Phoebus’ eyes went wide behind his smudged spectacles.
“If you wished it.”
Phoebus nodded. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t say anything, Bastien.”
“I know you won’t.” A half smile curved up Bastien’s face. “Who would believe you?” Sympathy laced through his features. “Just another tantalizing story about the Court, which I’ve found to be far more helpful than hurtful, for reasons I’m certain you can understand.”
Shuddering, Phoebus looked away.
“Conversely, I can help you forget.” Bastien paused. “I can make it so the events of tonight never haunt your dreams.”
Phoebus swallowed. “Are you going to . . . kill Art and Ash?”
“No. They won’t remember anything either.” His expression hardened. “But they don’t have a choice. You do. I never take away the choice from someone I respect.”
“You . . . respect me?” Phoebus’ voice was hoarse.
“You’re a good man. See to it you stay that way.” Bastien unfurled to his feet with the grace of a jungle cat. “And make your decision.”
Phoebus pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, his fingers trembling. Conviction settled across his sweating face. “I . . . want to forget.”
“And so you shall.”
High above the Crescent City, the youngest grandson of the mayor began to scream bloody murder into a sky bruised with clouds.
CHAMPAGNE AND ROSES
Celine leaned back into the jewel-toned damask of her gilded chair. “I have nothing.”
“Nothing?” Odette laughed. She reached for another morsel of quail, pulling the tender meat apart between her delicate fingers.
“There is nothing I can say,” Celine continued. “Nothing I can do. No way to convey how amazing this meal was. Simply beyond belief.” She let out a protracted sigh. “Perhaps if I could dance like a winged fairy, I could better serve this cause.”
Another bout of laughter lilted into the air. “That is my favorite thing you’ve ever said, mon amie.”
“Also the truest.” Celine breathed in deeply, then reached beyond her golden cutlery for the crystal stem of her wineglass.
Celine had spent most of her seventeen years in Paris. As such, she’d lived a stone’s throw from some of the finest culinary establishments in the world. Unfortunately the cost of frequenting these establishments had been too much for her family. Far too out of reach for most people she knew.
But on special occasions, her father would take her to a bistro around the corner from their flat. The shiny-faced cook helming the kitchen was famous for her decadent roast chicken, served with small golden potatoes bathed in duck fat for hours on end. As a child, Celine loved popping a perfectly round pomme de terre into her mouth when it was still too hot, the crispy skin crackling on her tongue as she blew around the potato, struggling to cool it and consume it all at once. Her father had scolded her for being so unladylike, though he’d fought to conceal his smile.
It had been Celine’s favorite meal.
Every year on her birthday, her father would bring home a single mille-feuille from a well-known bakery in the eighth arrondissement. A cake of a thousand leaves. Paper-thin layers of puff pastry separated by whipped crème pâtissière, crushed almonds, and thin dribbles of chocolate.
These were some of Celine’s fondest memories. Despite her father’s sternness and austerity, he’d managed to show his love in simple ways. Ways she’d often brought to mind during some of her darkest moments on the transatlantic crossing, for they’d given her comfort when she most needed it.
But they were all pale shadows when compared with tonight.
Tonight—at seventeen—Celine was certain she’d consumed the best meal of her life.
Langoustines poached in butter, white wine, and thyme. Pistachio-encrusted turbot garnished with flakes of white truffle. Roasted quail served with a crème d’olive alongside root vegetables sautéed in herbes de Provence, then topped with edible flowers. Not to mention the little delicacies and perfect wine pairings offered throughout.
All of it, sublime to the last drop. The fanciful side of Celine dreamed of one day bringing her father here. Of sharing this meal with him, too.
Odette dabbed at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin before gesturing to one of the waiting maîtres d’hôtel, who set a large brass bowl filled with rose petals beside her on a marble pedestal. Then he filled the basin with bubbling champagne so Odette could rinse her hands. So indulgent. So wasteful. Once her fingers were clean, Odette smoothed her bodice of duchess satin, her thumb grazing the ivory cameo at her breast, tilting it askew.
“You wear that brooch often. It must hold