Page 18 of The Beautiful Ones

His smile began to change before she reached the third word, losing its courtesy and acquiring the curious, expectant quality of someone watching an animal struggle in a trap.

“She is delighted to see you,” I said.

Cécile’s fingernails bit into my palm.

Warren glanced from her face to mine. “Does she require an interpreter now?”

Heat rose into my cheeks, and before I could decide whether my position permitted the answer he deserved, Cécile released my hand and walked away.

Madame watched her daughter cross the hall. Her expression remained pleasant for the benefit of the guests, but the muscles along her jaw tightened.

“I apologize,” I said.

“You were instructed to keep her beside you.”

“I tried.”

“Try more successfully.”

She followed the other women into the drawing room, leaving me alone with Warren beneath the chandelier.

He watched Cécile disappear into the passage leading toward the garden. “I did not mean to upset her.”

“Yes, you did.”

His pale eyes widened, but I curtsied before he could answer and went in search of her.

Cécile had not entered the garden. Instead, I found her kneeling before the fireplace in Monsieur’s study, heedless of the blue skirts spreading across the dusty hearth. The door stood open behind her, although I knew her father had locked it earlier.

“What are you doing?”

She reached carefully between the iron bars and withdrew a curling scrap of paper.

Monsieur had burned the letter.

Most of it had collapsed into ash, but one corner remained, protected by the grate and browned rather than consumed. Cécile carried it to the window, where the light was strongest, and together we read the surviving lines.

The handwriting was strong and slanted, each word pressed deeply into the expensive paper.

My dear Étienne,

They know what was done, and they will come when the gardenias bloom.

There was nothing more.

The fire had taken the rest.

I read the lines again.

Cécile pointed to the words again.

They know what was done.

Outside the study window, the gardenias shifted in the afternoon heat, their white blossoms heavy upon the dark leaves.

Their perfume drifted through the open sash.

Cécile looked at me.