into the night sky, the drums and violins soaring in tandem. Soon other couples joined in, until a small corner of the street moved in a familiar pattern, changing partners, weaving in and out of each other like the reeds of a basket coming together.

Celine found herself pulled into the mêlée, brushing past hands and shoulders, flashing around blurring faces, the sweat dripping from her brow, the hem of her salmon-striped skirt kicking up a whirl of red dust around her feet.

When the quadrille ended—a new melody quick to take its place—Celine laughed loudly and clapped with the dispersing crowd. Then she glanced across the way to find Bastien watching her, a strange look on his face.

They held each other’s gazes as they all but collided in the center of the street.

“You dance well,” Celine said with an awkward smile.

“As do you.”

She made a face. “I was a bit uncertain about the steps. There haven’t been many occasions for me to dance.”

“We should remedy that.” Bastien brushed the settling dust from his shoulders. “And dancing well isn’t about knowing the steps. It’s about knowing yourself.”

“That’s a bit trite, don’t you think?”

His lips pushed forward. “Trite? Why would it be trite to know oneself?”

“I only meant—do we ever truly know ourselves?”

“I should hope so. Knowing who you are is necessary in order to determine who you want to be.” Bastien looked to Celine for cues on where to proceed. Without a word, she began winding through the fringes of the crowd, moving in the direction of the convent, reassured by the feeling of his palm against the small of her back.

Once they’d cleared the parade, Celine shifted beside Bastien, at ease for the first time since leaving Jacques’, when her chief concern had been the recent humiliation she’d suffered at Odette’s hands. Celine almost laughed at herself. To think that had happened less than an hour ago.

But none of it mattered now. Not much, at least.

Her fingers no longer trembled. Her ribs no longer constricted her heart. She didn’t yet feel entirely safe, but at least she no longer felt afraid.

And she was thankful.

For the length of the next city block, Celine considered the last thing Bastien had said. “If knowing who you are is a necessary part of knowing who you will become, then who are you, Sébastien Saint Germain?”

He snorted. “I should warn you, turnabout is fair play.”

Celine paused in deliberation. “Tonight, I agree. From this point onward, let’s deal only in truths.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We’ll return to cloaking ourselves in comfortable lies.”

Bastien laughed, the sound rich and resonant. “Very well, then. Who am I?” he mused. “I’m . . . a man.” Something glinted in his gaze.

Celine eyed him sidelong, her expression sardonic.

“I’m the son of people from different worlds,” he continued, his smile lingering. “My mother was a free woman of color, and my father was Taíno.” He paused. “For too short a time, I was also”—a shadow crossed his face—“a brother. After I lost my family, I became a nephew. My uncle brought me back to New Orleans at the age of nine, and I lived here until I was sent to the academy, where—barring a rather unfortunate incident—I almost became a soldier.” A hint of bitter amusement touched his lips. “Now I handle my uncle’s affairs when he is away on business.” He raised a shoulder. “I suppose that’s the whole of it.”

Celine refrained from calling him out. Bastien may not have told any falsehoods, but he’d obfuscated the truth, distilling the whole of his life down to nothing more than a few particulars. A fount of questions gathered in her throat. Michael’s admonition from days earlier rang through her mind, spurring her to press Bastien for details, so that she might understand the full extent of the Ghost’s unhappy tale.

She chose to ignore this desire. It would be easier to take on those concerns tomorrow than bear their weight tonight.

“You can ask me, Celine,” Bastien said. “After all, Michael didn’t tell you everything.” Caustic humor laced his words.