Celine woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disorientation gripped her, her vision struggling to find focus. Her eyes darted to all corners, searching for something familiar. Fighting for a semblance of footing.
She had no recollection of this place.
Then—like a wave crashing upon a shore—all the events of last night flooded through her mind. She was enshrined in the top floor suite of the finest hotel in the city. A brass lift festooned with gilded birds had borne her to this place. Before she’d taken her leave, Odette had made certain Celine was comfortable. Warm and well cared for.
Tomorrow they would begin devising a trap to catch a killer.
This last thought caused Celine to sit up at once, her breath lodged in her throat, the ache in her head throbbing dully. She looked around, her gaze moving about the space once more, this time with measured deliberation.
The cream-colored sheets beneath her fingers possessed a faint luster, their surfaces smooth, their edges trimmed with delicate gold embroidery. When she ran her hands across them, they felt like cool water to the touch. As if they’d been woven from pure spider silk. Above her hung a thick canopy of golden damask, pinned in its center by an emblem entwined with intricate filigree. Tied around each of the bed’s four mahogany posts were drapes of wine-red velvet.
Celine threw back the bedcovers and sank her bare toes into the luxurious Aubusson carpet, the tassels along its edge glinting in the candlelight.
Countless paintings hung on the far side of the bedchamber, extending the full height of the room, some twenty-odd feet. A few were the width of Celine’s palm, others stood more than double her height. Each was rendered by the hand of a master, the details within both dark and light, as if their collector appreciated the contrast of sunlight and shadow in equal measure.
Crowning the remaining three sides of the room was a kind of narrow balcony, the like of which Celine had never seen before. Shelves upon shelves of books filled the walls along the upper half of the chamber, oiled castors and iron ladders awaiting their savant’s inevitable return.
Tall scented candles had been lit around the room, as if Odette had known how disconcerting it would be for Celine to wake in a cold and unfamiliar place.
She crossed the chamber toward a pair of mullioned windows, numbness tingling along her extremities. She’d slept hard. Surprisingly so, given the shocking tenor of recent events. When Celine tugged aside the heavy curtains to look outside, she discovered two things of note: that there were—indeed—wrought-iron bars encasing every window, painted a glossy white, and that nightfall still reigned supreme on the world below. Despite Odette’s final admonition for Celine to sleep until the sun rose, she’d woken in that time just before dawn, when night was at its darkest.
Celine studied the scene beyond her barred window. Noted the lack of a balcony outside. The level of security for the top floor of the Dumaine was certainly extreme. As if it were intended for a visiting dignitary or a member of royalty.
Celine retraced her steps, taking stock of every entrance and egress. The main access to the room was a set of double doors built to look as if they were part of the intricate paneling, their edges trimmed in gilt-leafed molding. Another door leading to a washroom appeared as if it were a piece of art in its own right, a thick frame concealing its seams. Inside the washroom, a large tub of hammered copper stood on a raised platform surrounded by squares of white marble tile. Every sconce in sight had been encrusted with crystals. The air around Celine smelled of irises and sweet water, the flames of countless white candles dancing along the walls and ledges.
Her feet steady on the cold marble, Celine shucked her still damp dress, not even bothering to collect it from the floor. In rote silence, she removed the hairpins from her scalp, pausing to rub the sore spots they’d left behind. Then she moved toward a porcelain bowl and pitcher enclosed by a three-sided mirror of embellished brass.
She stared at her reflection. At eyes wider than a raccoon’s and hair like a murder of crows. Dried blood still dotted her skin. The red specks were especially disturbing beside her eyes, which glittered with a consumptive light, as if Celine were possessed