Steam curled gently above the teacups, blurring the world into softness. The afternoon light poured through the tall windows, gilding the lace cloth and the porcelain set Hawk had brought from Lisbon—fragile things that somehow survived war and transport.
“Are you really happy then?” Louise said, watching her closely. “Because I can still wield a dagger better than any soldier, and if you need me—“
Celeste laughed and tapped her friend’s hand. “Put away your daggers, Desdemona. I’ve found my Oberon, and he makes this Titania deliriously happy. To make my happiness complete, I need this one to lift the curtains and decide to grace the stage at last,” she said, caressing her belly.
Celeste studied her friend’s face. Louise was still beautiful, elegant as ever, with her dark hair pinned in a perfect twist and her smile arranged like a stage prop. But there was something hollow behind it. A faint exhaustion, like a candle guttering in still air.
Celeste leaned forward, setting her cup aside. “Louise, what is it? You look less like yourself and more like a sad Ophelia… minus the lilies.”
She tried to smile, to coax one from her friend, but the attempt faltered against Louise’s distant expression. With a quiet scrape of chair legs, she rose. Her silk skirts whispered as she crossed to the window, the light gilding her profile in pale gold.
Louise gave a brittle laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How would you feel, Celeste, if the play of your life were being staged far away—and you were locked in this island, powerless to help?”
Celeste hoisted herself and wobbled after her. “We are no longer speaking metaphorically, are we? What is wrong? Please tell me. You’ve supported me all my life, Louise. Now it’s my turn to be here for you.”
Louise’s composure wavered. Her gaze drifted toward the window, to the soft gray light beyond, and her lips parted. “I always thought that I would go back to France. That I would have a place there.” Her fingers traced the rain drops on the glass as though she could touch the country beyond it. “But now I fear I'm too late.”
Celeste’s chest tightened. Of all the Swans of Paris, Louise had been the only one who never truly made peace with England. Even surrounded by friends, her gaze always drifted east—past the Channel, toward the land that had expelled them.
Celeste stood, one hand bracing against a chair as a ripple of discomfort coursed through her belly. A pressure, sharp and low. She drew a slow breath and steadied herself.Not now, baby girl. Louise needs me.
She moved closer, resting a hand on her friend’s arm. “Did you speak to Katherina about your past?”
Celeste searched her face. The ballet mistress had vowed never to reveal the secrets of the Swans of Paris’ true heritage, but the past had a way of catching up.
Louise’s hand slipped from the window frame. Her voice trembled. “You see... he is about to be defeated.”
A chill prickled down Celeste’s spine. Was this related to Celeste’s political views? The meetings that had once puzzled her, the letters arriving with no return address, the sudden disappearances explained away with vague excuses.
“Who, Louise?”
The door swung open with a brisk scrape of hinges.
Hawk stood in the doorway, the afternoon light glancing off his uniform buttons. His expression was composed, but his eyes held an excited light.
He strode to her and cradled her face. “The war is over.”
Celeste gasped. England and France had been at war for all of her life. She had never considered that it would actually end one day. That peace was possible.
Hawk rested his chin on top of her head. “The allies have defeated Napoleon. The Emperor abdicated.”
Louise made a strangled sound. Her teacup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the rug. For a second, she simply stood there, her hand clutching the air as if searching for something to hold. Then she raced toward the door.
“Louise!” Celeste turned in Hawk’s arm.
Her body seized. A warm rush soaked through her gown. Celeste froze, breath catching in her throat.
Prue gasped as Louise barreled past, knocking a tray from her hands. China clattered. Tea splashed across the floor.
Celeste gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles whitening. “Oh, dear heavens—"
Hawk was beside her in an instant, his hands closing around her arms. “What is it?”
She looked up at him. “Our baby… she’s coming.”
His eyes darkened. “Now?”
Celeste managed a shaky smile. “Perhaps she was just waiting for the war to end.”
