jumble of French and Spanish, her outrage aimed at a precise target.
Celine smiled to herself, her features sobering the next instant. She watched the elegant phaeton turn the corner, her back to the church. A moment later, her gaze snagged on the unremitting stare of a familiar figure standing on the opposite end of the steps, studying Celine intently. The Mother Superior frowned, her censure plain, the sun casting half her face in shadow.
It did not take the work of a genius to deduce the source of her irritation. Once again, she’d been thwarted in her attempts to control Celine, this time by the monsignor himself. With a huff, the matron of the convent continued down the steps, her posture stoic, her strides unwavering.
Sighing to herself, Celine tarried for a while in front of the cathedral until the spired structure emptied of its patrons and Pippa joined her.
“Did the meeting go well?” Celine asked Pippa.
Pippa nodded. A warm breeze tugged at her organza skirts. “As well as could be expected. It’s the first ladies’ organization I’ve ever joined. Are you certain you don’t want to accompany me next time?”
“I know little about music and art. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to offer much in the way of conversation.”
“You know as well as I do that conversing about the arts isn’t really the objective.”
Celine grinned, a black brow curving up her forehead. “How many of the society dames tried to foist their horrible sons on you?”
Pippa paused, her expression grim. “Three. One of them might not be . . . terrible.” She turned to Celine, her eyes forlorn. “His name is Phoebus.”
Laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “I gather he doesn’t resemble his namesake, the Sun God.”
“I’m meeting his mother for tea next week.” Pippa exhaled in a huff. “After all, we can’t remain at the convent forever.” A line formed along the bridge of her nose. “And it’s up to us to make the best of our lives.”
Celine said nothing in response. With a kind smile, Pippa linked arms with Celine, and they began the short journey back to the convent.
As they walked, Celine’s thoughts wound through her mind.
She shouldn’t go tonight. She wouldn’t go tonight. Even if it meant forgoing a meal at Jacques’. Even if it meant she had to join a few ladies’ organizations of her own. Associating herself with any member of La Cour des Lions was a terrible mistake. They were dangerous. Beyond the ordinary. Something dark writhed around whatever they touched.
It was a fool’s folly to consider anything else.
Celine resolved to do what she had come here to do. Begin her life as a proper young woman. Find a proper young man. Have a passel of proper young children.
And that would be the end of it.
Celine sighed to herself once more.
Her own lies were starting to taste bitter on her tongue.
What was it her father liked to say?
We must taste the bitter before we can appreciate the sweet.
Tonight Celine supposed she would do just that.
HIVER, 1872
CATHÉDRALE SAINT-LOUIS, ROI-DE-FRANCE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
You may wonder why I hold so much hate in my heart.
As tellers of tales often say, it is a long story. Hundreds of years long, in fact. It begins as many things do, with a love lost and a trust broken.
I could spend hours telling you what I lost. What my kind has suffered. How the plight of the Otherworld has sifted like grains of sand onto this mortal coil, forever threatening our survival. It is the cause célèbre of our kind, so to speak.
As our survival has long been a bone of contention.
Once, all creatures of the Otherworld existed beneath the same enchanted sky, through doorways concealed from the realm of man. Those of us who thrived in the light basked in the glittering woodlands of the Sylvan Vale, a place of perpetual springtime, the air forever bathed in the golden warmth of the sun. Those born to darkness took refuge in the Sylvan Wyld, a world of unending night, frosted by wintry stars.
But that was before our elders committed their original sin. Before the Banishment.
Now creatures such as I exist in a place between light and darkness, without a home to call our own. Rootless. Untethered. Alone.
For our elders’ crimes, we were cursed to walk in the shadows of mankind. Soon—as is wont to happen—a rift occurred, dividing our ranks between those of the Fallen and those of the Brotherhood. Through the centuries, our lore spread around the world. Humanity bestowed on