Chapter Fifteen Candlelit Dinner

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Candlelit Dinner

THE HEAVY DOOR shuts behind me, and I wince at the loud thud. When Dahlia's henchmen placed the sack over my head on the way here, I should have known our meeting would be in a strange place—at least this time we're not in a basement.

After the day I had, I should be exhausted. I am exhausted. But at the same time my nerves are prickling, keeping me alert. The large room is elaborately decorated with furniture in mahogany and walnut, reflecting in ornate mirrors that are elegantly poised on the walls. All around, chairs are propped upside down on distinctive brocade-silk cloaked tables. Yet in the corner of the room, on a tiny stage, a performance is taking place. The tender sound of the violinist's music caresses me as I stare at the contortionist bending her legs over her shoulders in an inhuman pose. Why are they here in the middle of the night?

"Do sit down," Dahlia calls over the music. She sits at a round table in the center of the room. The tall candles flicker as I move closer to her, taking in the porcelain dinnerware and silver cutlery laid before me.

After Pauline left my room this evening, it took Lirone less than a minute to appear, bowing and expecting me to praise his "once in a lifetime performance" earlier that day. Seeing that he was showing absolutely no sign of having been trampled by horses, I couldn't argue that he deserved applause. Even if I regretted ever having given him the chance to earn it in the first place. But he wasn't there just to check in on me. Dahlia was calling, and as Lirone said, "Lady Sibille doesn't like to be kept waiting." The sack over my head came as soon as I entered a darkened carriage at the end of my street.

"I hope you don't mind—I took the liberty of ordering already." That perfect smile stretches on Dahlia's scarlet-colored lips as I sit down across from her, tucking my dress under me.

The restaurant is clearly the type frequented only by the wealthy, promising fine dining and company. A fancy dinner and a performance . . . Is this a date? My heart flutters.

"Wine?" Dahlia asks, already pouring me a glass.

In the candlelight, the liquid looks purple, rich, and velvety. "Thank you."

Her doe eyes stare at me as I take a sip, the fruity flavor of plum coating my tongue.

"Exquisite, no?" she says. "Much like your performance at the garden party today—and I certainly don't mean your singing."

I choke at her words, a fit of coughing overtaking me as the wine slides down the wrong pipe and into my airway. I'm not sure what I was expecting. After all, I would have been a fool to think she didn't already know all the details about today. There was only one part of the day unaccounted for.

The time I spent in Vicomte Lenoir's carriage.

She tilts her head in amusement, one long finger resting on her chin.

"I—" I clear my throat, finally able to stop coughing. "After the . . ." I fall silent as a door flaps open behind me.

A man carrying a tray enters the room, and from his perfectly white outfit and tall hat, it's clear he's not just a servant.

"Ladies." He bows his head.

To my surprise, Dahlia stands as he approaches, revealing a smooth cream gown with a deep-cut neckline and delicate purple lace that spirals across her skirt. On the back of her chair hangs the same coat she wore when I last saw her on our midnight stroll—black lilies shimmering in the candlelight.

"My dear," Dahlia says just as the violinist plays a soft trill, "I'd like you to meet someone very special to me."

I hurry to my feet. "Pleasure to meet you, monsieur."

"Adolphe Dugléré, the proud owner and chef of Café Anglais," he says, and my jaw drops for just a second before I recompose myself. Even I have heard of Café Anglais. In truth, I doubt there is anyone who hasn't. Is this where we are? The waiting list for a table here is as long as any novel ever written. How did Dahlia get the chef to be here in the middle of the night for her?

"And you must be the lovely Lady Adley—your reputation precedes you," he continues, droning each syllable. "An honor to make your acquaintance."

He looks like a caricature of what I might expect the most famous chef in Lutèce to be—plump, with a short, almost nonexistent neck and flushed cheeks. Pinned onto his white jacket is a silver brooch indented with an onyx gemstone, its aura so powerful it bewitches me to stare.

Adolphe sets two plates on the table before ceremoniously removing the silver cloche on each one. "Soupe à l'oignon, with brandy, caramelized onions, and herbs, topped with a freshly baked cheese brioche."

"Thank you, Adolphe." Dahlia sits down, running her hand over Adolphe's arm, and my stomach hardens. There is such adoration in the way he looks at her that all of a sudden I want to shove him away, tear him from her grasp. The chef turns away with a bow, and I suppress the urge, though my breath remains shallow.

Dahlia puckers her lips, blowing air over a spoonful of soup before taking a sip. She accompanies it with a soft, low moan, and I force down a lump in my throat as she licks her lips. "Won't you eat? It's best served warm." She blinks at me demurely and I automatically reach for my own spoon as if under a spell .

Her eyes follow me as I take a bite, immediately burning the roof of my mouth. She smiles as I gulp at the wine to cover it.

"So, a little bird told me you had quite an eventful day. Firing your coachman, fainting, ruining your aria." Dahlia counts each one on her fingers as if listing off my crimes. "Should I be concerned?"

"He was a drunkard." The lie springs to my lips. Lirone warned me to stick to the official story—even with Dahlia—and though it feels like putting a nail into the coachman's coffin, coming clean now will do nothing to undo the damage. I brought this on myself the moment I chose to keep my suspicions from Dahlia to begin with. I have only myself to blame.

"Yes, I heard he hit a child," she says. "Tragic, really." Dahlia's gaze is unnerving, unmoving.

My knuckles turn white as I grab the spoon, bringing more scalding soup to my mouth to avoid her eyes. She leans in, and my hand freezes in the air mid bite.

"But I'm more interested in what happened after . . . I hear you went on a joyride with our friend. How is Vicomte Lenoir these days?"

I force myself to swallow. Of course this is the reason she brought me here.

"The vicomte was kind enough to offer me a ride home, since I lost mine."

"I don't have any interest in facts I already know." Her glare speaks of danger. "Tell me what happened in that carriage."

I take another long sip of wine, stalling, as I watch the contortionist twist herself into a knot. The alcohol releases the tension in my body, taking away some of the pain still lingering in my abdomen. I close my eyes for a second, the vicomte's well-sculpted features filling my mind.

"Do you often rescue damsels in distress?" I teased as the carriage lurched forward .

Vicomte Lenoir gifted me with one of his smirks. "Only the interesting ones."

"You find me interesting?"

"Only if you consider yourself a damsel in distress."

My pulse quickened, unbidden.

The vicomte leaned back, one arm gracefully draped along the backrest of his velvety bench seat. "Did you always know you wanted to take your cousin's Talent?"

I shook my head. "I never imagined she'd give it to me . . . But it's my future now."

"And you enjoy it?"

"Of course I do." The words all but flew out of my mouth. Almost too quickly.

He raised an eyebrow but didn't argue.

"What about you? Do you enjoy your Talent?" I directed the question back to him, clutching my hands together in my lap. "I've never seen you wear it."

The line of his mouth hardened at that, but he passed a hand through his hair, ruffling his rich brown locks as if to shake my question away. "I prefer things that are flawed."

My brow knitted together, but it was clear he wasn't about to elaborate. "Like me? You claimed I'm not perfect."

A spark danced in his bright eyes. "Yes. Exactly like you."

The words ring again in my mind softly, a strange flutter stirring my heart. The vicomte is so infuriatingly arrogant, and yet, there's something captivating about him. I can't deny a part of me enjoyed his teasing and biting wit today. He's like a puzzle I can't quite solve, drawing me in with each new piece that falls into place.

Yet I can't say any of that to Dahlia. The vicomte is my target, and thinking about him as anything else is a dangerous game I can never hope to win.

"Well?" she whispers.

"It was nothing of importance." My lip trembles a bit as I speak. "Though I do think he's starting to like me. I tried to ask him about his Talent, but he changed the subject. All I managed to get from him is that he likes things that aren't perfect."

"Well, you've clearly been less than perfect the last few days."

I'm about to defend myself when Adolphe returns, carrying the main course of our meal. "I hope all is to your satisfaction."

"You know it is, dear," Dahlia says.

The chef straightens his back, his chest filling up with pride. "I have prepared for you my signature dish. Confit de canard — duck legs in shallots, garlic, and thyme, accompanied by red cabbage slow-braised with apples and red wine."

Steam rises from the plates, and the delicious smell of spices makes my mouth water even through my recurring nausea. This time Adolphe doesn't leave; he's waiting expectantly for us to taste his masterpiece.

I follow Dahlia's example, taking a forkful and biting into the rich meat. It falls off the bone at once, a perfect, sinful combination of crisped skin and silky meat. Tears form in my eyes; the taste is too good to be true—clearly created with a Talent so grand it makes others pale in comparison.

Yet all I can feel as my mouth longs for the next bite is guilt. I must not forget myself in pleasures. None of this is about me. I put down the fork, suddenly struggling to swallow.

But Dahlia and Adolphe are staring at me, and I cannot let them down. I force a smile. "It's the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted," I say.

Adolphe bows to me modestly before turning away again.

Dahlia takes another bite, looking at the performers on the stage with a soft gaze. "Enchanting, are they not? They are some of my brightest stars." She smiles as the contortionist goes into a deep split, locking eyes with her for a moment longer than I'd like. "I actually imported Adolphe's Talent all the way from Londinium. Have you ever been?" She doesn't let me answer before continuing. "I never regretted gifting any of them their Talents, and they have never disappointed me in return."

The violin's enchanting melody fills the room as I let her words sink in. They are like me. The chef. The contortionist. The violinist. They are her thieves. This romantic dinner is about more than just information. It's about showing me the future that awaits me if I hold up my end of the bargain.

Did she take all of them on moonlit strolls? Did her lips brush against their skin as well?

"Such precious things," Dahlia says. For a second, I'm sure she's talking about the performers, but then I notice her eyes are following the gems glinting from their rings—a beautiful amethyst and a rare black opal. "It's a shame how limited the supply is, isn't it? Who would have thought those enchanted mines would ever empty . . . Perhaps one day we can go see them together, if you'd like. Maybe we'll find some forgotten gems."

Her smile is sweet, inviting, her words full of promise. But promises can be dangerous; they can lead to heartbreak. And I know Dahlia can rip my heart out if she desires. Does she truly care for me? I shouldn't even play with that thought, yet I can't help but weave that dream in my head. And the way she looks at me makes it practically impossible to resist. I long to see the full world Dahlia has to offer.

"I'd go anywhere with you." The words leave my mouth despite myself.

Her eyes sparkle. "One day." She grows silent, her gaze falling down to the ruby on my finger. "I often wish things had been different. Don't you?"

A genuine question dances on her perfect features. Does she refer to the story she told me about her brother? About her Talent? She sighs, gently biting her bottom lip. Could she be nervous? Does she wish to share more with me?

"I . . ." The last thing I want now is to push her or pry, no matter how curious I am. I hesitate, my breath shaky. Reaching out, my fingers land on the back of her hand. Her skin is soft, warm, an invitation to intimacy.

She looks up at me at the touch, her head tilted, her brow knitted, as though the concept of being comforted is completely unknown to her. The rest of the room fades as a magnetic energy moves between us—masks falling off, emotions dancing close to the surface. I'm lost within her, mesmerized by the soft spark glinting in her eyes.

She drops her voice to a whisper, her words reserved for my ears alone. "If I had my way, every child would have a Talent of their own." The passion in her words speaks of truth, revealing that vulnerable side of her that only draws me in more.

This is the Dahlia I daydream of. The Dahlia who mirrors my own struggles. And in that moment, I'm certain that this Dahlia is mine alone. I feel my body aching for her. Longing. Falling.

The violin picks up and Dahlia dispels the fragility with a chuckle, pulling her hand away to grab her glass. "Though I suppose that would hurt my business. The rarer something is, the higher the demand. Speaking of which . . ." Dahlia pauses, taking another sip of wine. "Did you know that on his first mission Adolphe collected his blood sample within one week?"

And just like that, her tone is back to business. And though I know I should follow suit, I can't help but wish for her tenderness, her warmth.

"What about you, Cleo?" she asks. "You sat with Vicomte Lenoir alone in his carriage, yet barely any progress has been made. I have not even asked you to worry about his gem yet. When can I expect your blood sample?"

"I don't . . ."

"My sweet Cleo. So innocent. So pure. I truly admire that about you." She swishes the wine in her glass, the deep purple liquid threatening to spill as it swirls but never surpasses the edges. "Lirone has kept me up to date about your little plot: being proper, stroking the man's ego. But you are not a proper lady. You are nothing like the women the vicomte knows." She takes a long sip of wine, a single drop dripping at the edge of her lips. My stomach tightens as she licks it away, and I mimic her gesture with a sudden hunger that has nothing to do with the food. "Use it," she says.

"I don't know how," I mumble.

She lets out a delighted giggle. "You are innocent, my love, but not naive."

I focus on the plate before me. She means I should seduce him by any means necessary. Just the thought makes my heart race and my palms sweat. It's what I signed up for when I agreed to her deal, but each step I take toward completing my end of the bargain feels like a step toward the edge of a cliff.

I can sense her eyes on me, compelling me to look up. There's that softness in her gaze, in the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, in the single lock of raven hair falling on her forehead. I cannot say no to her. For her, I would jump right off the cliff into the abyss.

"I will make it happen. But . . ."

Her brow rises at the conditional word.

"I need to see my sister." My resolve, after today, makes my words come out stronger.

She's quiet for a moment, not answering as she cleans the last bite off her plate. Then she rings a tiny bell and Adolphe rushes back from the kitchen.

"I think we're ready for dessert, dearest."

Pressure builds in my chest when she doesn't respond. Yes, I would do anything she asks of me. I would lie, cheat, steal. But if today has taught me anything, it is that without Anaella, none of it is worth anything. I need a guarantee that she will be taken care of, no matter what. I need Dahlia to understand that. I need her to let my sister be a part of my life so I can dedicate myself to it wholeheartedly. Having Anaella by my side is the only way I'll truly be able to put the past behind me and build a new future without regrets .

Adolphe clears the table—my plate is nearly as full as when it arrived, but luckily he shows no sign of feeling insulted—before placing a single bowl of crème br?lée before us.

Taking a silver teaspoon, Dahlia breaks the round sugar disc with a firm tap. "We've talked about this," she finally says, once the chef has left again. "It's not safe yet."

"When, then?" I ask as she digs into the custard. "I need her to come live with me. Keeping her this way, while I . . . It's just wrong. Wouldn't you feel the same in my place?"

She stills, my unspoken words lingering between us: What if it were your brother?

For a moment I wonder if her anger might reemerge, if I have pushed too far, but the glint in her eyes is one of sadness, not fury.

"I can assure you," she says, "that Anaella wants for nothing. She is well fed, dressed, and taken care of. As long as you are mine, she will never suffer."

A pleasant shiver runs down my spine. I want to be hers. But even though her claims are comforting, it's not enough. Not anymore.

"When?" I ask again.

She keeps silent a moment longer before speaking. "Once you deliver Vicomte Lenoir's blood and gem to me, I promise to bring your sister to live with you. You shall never be apart again."

Never apart again. The words I longed to hear. Yet I still want more. "And when can I see her?"

Dahlia lifts the teaspoon to her mouth, closing her lips around the sweet delight. Then she rises to her feet, and my pulse quickens. Her gown shows every curve of her body as she circles around the table and bends to face me.

The warmth of her breath is sensual—the sweetness of the crème br?lée's vanilla scent, mixing with her signature jasmine perfume and enveloping me with her presence. Her long eyelashes flutter against my skin as her fingers trace my jawline. I cannot think anymore. The violin, a background noise. The contortionist, nothing but a blurred, meaningless shape. The room is gone. The world is gone. The only clear thing is her. She is everything.

Her lips are an inch from mine when she whispers, "Soon."

And that's all I can take.

Leaning forward, I close the distance between us, tasting the sugar that still lingers on her perfect lips.