of the Twelfth Night Revelers. The same party Celine had declined to attend when Odette had invited her at dinner only a few days ago.
That particular evening, it had not served a purpose.
But today was a different story. Celine intended for this event to serve several purposes, all in her favor. Indeed, she would frequent every ridiculous carnival function in the foreseeable future—even the blasted masquerade ball itself—if it meant rooting out the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, which were now occurring around her once a week.
Her plan tonight was twofold: to gain answers to her many questions from the lion himself, and to inform the killer that Celine Rousseau was not going to tuck tail and run.
That she planned to stay and fight.
She took time to make herself ready. It didn’t matter that she had less than a single afternoon to procure a costume. Another quick message to Odette secured Celine a dress borrowed from a family who owed the Court “a barrelful of money.”
The resulting gown did not fit Celine well, but she spent the latter part of the day remaking it to suit the occasion, an outdoor event held alongside a manse in the wealthiest lane of the Garden District. To be sure, it was in poor taste for Celine to be attending a party of any kind, mere days after she’d been cast out of the convent.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
Proper society didn’t hold a place for Celine anyway. It was high time she removed herself from its confines.
After she finished applying the final details of her costume, Celine placed Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her borrowed gown. She planned to reach inside every so often to pinch the piece of parchment between her fingers, imagining it was his neck.
The idea alone steeled her spine. He might have avoided her earlier summons, but Sébastien Saint Germain would not be able to elude Celine tonight. Tonight she would have her answers. She would know the truth about the yellow ribbon. About his involvement in these murders. What exactly all the members of La Cour des Lions were.
Finally she would know where they all stood.
If they weren’t fighting with her, they were against her. And Celine intended to use every tool in her arsenal to protect those she cared about—and herself—from whatever may come.
Even if Hell itself unleashed all its monsters on the Crescent City.
* * *
Rapturous screams rang along the hedge of ochre rosebushes at Celine’s back. A man streaked past the entrance to the garden maze, his garments covered in leaves, twigs placed strategically throughout his hair, champagne dribbling from his fluted glass. He laughed, glancing over his left shoulder while he ran. A young woman in diaphanous skirts dyed the color of palest jade almost rammed into Celine in her efforts to trail after the drunken gentleman. The girl raced into the boy’s arms, and they crashed into each other before dissolving in a fit of laughter.
Celine inhaled slowly. It might have been a mistake for her to come here.
The longer she wore this gown, the more she realized how ill it suited her. Its basque of emerald silk polonaise was hot, its layers of cream-colored underskirt heavy. Worse still, its smaller size had forced her to tightlace into her stays. And—as evinced by the other “costumes” guests had chosen for a soirée themed after Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—all her efforts had clearly been for naught.
The members of New Orleans’ upper echelons had taken the party’s theme as nothing more than a light suggestion. Already Celine had caught sight of people dressed as forest nymphs or fairy sprites, replete with paste gems, translucent garments, and twigs affixed to their elegant frock coats. At least five satyrs were in attendance. Five young men from prominent families dressed as randy goats. One was already too many, in Celine’s opinion.
Had they even seen or bothered to read the play?
Celine had hoped to channel Hermia, a character named after the god of trade. As such, it felt fitting to don a dress the color of greed. Along her cheekbones and around her eyes, she’d stippled flakes of paper-thin gold leaf into the shape of coins, positioning them as if they were falling from the crown of ebony curls at the top of her head. Actual bills had been pinned to her coif, half of which she’d left down, thrown carelessly over one shoulder. It had been years since society had deemed it appropriate for Celine to wear