Page 54 of The Beautiful Ones

I hurried on.

The public corridor outside Monsieur Lebon’s study was deserted. Heavy crimson drapes smothered the windows, and the runner beneath my feet swallowed every step. I listened at the door.

Nothing.

The iron key entered the brass lock with difficulty. For one terrible moment it refused to turn. Then something clicked deep within the mechanism, and the door opened beneath my hand.

I slipped inside and locked it behind me.

The study smelled of stale tobacco, spilled port and decaying leather. Its velvet curtains were drawn against the afternoon glare, leaving the room in a deep red gloom. The air felt close and used, as if generations of Lebon men had breathed it without ever opening a window.

I crossed to the mahogany desk.

The upper drawers held ordinary sins: unpaid bills, gambling notes, letters from women whose names had been scratched away. Below them lay plantation accounts—cotton yields, lumber purchases, shoes and blankets allotted to enslaved laborers. Human suffering had been reduced to neat columns of ink long before I reached the hidden book.

The bottom drawer stuck halfway.

I pulled harder and heard wood scrape beneath the green felt lining. One corner lifted. Beneath it lay a shallow compartment containing an iron-bound ledger without a title.

The first page carried Monsieur Lebon’s hand.

Brig Sea Nymph — November 14, 1847. Inlet Landing No. 4.

120 heads. Consignment: H. Dewey, R. George, É. Lebon.

Net yield: $48,000.

I turned the page.

There were other ships. Other landings. The Nightingale had delivered ninety-six human beings in September. The Mercy Bell had carried one hundred and forty-one in January. Beside each entry stood the same three names and the same obscene arithmetic: bodies purchased, bodies lost at sea, bodies sold.

More than five hundred people had been brought through the Virginia inlets during the previous year alone, long after the trade had been outlawed.

The carpets beneath my feet, the silver tray I had carried, the blue silk Cécile wore in the parlor—every beautiful object in Le Champ des Fleurs had been bought by these pages.

Something moved between the final leaves.

A sheet of heavy naval stationery had been folded around a torn corner of a shipping manifest. The letter was written in a clear, slanted hand.

Étienne—

The manifests from the Sea Nymph are secured in my Norfolk safe. I cannot turn a blind eye to blood money, nor will I permit you to use Cécile’s future as an excuse for what you have done. Convene with Dewey and George at the glasshouse tonight. We settle this, or the federal magistrate receives the books tomorrow.

N. Vale

The paper trembled between my fingers.

Nathaniel had not abandoned Cécile. He had discovered her father’s crimes and threatened to expose them. Monsieur Lebon, Judge Dewey and Reuben George had answered him with a spade, quicklime and a grave beneath the glasshouse.

The truth was uglier than suspicion because it possessed handwriting, dates and sums.

A key scraped against the outer lock.

I froze.

The handle turned once, met the bolt and stopped.

“Why is this locked?” Monsieur Lebon demanded from the corridor.