The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(69)

Celine nodded, already knowing what the Mother Superior intended to say next.

“Many of my fellow sisters have come to me in the last hour,” the Mother Superior continued in a hushed tone. “The consensus is that it might be time for us to find you alternate lodging.”

Celine kept nodding.

The Mother Superior reached out once more. This time she took hold of Celine’s hand, her touch gentle and warm, despite the coolness of the rain. “I’ve already begun making inquiries. We will not throw you out on the street, and it is not necessary for you to leave tonight. It is simply no longer safe for you to stay here.” She paused. “Please know this is not at all what we want to do. But I agree it is the best course of action. For the sake of all who remain within these walls.”

“A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden,” Celine said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.

With another sigh, the Mother Superior nodded. Squeezed Celine’s hand. And let go.

Straightening her spine, Celine met the matron’s wrinkled gaze. “Thank you for giving me a chance to begin my life in a new world, Mère Supérieure. I . . . don’t know what would have happened to me without it.”

“Of course, my dear. May God go with you. May you live a life of bounty and purpose.” Then—after the slightest hesitation—the Mother Superior turned toward the convent, her cross swaying with her steps, the scent of lanolin and medicinal ointment trailing in her wake.

Celine stood in the rain for a time, Pippa waiting nearby, quietly wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand. It was an exercise in futility, for the rain soon began to fall in earnest, its fat droplets plinking onto the iron railing and splashing onto their skin.

Pippa removed the shawl from her own shoulders, draping it over Celine’s. “You’re shaking.”

“Am I?” The throbbing in Celine’s head was worsening. She touched her temple and found a tender spot from where she’d struck the floor in her struggle with the killer.

“Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries with some of the other women in my ladies’ organization,” Pippa continued. “Perhaps Phoebus’ mother will know of a place you can go.”

“Thank you,” Celine mumbled, “but the boat to Tartarus is full.” She spoke the last under her breath. I am a Titan, after all, she sneered to herself.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you, dear.” Infinite patience rounded out Pippa’s response.

“I said thank you, but I will make the inquiries myself.” Celine refrained from gritting her teeth, aware of how wrong it was to turn her frustrations on her closest friend.

Pippa’s brows tufted together, betraying her own mounting irritation. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Celine. It’s not your fault that a madman has unleashed himself on those near you. Nor is it your fault you’ve been asked to quit the convent.”

“Even if the Mother Superior had not asked me to go, I would have left of my own will. It isn’t safe for me to stay. It would be better . . . if I never showed my face here again.”

“I see.” Pippa blinked through the rain, her eyes shimmering suspiciously. Then she wiped her chin on her sleeve. Renewed her convictions with a bright smile. “Well, perhaps we can let a room together. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I’ve always liked Marigny.”

Her words iced the blood in Celine’s body. Made her want to flee as fast as she could. She could not have Pippa anywhere near her. Of all people, Pippa should be as far from Celine as possible. Being near Celine Rousseau had become a kiss of death.

And she did not know what she would do if something happened to Pippa because of her.

To their right, the doors to the convent scraped open with yawning slowness. Two sullen officers shifted into view, bearing between them a bundle wrapped in linen sheets. Already the center of the sheets was stained red, the rain causing the blot to spread, its edges lightening to a pale pink. Celine watched in silence as they moved toward an open wagon waiting along the lane to bear the body to the station.

William’s arms hung lifeless on either side of him, one of his hands still twisted in an unnatural position. They flopped like dead fish as the two officers lifted his battered body into the back of the wagon. Tears began to well in Celine’s eyes.

Just a few days ago, William had offered Arjun a cutting from the convent’s garden, to help remind Arjun of home. He’d shown him a kindness, expecting nothing in return.

Now he was dead, the last remembrance in his life the face of his killer.

The tears spilled over, flowing down Celine’s cheeks in steady streams.

Not once had she cried in earnest since that night in the atelier. Her mind had forbidden her the reprieve. She hadn’t cried when she’d realized her life in France was over. The first night aboard the Aramis, she’d listened to the soft sniffles of countless other young women. Still she’d failed to shed a single tear. She hadn’t cried even when Anabel had been slain.

Why did the sight of William’s broken body move her to tears? Perhaps the dam inside her had finally burst. Or perhaps this was one crack too many in her fa?ade.

To thine own self, be true. The killer had quoted Shakespeare, as if he could see into Celine’s soul.

Guilt seeped into her bones, burning like acid as it traveled down the length of her body. Bile choked in her throat. Celine was the reason this kind man and a lovely young woman had died.