“Pack your bags, Celine LeBeau. Next station, purgatory.”
Chapter 21
Let Her Eat Cake
“And what do you plan on doing there?” Francine asked as she stepped into the corridor, a heap of laundry in her hands. In the shadows, she resembled the Grim Reaper to an eerie degree. Celine shivered and followed sluggishly up the stairs. Once Francine opened the door to Celine’s room, she plopped the clothes down on the bed where Milady was curled, asleep. Fortunately, Bastien hadn’t forgotten to drop her off.
“I was not aware purgatory was a popular destination this time of year.”
“It’s not. I need to expiate all the guilt of this night,” Celine answered. Upon entering, she noticed a confectioner’s box sitting on her nightstand, a silver fork tied to it with an elegant blue bow. Like a moth, she crept towards it to read the cream lettering that decorated its top.
I’m sorry for what I did.
-B
Smudging the words as she scooped a bit of frosting on her finger, Celine frowned. It was light and sweet, with a hint of berries. It soothed something inside her chest, much to her chagrin.
“Though, the way that my life is going right now”—she mumbled through a mouthful of frosting—“you might have to tell my parents I will be staying indefinitely.”
“I am glad your appetite isn’t suffering along with your conscience, Mademoiselle.”
Celine scrunched her nose in disapproval. “I can’t possibly go to hell on an empty stomach, can I? You wouldn’t let me go to school without feeding me like you were going to cook me afterwards. And I’m fairly certain that purgatory has much more strenuous tasks than arithmetics.”
And the cake was too delicious to put down anyway.
Celine turned on her phonograph and restarted the song she had been playing last night. A cheerful little jazz sequence poured out into the room, drowning out the current of thoughts sizzling in her head. She couldn’t be thinking about Bastien anymore.
Never again!
“Have you fallen in love with Monsieur Ménard yet?” Francine inquired with a subtle levity in her voice. Somehow, she continued folding the laundry as if the question was something Celine should have predicted.
Unfortunately, it was something that plucked at a very sensitive nerve at the moment.
Celine was beginning to loathe all stories and poems that had built up love to be this singular, powerful emotion that could fix everything, even curses. In reality, love was yet another volatile thing that changed as quickly as a rose shed its petals and a leaf turned brown.
She heaved a long exhale, opting to stay quiet and let the phonograph fill the silence. It was the only time in the day when she could simply hide from everything and everyone, forget her myriad of problems that needed solving, and let the night stretch out for as long as it wanted, granting her hours upon hours of peace.
“So?” her nurse pressed.
“It’s still a work in progress,” Celine allowed. “The timing is not—Oh, do not give me that look! As I said, it’s a work in progress, and progress has been made. Only…perhaps…with the wrong Ménard,” she added with a wince.
Francine’s head snapped up. Her nimble hands stopped in the middle of folding an intricate chiffon dress. “But he is Jacques’s brother.”
“Step-brother, and before you say anything, I’m not in love with him.” Even the thought made her bristle. “No, I would rather fall in love with a slimy toad than Bastien Ménard. I just…can’t help but think I have become better acquainted with him than with Jacques.”
Going back to folding the rest of the laundry, Francine muttered: “Despite all the things he does? Youcomplainof him incessantly.”
“Annoying demon or not, he has become my friend. Sort of. We keep going back and forth on that.”
Francine produced a small, muffled sound—something akin to a sardonicmhm.
“What?” Celine inquired, pausing the fork midway to her lips.
“You are smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You like him.”
