Page 26 of The Beautiful Ones

“It’s freezing,” he muttered, staring at his fingers as if he had touched a hot coal. “It feels like ice.”

A sudden, sharp draft swept through the closed, airless hallway—a draft so bitterly cold that it made the skin on my arms break into gooseflesh and my breath catch in my throat. The air did not carry the dust of the Virginia turnpikes or the woodsmoke from the outer kitchens; it smelled powerfully of crushed gardenias, frozen river mud, and something sharp and metallic, like iron scraped against snow.

High above the front portico, through the tall glass transom window, a single blue butterfly fluttered against the glass. Its wings were an impossible, brilliant indigo. It beat twice against the windowpane, leaving a faint streak of pale, crystalline frost on the glass, before vanishing into the glaring afternoon heat.

Lucien backed away from the table, his face turning pale beneath his tan. “What kind of trick is this?”

“I do not know, Mr. Lucien,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

The heavy mahogany doors to Monsieur’s study clicked open at the end of the hall.

Monsieur Lebon, Judge Dewey, and Reuben George stepped out, their jackets unbuttoned, their faces red and glistening with sweat. Monsieur held an open ledger in his hand, but the moment his eyes fell upon us standing by the hall table, he froze in his tracks.

“What is it?” Monsieur demanded, his raspy voice tight with a sudden, vicious panic. “What are you staring at?”

Lucien pointed a trembling finger toward the silver tray. “A calling card, Father. It was left on the table.”

Judge Dewey pushed past Monsieur, his narrow face rigid, his small eyes darting around the high ceiling. He snatched the heavy cream card off the silver tray. The moment he read the names and the single written word beneath them, the color drained entirely from his face, leaving him a sickly, ash-grey color.

“When did this arrive?” Judge Dewey hissed, his voice dropping into a harsh, terrified whisper as he glared directly at me. “Who brought it?”

“No one, sir,” I said, curtsying quickly, clutching my stack of linens to my chest. “There was no one at the door.”

“Lie!” Reuben George spat, his fat hands shaking as he grabbed the card from the judge’s fingers. “Someone had to bring it! Servants! Check the drive! Check the gates!”

“Be quiet, Reuben!” Monsieur snapped, though his own hands were shaking so violently that the ledger pages rattled in his grip. He looked at the card, then looked up at the streak of frost slowly melting on the high transom window above the front door.

A suffocating, terrifying silence fell over the grand hall.

The three patriarchs stood together in a tight, desperate cluster beneath the grand chandelier, their eyes fixed on that single piece of cardstock as if it were a warrant for their execution.

“They are coming,” Reuben whispered, his high voice cracking with sheer terror. “Tomorrow... they are coming.”

“Get to your room, Lucien,” Monsieur ordered, his voice raw, refusing to look at his son. “Elin, return to Cécile. You will keep your mouth shut about this. Do you hear me? Not a word to your mistress. Not a word to anyone.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” I breathed.

I turned and hurried up the back staircase, my skirts rustling against the dark wood, the bitter scent of frozen gardenias following me all the way to the top landing.

The Fairhavens had not even set foot upon the soil of Le Champ des Fleurs, yet the trap had already sprung.

CHAPTER FIVE

CÉCILE

I woke early, long before Dinah came to draw the heavy curtains. My mind was still tangled in the horrors of yesterday—the scorched scrap of Nathaniel’s letter, Mrs. Dewey’s screams as the blue butterflies engulfed her, and that uninvited calling card resting on the silver tray in the hall.

Tomorrow had become today.

For a long while I lay beneath the linen sheet, watching the pale summer light filter through the shutters. Downstairs, Le Champ des Fleurs was already stirring—pots knocking together in the outer kitchen, a broom scraping across the gallery floor, the distant, muffled voices of housemaids preparing for our guests.

No dogs barked in the yard.

The silence outside felt unnatural, heavy and thick, as if the plantation itself were holding its breath. And beneath the smell of damp earth and river water, the scent of gardenias drifted through the room—sweet, heavy, and suffocating.

Elin appeared in the doorway, her pale Swedish hair braided hastily, her eyes wide with a quiet, watchful worry. She did not ask if I was afraid; she knew me too well for such useless questions.

“They are here,” she whispered.