“Don’t fall in love with me,” she warned again, her words breathless. “You’re not good for me. And I’m not good for you.”
“I agree, on all counts.”
“Most likely, you require a young woman with wealth and pedigree. An established place in society,” Celine continued. “And I require a proper young gentleman.”
The angles in Bastien’s face sharpened, betraying a spark of emotion too slight to discern. “Correct on all counts,” he said. “You lack the right pedigree.” A half smile curved up his face. “And I am not a gentleman.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciate what you did for me tonight, more than words. And in the future”—Celine inhaled—“I would not be offended if you chose to maintain your distance.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. If you agree, I believe we’re safe being passing acquaintances.” Bastien paused as if he intended to say something more. Then kept silent, his lips curling upward.
But . . . who wants to be safe? Celine banished the reckless thought from her mind and held out her hand. “Thank you again. I will not forget your kindness.”
“You’re welcome, mon coeur.” Instead of bending to kiss her hand, Bastien shook it, as he would an equal, his signet ring winking back at the stars.
A wave of satisfaction rippled through Celine. “Do passing acquaintances use such terms of endearment?”
“They do in my world.”
She smiled through a flicker of sadness. “Your world is beautiful, Bastien. I wish I could stay.”
“As do I.”
With that, Celine slid her hand from his, the tips of her fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then she turned toward the convent, surprised to realize it was possible to feel both gladdened and gutted in the same instant.
THE WITCHING HOUR
From the corner of her eye, Celine watched their last candle begin to flicker and wane.
Not yet, she silently implored. Please not yet.
Her tongue slipped between her teeth as she hastened her efforts, basting the pieces of lustrous fabric together in a race against the sputtering light. Just as she was about to reach the end of the seam, the door to Pippa’s cell creaked open. A faint breeze blew through the space, snuffing out the flame before Celine could blink, swallowing her in sudden darkness.
“Oh,” Pippa said, her petite figure silhouetted by a beam of moonlight. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” With her foot, she propped the door halfway open. “But I come bearing gifts.” She sidestepped into the room. Between her hands rested a simple wooden tray laden with what appeared to be food and the stub of a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder.
It took a moment for Celine’s eyes to adjust to the blue darkness. “Apologies are unnecessary, especially if you brought cheese.”
“And ham and Dijon mustard, as well as tea, a crust of warm bread . . . and a piece of fresh honeycomb I filched earlier from a hive of glorious bees!” Pippa said triumphantly.
Celine could almost hear Pippa smiling. It was in these moments that she appreciated her the most. Philippa Montrose was sunlight and goodness. A honeycomb in her own right. Perhaps it sounded silly, but having a friend like Pippa helped Celine believe she was welcome in the eyes of decent society, despite everything that had happened in the last few weeks.
Grinning, Celine pinned her needle to the shimmering white fabric and shifted back from her makeshift workstation to stretch her arms above her head. Briefly she considered waiting to eat. It would be wise to take advantage of the tiny candle Pippa had finagled to finish the last bit of basting before retiring for the night. After all, a single week remained before the masquerade ball. Celine had never completed a gown in such a short amount of time, much less without assistance.
But she was famished. She’d already forgone dinner because she’d been so consumed with her work. When Pippa had suggested they pool their meager rations of light to make them last longer, Celine was beyond appreciative of the gesture. Ever since arriving to the convent less than three weeks ago, she’d lamented its dearth of oil lanterns.
Once the sun had set, Celine had moved her things to Pippa’s slightly larger cell, where Pippa had chosen to work on her watercolors while Celine stitched by the light of their shared candle flames.
Now Pippa bustled about the space, humming a familiar melody as she lit the short taper and positioned a stool in the center of the room, placing the tray on the seat to