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“Fantastique!” the same feminine voice exclaimed from behind Pippa and Celine, as if nothing of import had occurred. “I
didn’t think you’d actually come.” The slender silhouette lurking in a fall of shadow shifted into the light.
Celine’s mouth dropped open.
“Of course I hoped you would,” Odette continued, her teeth
flashing in a smile as she lifted her glass of red wine in salute.
“But I didn’t place a bet on the outcome.”
If the girl had not spoken first, Celine never would have rec-
ognized her. Gone were the dainty, demure garments from ear-
lier in the day. The only familiar embellishment was the ivory
cameo with its halo of bloodred rubies.
Odette was dressed as a gentleman. Her trousers were made
of supple buckskin, and her shirt—with its ballooned sleeves—
was stark white, covered by an elaborate waistcoat of pale green
jacquard. The chain of a large gold pocket watch hung across
the front of Odette’s vest. But the pièce de résistance had to be her intricately tied silk cravat, pinned in its center by the ivory cameo. Her brown hair had been slicked back from her face
and gathered at the nape of her neck in a simple knot.
A slow smile unfurled across Odette’s face at their stunned
silence. She swirled her wine knowingly.
“Why, you’re wearing . . . trousers!” Pippa remarked a mo-
ment later, her eyes enormous.
“I find it incredibly freeing.” Odette moved forward, rest-
ing one of her gloved hands in her pocket. “Some days I adore
wearing corsets and bustles and layers of silk. But sometimes,
it pays to wear pants.”
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Though Celine was still rendered speechless by the sight, a sense of delight wound through her. The grin lingering on the
edges of her lips threatened to bloom.
How . . . wonderful.
Celine cleared her throat. “Of course we came,” she began as
though nothing were amiss. “I said I would, and I don’t enjoy
going back on my word.” Celine shifted beside Odette, study-
ing the lovely girl’s outfit with a practiced eye. “Forgive me, but there’s a stain beside your cravat.” She nodded at Odette’s shirt, where the tiniest drop of red wine—or perhaps rouge—had
seeped onto the otherwise pristine cloth.
Odette glanced downward, tugging at her collar with a gloved
finger. “Merde,” she cursed under her breath. “And I thought I
had been so careful.”
“Both rouge and red wine are easy to remove with a bit of
white wine or tonic water,” Celine offered. “Otherwise you look
impeccable.”
“Truly?” Odette wrinkled her nose, no doubt pleased to hear
the compliment.
Celine nodded. “A jacquard waistcoat is an excellent choice
for someone with your coloring, and the tailoring looks flaw-
less, though I would have selected a French seam to finish the
edges instead of a standard backstitch.”
“Are French seams better?” Odette asked as she set her wine
on a nearby table.
“Of course.” Celine didn’t blink. “They’re French.”
Odette laughed. “You’re simply delightful, mon amie.”
Celine almost smiled alongside Odette, but something
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stopped her. Bade her to keep her distance, at least for the time being. In the past, being too trusting of others had not done her any favors. “I’ve never seen a knot like that.” She nodded toward Odette’s cravat.
“It’s a mail coach knot from the earlier part of this century.”
Odette’s eyes gleamed pale gold. “I do think that men of the
Regency era had the best sense of fashion, don’t you?”
Celine thought a moment. “A part of me is inclined to agree.”
She paused. “Though I’ll admit I’ve never fancied the top hat.
Men have no need of the added height; they lord over every-
thing enough as it is.”
Odette hummed in agreement. “What kind of hat would you
pair with this ensemble?” she asked. “An Eton cap? A bowler?”
“Frankly, I’d prefer no hat at all, but I know it’s simply not
straw hat with a thick band. The weather here becomes it.”
“So then, a Panama hat?” Odette tapped an index finger
against her chin.
Celine frowned. “No. Something . . . else.”
Something that did not remind her of Sébastien Saint
Germain.
Celine swallowed, wondering why her thoughts had hear-
kened to that particular style in that particular instant. It had never struck her as memorable before. When Celine glanced at
Pippa, she noticed her friend studying her, Pippa’s blond head
angled to one side. As though she’d heard the lie buried deep in
Celine’s musings.
Discomfited by the notion, Celine decided to shift tack. “Is
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there a place we could begin taking your measurements?” she asked Odette.
Odette rested her arms akimbo and cocked her head to one
side. “I’m fine taking measurements here, as long as you don’t
mind.” It was almost as if she had issued a challenge.
Such a thing simply wasn’t done. But then again, Odette ap-
peared to enjoy bucking convention. Why should this occa-
sion prove any different? Her features the portrait of apathy,
Celine reached inside the pocket of her petticoat and extracted
a length of measuring ribbon.
She refused to be outmatched or intimidated.
Even if Odette did wear trousers.
While Celine worked to measure Odette’s torso, she peered
through a parting in the crowd, catching a glimpse of an on-
going chess match. Neither of the players moved for the span
of several breaths, their eyes riveted on the black-and-white
board. Then the white king fell without ever being touched. The
next instant, the entire chess set rearranged itself on its own—
the pieces whisking across the checkered surface in a whirl—as
the victor reached over to shake his opponent’s hand, a smile
curving up his face.
“Wh-what?” Pippa stammered. “What happened?”
Celine stared, her expression one of disbelief. “More impor-
tantly, how?”
“You needn’t look so surprised,” Odette said with a grin.
“They’re simply illusions performed by those with the skill.”
Pippa glanced at Odette, a brow arched in question. “You
mean . . . magic?”
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“Of a sort.” Odette nodded. “This is a place in which students of the occult”—she searched for the word, her hands turning
through the air—“gather.”
“Like a gambling hell for magicians?” Doubt crossed Celine’s
face as she resumed measuring Odette’s arms and shoulders.
&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t call us magicians,” Odette replied. “We prefer to
be called illusionists or mentalists.”
Pippa nodded. “I saw a performance by a mentalist once, just
outside of London. He turned water into ink and transformed
a bouquet of lilies into a bevy of doves.” She paused. “Do your
members also give performances like that?”
“Some of us do.” Odette raised a shoulder, eliciting a word-
less rebuke from Celine. “But most of us simply choose to meet
here in safety to hone our craft.” She paused. “It’s a blessing
we’ve been provided with such a space. There was a time before
when things were not quite so . . .” A shadow darkened Odette’s
countenance as her voice faded into nothingness. Then she
grinned brightly.
Celine took in a careful breath while she worked, her doubts
growing. Something about the girl’s explanation troubled her.
It felt familiar. The kind of explanation Celine had been wont to give as of late—a skeleton of the truth. “What kind of mentalist
are you?” she asked, her tone nonchalant.
“One who divines the future,” Odette said matter-of-factly.
“The ancients called it stargazing, but the mystics in the Quar-
ter refer to us as soothsayers.”
Pippa’s rosebud lips fell open. “Then you already know
everything that will happen? Everything I will do or say?” She
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glanced about with obvious discomfort. “Even what I might be thinking or feeling?”
Odette’s shook her head. “I know what may happen, depend-
ing on the choices you make.”
“Just by”—Pippa swallowed—“looking at me?”
“No. Physical contact is necessary for me to divine things
with any measure of clarity.”
During this exchange, Celine had kept silent for fear she
would speak out of turn. She paused to take note of the final
measurements, but disbelief flared hot in her veins when she
recalled how Boone had claimed to taste the flavor of her lies.
Such things are not possible, her mind screamed, demanding attention. Her heart, however, knew better.
Celine could not deny she’d been in the presence of some-
thing otherworldly tonight, here at Jacques’. Moreover, she
recalled her first encounter with Odette this afternoon. How
Odette’s gaze had widened infinitesimally when Celine had
taken her hand.
The soothsayer had seen something, even in that briefest of
interactions.
Captivated by the prospect of such knowledge—of such
power—Celine discarded the measuring ribbon, her pencil
dropping from her lips. She knew it was a risk, but she simply
had to know if Odette had uncovered any of her secrets. “What
did you see?”
Pippa turned toward her, confused by the question.
Odette met Celine’s gaze, her expression knowing. “What do
you mean?” Her voice sounded deceptively innocent.
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“This afternoon,” Celine continued without batting an eye,
“when you took my hand, what did you see?”
Odette’s smile turned fierce. “I only caught flashes of possi-
bility. The lace obstructed my view.” She held up a gloved hand.
“Annoying, but necessary. It’s easy to lose sight of what’s real
when you’re lost in the stars.”
Celine stood taller. Then held out her hand, her gaze steady,
determined to learn whether or not Odette possessed any
damaging information. “Please tell me what you see. I’d like to
know.”
As she had earlier today, Odette canted her head in contem-
plation. “Are you quite certain, mon amie? Knowing what might
happen is not the same as preventing it from happening.”
Celine nodded. “I’m certain.”
Odette removed the kidskin glove on her right hand. Without
hesitation, she wrapped her cool fingers around Celine’s palm
and closed her eyes. Her smile softened.
“La dompteuse des bêtes,” she murmured after a moment.
Her eyes flashed open, laughter tingeing her tone. “Je le savais!”
she congratulated herself.
“The tamer of beasts?” Celine translated, her expression one
of puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
Odette did not answer. Her lips began to purse as if she’d
consumed something sour. She swallowed carefully, her eyes
squeezing shut once more. Whatever she saw now caused her
unmistakable consternation.
Pippa gnawed at her lower lip. Unease trickled down Celine’s
spine like a bead of slowly dripping sweat. She gripped Odette’s
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hand tightly, noticing how much warmer her skin felt with each passing second. “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”
All at once Odette pulled away, yanking her palm from
Celine’s grasp. Her brown eyes flickered open, their darkened
centers large, shimmering, out of focus. “I couldn’t . . .” She trailed off, momentarily disoriented. Then she straightened like
a soldier and shot Celine a dazzling smile. “I’m sorry, mon amie, but portions of your future were too murky for me to divine.”
Celine did not believe her. “What does that mean?”
Odette shrugged. “It means the course of your life has yet
to be plotted.” Her laughter resembled bubbles of champagne,
light, frivolous, full of air. “But don’t fret. We can try again soon, I promise.”
Celine swallowed her retort. Odette’s brand of magic was
not as impressive or as helpful as she’d hoped it would be. It
was also possible the girl was deliberately concealing what
she’d seen. Neither option sat well with Celine, but it would be
impolite to pursue the matter further in public.
As though nothing had transpired, Odette shifted her atten-
tion to Pippa, her ungloved hand held out before her. “Would
you care to try?”
Pippa took a step back. “Please don’t be offended, but I’d
rather my future remain a surprise.”
Another round of airy laughter burst from Odette’s lips.
“Smart girl!”
“But,” Pippa said, her features knitting with confusion, “I am curious about how it works. Is it a skill with which you are born, or one you must cultivate?”
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Odette tilted her head from side to side, wordlessly balancing her thoughts like weights on a scale. Before she responded, she
donned her glove once more. “Many of the women in my fam-
ily were gifted with the second sight. This place has given me a
chance to cultivate this gift without judgment or expectation.
For those like me, it’s the only safe haven we’ve ever had.” Her
grin turned sad before she brightened the very next instant.
“Truly, this is a place unlike any other.”
“Kassamir called it La Cour des Lions,” Celine said.
“The . . . Heart of a Lion?” Pippa attempted to trans
late.
“The Court of the Lions,” Celine corrected in a kind voice.
Pippa’s gaze widened in understanding, undoubtedly arriving
at the same conclusion Celine herself had come to not long ago.
That, yet again, Celine was responsible for dragging her friend
deeper through a field of razor-sharp diamonds.
Perhaps it was simply her fate to be a portent of doom.
Odette rolled her eyes. “That’s not Kassamir’s doing. That’s
Bastien’s. Honestly, that boy could sell a snowball to a penguin.”
She snickered. “You would never suspect how dramatic he truly
is.” Her features turned rueful. “Ah, but if he heard me say that, he would stare at me with those dagger eyes of his until I apologized. Really, men are such infants.”
Distracted by her worries, it took a moment for Celine to reg-
ister Odette’s words. Her blood turned cold. “Bastien? Are you
referring to Sébastien Saint Germain?”
Odette’s eyes went wide. “Yes, that’s him. Un vrai démon,
n’est ce-pas?” She sniffed. “At least he’s a welcome sight for the eyes. Have you ever seen a more handsome devil?”
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“No,” Celine admitted. “Unfortunately, neither has he.”
“Parfait! Simplement parfait!” Odette clapped her hands,
her laughter lilting into the coffered ceiling. Then she resumed
chattering without pausing for breath.
Somewhere high above the clouds—or deep below in a fiery
pit—an otherworldly creature must be having a grand time at
Celine’s expense. Her shoulders fell forward, her lips thinning
into a line as the words continued flowing from Odette’s lips
like wine at a Bacchanalia.
“Bastien’s uncle owns this entire building, as well as several
properties in the Vieux Carré,” Odette said. “Of course you’ve
heard of Le Comte de Saint Germain. Rich as Croesus and
charming as sin. Bastien is his sole heir, a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the débutantes of our fair city, despite the . . . concern many in society have with regard to his parentage.” Her
laughter became mischievous, a sly flutter of sound. “I’d wa-
ger money solves most problems, non?” She winked. “Though
I myself speak only three languages, the Count has mastered
nine and can quote entire swaths of scripture on a whim. He’s also an immense fan of the—” She stopped short when she
noticed the glazed look on Celine’s face. “Ah, but I’m getting