“. . . and we must be thankful for the acts of penance arising from such tragedies. We must offer blessings to the favored sons of our fair city, for their boundless generosity and their unswerving attrition,” the elderly man intoned, his hands open at either side of his gold vestment. “Our God is forgiving. So must we be.”
Attention in the church shifted toward Bastien, who kept his gaze averted, his head bowed in prayer.
It took Celine only a moment to understand.
That fiend had paid for his sins today. With “boundless generosity,” he’d bought the church’s absolution. This had to be the reason he’d met with the monsignor and made a point to attend Mass today.
Celine sank back in her pew and crossed her arms, fuming.
First he’d sent his minion attorney to cover his tracks with the Metropolitan Police. Then he’d traded gold for absolution like he would a coin for a loaf of bread. If these weren’t the actions of a guilty conscience, Celine would eat her hat and swallow the striped ribbon whole.
She glared at the back of Bastien’s head. Though she was loath to admit it, she had to admire him for his efficiency. Had to envy how he floated about the world so unscathed.
If Celine possessed a tenth of his power, there would be no limit to what she could do.
* * *
“Celine!” Just beyond the steps leading into the cathedral, Odette waved from her seat in a shining black phaeton matched with a pair of midnight stallions.
Inhaling through her nose, Celine made her way down the stairs toward the open-air carriage. She put a hand to her brow to shield herself from the noon sun. “Bonjour, Odette,” she said reluctantly.
“Bonjour, mon amie.” Odette opened her creamy silk parasol with a flourish, the rubies around her ivory cameo winking in the filtered light, her gaze appraising. “I adore how you wear such bright hues. It’s ever so much more intriguing than this sea of simpering pastel.” She waved a gloved hand around the square. “One day, you must tell me what inspires you.”
Celine thought for a moment, her hand still sheltering her from the uncompromising sun. “Paris often had melancholy skies. They were always beautiful—especially in the rain—but I longed for splashes of color, so I thought to wrap myself in them.”
“Bien sûr,” Odette murmured with a knowing smile. “Come sit with me.” She patted the bloodred leather beside her.
“I shouldn’t,” Celine replied, glancing around at what she guessed to be a goodly portion of New Orleans’ high society, exiting the church on their way to Sunday barbecue.
“Ah, would it seem untoward?”
Celine wrinkled her nose. “Not untoward. Only . . . indiscreet.”
“Too soon after that unfortunate incident.” Odette nodded.
Celine simply smiled.
“Well,” Odette said, “I suppose I can issue my invitation from here.”
“Invitation?”
“To join me for dinner at Jacques’ tonight, you goose. We still have much to discuss with respect to my gown for the masquerade ball. And don’t worry,” she added almost as an afterthought, “it won’t be near where the . . . incident occurred.”
“I—don’t think that’s wise. I’m certain the Mother Superior—”
“—has already granted the request, despite her initial misgivings. The monsignor spoke to her before Mass.”
“Of course he did,” Celine murmured, disbelief flaring through her.
The devil at work once more, no doubt.
Then—as if he’d been summoned by her thoughts—footsteps pounded down the hewn stairs behind her, moving rhythmically. Efficiently. Celine turned in place just as Bastien brushed past her in a suit of dove-grey linen, his Panama hat tilted atop his brow, the scent of bergamot and leather unfurling in his wake.
He did not pause to acknowledge her, so Celine returned the gesture.
“The carriage will come to collect you this evening at seven o’clock,” Odette said as Bastien settled into the phaeton in a single fluid motion. “And don’t trouble yourself with respect to your appearance. What you’re wearing now is lovely.” Without warning, she struck Bastien’s arm with the carved handle of her parasol. “Don’t you think Celine looks lovely?”
Bastien pursed his lips and glanced Celine’s way. “C’est une belle couleur.” He took hold of the reins, his expression dispassionate.
Odette cut her eyes in his direction, then smiled at Celine. “It is indeed a beautiful color. But I wasn’t talking about—”
The pair of gleaming black horses took off before Odette could finish, their hooves clattering across the cobblestones, scattering any poor soul still milling about the white cathedral.
In the ensuing ruckus, Celine heard Odette screech through the courtyard, her words a