of mystical goods, their merchandise positioned along the tines of black iron enclosing the cathedral’s courtyard.
Celine wanted to stroll the lanes and peruse their many offerings. Take in the city’s sights and relish this newfound chance at life. But—as she’d come to realize in the past week—the things she wanted and the things expected of her were like oil and water in a baker’s mixing bowl.
The day the other girls were placed in their respective positions, Pippa, Celine, and Anabel had been instructed to raise money for the expansion of the parish orphanage. They’d devoted the following week to its preparation.
Pippa had painted delicate teacups with religious vignettes, like the time Jesus had turned water to wine or fed a crowd of thousands with nothing but seven loaves and fishes. Anabel had designed their booth and devised the best way to attract people to it. And Celine had embellished small squares of pressed linen with a scalloped edging that mimicked the finest needlepoint lace.
Since their arrival in port last week, none of them had been permitted to attend a parade. Instead, every night—once they’d completed their designated tasks—they were directed to read vespers aloud to each other before retiring to their cells.
Yes. Their rooms were called cells. It was the reason Celine had stitched a cheeky set of letters into the edging of each handkerchief she’d fashioned.
GTTAN
A nod to her favorite Shakespearean tragedy, Hamlet.
“Get thee to a nunnery.”
Celine studied the five letters of script hidden in the complicated swirls of lace, a flicker of joy warming through her. Then she glanced across the rickety wooden table, her heart growing heavier with each passing second.
Was this all she could expect of life?
Her features hardened. Celine sat up straight, the whalebone of her corset catching her breath as it stretched across her chest. She should be grateful to be here. Grateful to have a place among decent people. Grateful for another chance at life.
Determination took root inside her. She smiled brightly to a potential patron, who failed to acknowledge her presence. Celine swallowed her looming scowl before shifting her attention to a pair of young women critiquing the glazing on a porcelain cup Pippa had completed days earlier.
“Lovely, don’t you think?” the girl on the left murmured to her friend.
The other girl glanced about distractedly. “It’s not bad, if you favor that sort of thing,” she drawled, tucking a strand of wayward brown hair beneath her straw hat. Her voice faded to a hush. “But did you hear what the dockworkers discovered at the pier yesterday morning?”
The first girl nodded once. “Richard told me. Her name was Nathalie or Noémie something-or-other.” Unease marred her expression. “He suspects the Court might be responsible, since it happened near their domain.”
Court? Celine wondered. As far as she knew, there had never been an American monarchy.
“Like an animal had mauled her!” The brunette shuddered. “Poor soul,” she tsked, though her eyes gleamed with unspoken thoughts, “left to rot in the sun alongside the day’s catch. If the Court had anything to do with it, they’ve become even more ruthless than before. Not that it matters. They’ll curry the right favor, as they always do.”
Despite Celine’s better judgment, her interest was piqued. She craned her neck toward the pair.
The brunette continued, her words breathless. “Did Richard tell you what happened to her head?”
“N-no.”
“I heard it was completely severed from the poor young woman’s body.”
The first girl gasped, a lace-gloved hand covering her mouth. “Dear Lord.”
With a solemn nod, the brunette picked up one of Celine’s embroidered handkerchiefs. “Her face was all but unrecognizable. Her father had to identify her based on her earbobs alone.”
At this, Pippa cleared her throat in an unmistakable attempt to dissuade the two women from continuing such salacious talk. A frown cut across Anabel’s face, her look turning peevish.
“Ladies, can we be of any assistance?” Celine offered the pair of young patrons a pointed smile.
The brunette’s eyes narrowed as she dropped the handkerchief with a careless flick of her wrist. “No, thank you.” She reached for her friend’s elbow, looping her arm around it, directing them away from the rickety table.
Once they were beyond earshot, Anabel harrumphed. “Gossiping about a murder in the shadow of a church . . .” she muttered. “Dinna they ken better than to provoke the spirits in such a brash manner?” Her Scottish brogue deepened with her disdain, her fingers batting away a fat honeybee buzzing about her brow.
Pippa sighed, then caught Anabel’s hand, preventing her from