The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(33)

Unease brought color to Celine’s cheeks. “I think so. But it’s . . . difficult to recall. Like trying to hold on to a handful of water.”

“Dreams often are.” Pippa’s expression turned pensive. She gnawed at her lower lip while she scrubbed the carpet. “And the doctor did say you would have trouble with your memory for the next few months because of your head injury.”

Celine pressed her fingers to her temple, irritation drawing her dark brows together.

Pippa stood at once, bubbles dripping down her hands. “Does your head hurt?”

“No. I’m just . . . frustrated.”

“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be, given the situation?” She gnawed at her lip again.

“There’s no need to look so guilty, Pippa,” Celine joked. “You didn’t strike me in the skull or break my ribs.”

Pippa toyed with the chain of the golden cross around her neck. “You’re right. But perhaps . . . I could have done more to protect you. And I wish—I wish I could restore your memories. At least fill in some of the holes.”

“It would make it easier,” Celine agreed. “But the doctor says it is better for me to find them on my own, so that my mind might seek order for itself in its own time . . . or whatever that’s supposed to mean.” Her sigh was rueful. “Michael’s grandmother agreed. She told me when Luca returned from fighting for the Union forces in the war, she didn’t push him to tell her all that he’d seen or suffered. She waited for him to come to her when he was ready. Perhaps I should do the same and wait until my mind is ready.”

Pippa nodded. “It makes a great deal of sense. In any case, it’s best to heed the doctor’s advice.” She took in a deep breath. Then forced an even brighter smile on her face before stooping to finish her work. “Did I tell you Phoebus has invited me to dinner tonight?”

Celine sat on the carpet beside Pippa, her amethyst skirts pooling around her. “You did not. Where is he taking you?”

“All he said was that it would be to the most celebrated dining establishment in the Vieux Carré.”

Celine’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think he might—”

“Propose?” Nervous laughter flew from Pippa’s lips. “Goodness, no. He only promised a dinner with cut crystal and sparkling chandeliers and centerpieces of glorious hothouse flowers. Perhaps that famous dessert they set on fire. Nothing more.”

A sudden image—of champagne being poured into a brass basin filled with rose petals, of meringue islands floating in a sea of sweetened cream, of caramel and bourbon bursting into blue flame—flashed through Celine’s mind. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them once more, a name flickered along her periphery, a sign written in elegant script with a blurred symbol beneath it. “Are you talking about Jacques’?”

Pippa paled. “I—how would—I mean, yes, I am.”

“Have I been there before for a meal?”

“No, no. Not for a meal.” Pippa waved a dismissive hand. “We went there once, for a short amount of time, to take measurements for Miss Valmont’s masquerade costume.” Another smile bloomed across her face. “It’s wonderful that you remember it, though. That’s progress.”

“Strange,” Celine said softly. “I could have sworn I’ve eaten there. I can almost taste the food on my tongue.”

“Or perhaps you heard someone speak of it?” Pippa gathered the bucket and the rag. “Jacques’ is famous even outside the city. If the food is as wonderful as it is touted to be, we should go sometime. Perhaps even to celebrate the opening of the shop?”

Pippa’s babbling struck Celine as unusual, for it was so uncharacteristic. Coupled with the strange way Pippa kept chewing at her lip, Celine became convinced her friend was hiding something from her, in the same way she felt Michael had been lying three nights ago along Rue Royale.

Hell and damnation.

Why was everyone acting as if Celine were too frail to handle the truth?

Her annoyance spiked hot in her stomach. She was about to corner Pippa and demand honesty when the bell in the front of the shop chimed. Celine turned to answer it, but Pippa raced past her, clearly thankful for the distraction.

The gentleman who stepped across the threshold possessed a bearing reminiscent of a painting. One depicting a victor surveying a field of battle. Though he was not tall, something about him struck Celine as regal. Even the way he strode into the shop demanded respect.

He seemed . . . familiar.

The young man studied her without speaking. Celine met his gaze, certain she would recall him if she stared at him long enough.

He appeared to be from the Far East. When the light of the setting sun touched his brow, Celine had the strangest feeling he didn’t like it. As if the rays of sunlight caused him pain. He looked to be in his early twenties, though his features retained a suggestion of youth. His eyes—a deep, dark brown—shone with a bright light, almost as if he were feverish. He turned his back to the window and gave her a curt bow, his top hat in hand.

“Good evening,” Celine said with a smile. “How may we help you?”

“I would like to order a gift, please.”

“Is there something in particular you are looking for, sir?” Pippa’s words were clipped. Tinged with an odd sort of irritation. As if she did not wish to welcome the young man into their establishment.