her “une petite sotte” when she’d balanced along her balcony’s ledge on a single foot. “You little fool,” they’d cried from far below, safe and smug in their superiority. “Veux-tu mourir, Marceline Rousseau?”
They could not have been more wrong. Celine hadn’t wanted to die then, just as she had no desire to die now. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She simply wanted to revel in the excitement that always accompanied danger.
That chance to feel truly alive.
But those little tyrants in their worn woolen caps weren’t completely wrong when they called her a fool. Even then, she’d known it was the height of foolishness to court danger so openly. To crave it like a slice of warm chocolate cake. Were the Mother Superior present now, Celine knew she would urge them away from this place with all haste. Signs of peril lurked everywhere, even in the sinister coil of the wrought- iron railing.
The second floor came into view, and Celine glimpsed a multitude of gas lamps turned down low, rendering the room beyond in muted tones. The air around them condensed. Turned cooler, as if they’d passed from day to night in the span of a single staircase.
They neared the top, Kassamir continuing to move at a leisurely pace. Here, the banisters were fashioned of gleaming brass, faceted on all sides with a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.
As if the symbol had intentionally followed Celine all day long.
Or perhaps led her to this place, without words.
Something began coiling through her stomach. An unseen force. It spread through her limbs like a slow shudder. Beside her, Pippa gripped Celine’s arm, undoubtedly experiencing the same unsettling sensation. That feeling of hovering above the threshold between light and dark.
Kassamir turned toward them, his sharp gaze appearing as though it could bore holes into her soul. “Bienvenue à La Cour des Lions.”
Welcome to the Court of the Lions.
TOUSSAINT
The first thing Celine noticed was the sound.
Or rather the absence of it.
The moment her feet sank into the plush carpet at the top of the stairs, the noise from below dropped to a hush. As if it were being muffled, like a heavy blanket had been drawn over the entire second floor, warding away the possibility of eavesdroppers.
But that was impossible. How could anyone manage such a thing?
Celine let her vision slowly adjust to the darkness.
Dim lighting glowed around a large rectangular chamber replete with gleaming wooden tables. Surrounding the tables stood shadowy figures adorned in silks and sparkling gemstones, cut crystal glasses flashing with each of their movements. A faint breeze tempered the air, fending off the rising heat from below. The floors and paneled walls were stained a dark mahogany, polished to resemble the surface of a black mirror. Silk drapes of a costly indigo hue, trimmed with golden tassels, framed every arched window. A long chaise sat empty in the chamber’s center, like a throne meant for an empress or a goddess of old.
That same sense of a blurred reality—of a sight gone hazy along its edges—enveloped the space. Punctuating the din was the occasional clatter of ivory dice across felted baize, the flutter of glossy cards being shuffled and sorted, the occasional muted cheer.
“It’s . . . a gambling hell,” Pippa said, her tone a mixture of unease and anticipation.
Celine tilted her head.
It was. And it wasn’t.
She couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was peering at a beautiful mask. Some kind of artful illusion. That if she shook her head just so, her vision would clear, leaving behind nothing but truth. Was this place the “court” the two young women had mentioned in Jackson Square that afternoon? Could its bejeweled patrons be responsible for such a sordid crime?
At first glance, it did not appear so.
But first impressions were known to be deceiving.
Whenever Celine had heard talk of gambling hells, they’d been portrayed as dens of iniquity. Powerful men sloshed with drink, wasting away fortunes on the single roll of a dice. Powdered lightskirts plying their scented wares. Bared skin and spilled liquor, lush velvet and cool ivory. Wealth at the height of its debauchery.
The scene before Celine could not appear more civilized. Everywhere she looked, dazzling women and elegant men of all skin colors congregated as seeming equals.
As if this was not an unusual sight at all.
Just then, a cry of triumph rose into the darkness to their right, just beyond a game of faro. The sound drew Celine toward an oval table of lustrous burl wood, the