Before he could climb down, Celine took his jaw between her fingers and directed his gaze to hers. Stars glittered behind him like millions of tiny champagne bubbles popping and sparkling in a liquid of the darkest blue. And underneath long, dark eyelashes, each of them reflected in his grey eyes. Just then, Celine thought him devastatingly beautiful.
“Just because I asked for a kiss, doesn’t mean I’myourJuliet.”
“Even better if you are my Celine,” Bastien returned, grinning. He didn’t wait for her to respond. He scaled the drainpipe down half-way, then jumped into the jasmine bushes planted below.
Celine cut him one final glance, as he shook leaves from his suit and hurried down the moonlit driveway. Then she drew the curtains closed.
Chapter 22
Coming Up Roses
Maison Baudelaire had turned into a beehive of murmurs the next day, when its owner had announced that two contestants would leave the competition after their challenge.
“Monsieur André and Mademoiselle Bain,” he began. “Your efforts were admirable. However, another week to improve your designs meant that my expectations had risen exceedingly. Expectations which you two, unfortunately, did not satisfy. I wish you good luck in your future ventures.”
Bastien had sunk his teeth down on his bottom lip since the speech had started, ripping a thin piece of flesh every time Monsieur Baudelaire looked their way. Not that he doubted Celine’s efforts. The gown he was wearing was incredible—the feminine version of Harlequin’s costume. It was an elegant recreation of the pink, blue, white, and black checkered two-piece, that looked almost like loungewear, if not for the myriad of tiny details in faux diamonds Celine had hand stitched on it. The pants were loose fitted, fringed around the hemline with black tulle, and so was the shirt, with its white billowing sleeves. And at every point where the rhombuses of the pattern connected, there was a studded gem that caught the light whenever Bastien moved.
Celine said it would fit his playful personality perfectly. Monsieur Baudelaire had loved the idea, including the audacious switch to pants that gave the impression of a skirt.
In the distance, a door opened and closed. Anxiously, Bastien cast a glance down the line, noticing the two empty spaces between Coco and Franz and their models.
“I had a feeling I would see you four make it to the very end,” Monsieur Baudelaire addressed Celine, Franz, Coco, and Elise with satisfaction. “I hope you make it even more difficult for me to decide who gets to leave next.”
Nervous chuckles filled the hall. Bastien felt Celine’s hand seize his abruptly, holding it like a lifeline. Hiding a smile, he closed his fingers over hers.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You will win.”
Coco and Elise were going to be a challenge. Even Franz who liked to play it safe was bound to pull off something equally striking. But Celine was better. When Bastien had seen her designs that night at Folies-Bergère it had come as a surprise. Celine LeBeau: the girl whose face was on the front page of every fashion magazine wanted to be a designer herself.
Now Bastien wished he had taken her dream and this competition more seriously. He’d been too stirred up by Jacques and his grandfather to focus on what he and Celine were doing. All the gowns and the patterns and the days spent at the studio up in the attic had passed through him without Bastien even registering any of it. Until the conversation he’d had with Claude Baudelaire.
“How do you know?” Celine asked, removing him from his thoughts.
“I have an inkling,” he said. “If there is one person who can impress Monsieur Baudelaire into handing over the keys to his fashion house, it’s you. And if that fails, you can charm him. You managed to charmmeinto being your pin cushion.”
She frowned. “I thought it was my talent that convinced you.”
Bastien pinched her chin. “Your pretty face might have done most of the work.”
Celine nudged an elbow into his ribs.
“You should really learn how to take a compliment,” he gritted through his teeth, massaging his side. “But I mean it. You are the best I’ve seen so far.”
He had returned to the mansion last night to look for the keys to his mother’s atelier; a space three stories high, with the boutique on the first floor and his mother’s personal studio on the second and the third. Monsieur Baudelaire’s suggestion had set deep roots in his mind, unwilling to relent when Bastien had tried not to think of it, to the point of turning into a hyper-fixation. He had never been this excited over something that wasn’t a new car model or a burlesque club Juliana had newly discovered. He had even planned out the new look for the House—the name, the style it would offer, the colours he wanted on the outside of the building—including the designer he wanted to work with. Because barring Claude’s regard for her, Celine was the only person whose style Bastien trusted. He adored that little rebellious side of her that liked to cut the hem of the skirt a few centimetres shorter.
Although…it had occurred to him that she could turn down his proposal. He had to be realistic; they weren’t the best of friends, and working together long term would either end in carnage or another kiss—out of which, the latter was preferable—but Bastien didn’t want to reopen the studio alone, without a designer. Without Celine. He had grown accustomed to driving to the Latin Quarter, a bag of food in his arms, watching he work until she was finished with a design. He wanted to keep up the routine, if she were to say yes.
He glanced at her, wanting to pry into her thoughts, but Celine was focused on Monsieur Baudelaire.
“There will be no specific themes for your penultimate challenge,” he was saying. “Rely on your inspirations and the things you love, and present me your interests rendered in fabric. I wish you all good luck.”
The rustle of movement possessed the hall. Monsieur Baudelaire headed up to his office while everyone else returned to their stations to pack up for the day. Only Celine stayed behind.
There was something about her disposition that made Bastien nervous. She had fixed her eyes upon a thread on the floor, staring at it blankly.
“Are you still thinking about the competition?”
Celine nodded. “Assuming we don’t win,” she said soberly, “what happens then? You will still need money.”
