Celine and the officers in her company away, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. Consequently, she’d been denied the opportunity to see Bastien or perform a final fitting on Odette. Her first glimpse of the finished costume—a daring hat tip to Madame du Barry—would be tonight when she saw Odette at the ball.
Celine hoped her friend would delight in her surprise as much as she had delighted in creating it.
From dawn until dusk, Celine had poured her efforts into the black taffeta confection she wore now. It had begun as a gown of mourning, the kind readily available in any dress shop. She’d taken it apart and pieced it back together in a nod to the baroque silhouette. Within the gown’s skirts, she’d incorporated the first set of wide pannier hoops the carpenter on Rue Bienville had fashioned.
The overall effect wasn’t perfect. Perhaps if she’d had more time, Celine would have added more flounces. She might have trimmed the black lace dripping from her pagoda sleeves into something more dramatic. But even in its imperfection, it was her, for better or for worse. Reckless, incomplete, and inappropriate.
But here all the same.
Celine rested her right foot on the bottom step, taking a moment to steel her spine.
Bastien’s uncle would undoubtedly be present tonight, as would several members of La Cour des Lions. Still, Celine was uncertain if Bastien would be in attendance, so soon after Nigel’s death. The masquerade ball at the Orléans Ballroom was to be the soirée of the carnival season. His absence would be noted among those in society. Would this be enough to ensure his presence?
Celine hoped it would.
All the best and brightest of the Crescent City were sure to make an appearance. This year’s theme had been announced at the culmination of last year’s event. Twelve long months of anticipation for a tribute to the dazzling courts of Louis XV and his son Louis-Auguste, in that glimmer of time just before the French Revolution. Every invited guest had been instructed to garb themselves in white, from head to toe.
And here Celine stood in nothing but black, from the domino on her face to the tips of her dyed slippers . . . save for the silver dagger concealed beneath her skirts, of course. This should have frightened her. In Paris, it would have been shocking to contemplate such a thing. But Celine was not in Paris anymore. Nor was she the same girl who’d fled the atelier that terrible night, her hands bloodied, her features frantic. That girl was a creature of distant memory. One unsure of her place, her toes lingering on a step leading into the unknown.
Celine mounted the stairs. Tonight she wasn’t a girl afraid to face her choices. She was a goddess, baiting a trap to catch a killer.
Her shoulders back, Celine glided beneath the arched doorway. Just beyond the entrance awaited two liveried gentlemen wearing powdered wigs and buckled shoes, their white stockings gartered at the knee, just beneath their tight breeches.
“Password,” the one to the left said, his eyes glazed with boredom.
Celine did not waver. “Capetian.”
While the other guard opened the heavy doors, the man to the left sent Celine a quizzical look. As if he wished to say something and lacked the right words.
She smiled to herself. That was the truth about proper society. They made all these rules, never planning to apply any consequences to themselves. Never expecting any of their ranks to stray from the established course.
With an imperious tilt to her chin, Celine turned sideways to accommodate her wide-set hoops, then breezed through the doorway into what could possibly be her last night on this earth. It had been her first thought when she’d decided to remake a dress intended for mourning. If this was to be her last evening among the living, she wanted it to be the most glorious night in memory.
She would live one night as Selene, a Titan who dragged darkness with her wherever she went.
The jet beads along her bodice shimmered as Celine swept beneath the domed ceiling of the ballroom, ignoring the looks of surprise and distaste flashing nearby. She marveled at the countless chandeliers reflected in the polished marble at her feet, filling the room with a buttery glow. A makeshift court had been positioned around an ornate throne, festooned in ribbons of purple, green, and gold. In its center stood a bearded gentleman in his early twenties, his white regimentals embellished with braided brass, a smile of smug