Begrudgingly, Celine took his hand, and didn’t let go, even as he struggled to unlock the door with his free one. She was being ridiculous, but this place was peculiar, even for him.
“How come you own a key?”
“All part of the surprise,” he said as he jingled the handle until the door gave way and swung inwards.
A cheerful little bell welcomed them inside. The entrance was only a small welcoming hall with two tall lamps layered in dust that flanked another door. It looked no different than a storefront vestibule. Bastien unlocked the second door, andwhatever Celine had expected to greet her, it was definitely not glass displays and racks of clothes. He let go of her hand and, in three quick strides, crossed the room to turn on a light switch. Power sizzled through the ceiling.
It was a boutique, she realised belatedly, all cream marble walls and floors, with gilded accents decorating the corners. Mirrors hung on the walls like paintings, framed in swirling, brass Ss. The lamps overhead were tulip-shaped. There was even an in house elevator at the corner, its iron door patterned with whiplash lines. The whole room was an ode to Art Nouveau.
“Is this…” Celine trailed off.
A facade of tall, newspaper-covered windows faced the street outside. Mannequins were displayed before each one, covered with a white sheet to protect the dresses from the dust and what little sun pierced through the newspapers.
“Welcome to House of Reneau,” Bastien said. “Or at least, the cobweb version of it.”
“I—” Celine was utterly stupefied. She had only ever seen the outside of it, back when she was still a little girl, too young to go in and try any of the gowns. And then Adalene had passed, the boutique had closed, and Celine had only the magazines to flip through and gaze at the designs.
Not knowing where to look, she proceeded towards the first rack of dresses her eyes landed on and tugged at the white sheet. It came off with a flutter of dust motes, revealing five designs of sparkling gold and lapis lazuli beaded gowns. Delicately, Celine touched one of the gowns, weighing the fabric on her fingers. The pattern appeared familiar…
“Is this where you got the Cleopatra dress?” she asked, squinting at him.
Bastien scratched the back of his neck, joining her. “It was on short notice. Although I had to make a few adjustments to it. Fit it more to your style.”
“Bastien Ménard made me a dress just to carry out his evil plan?” Celine exaggerated a scandalised gasp. “Your mischief-making is unmatched, Monsieur.”
She could hardly believe she had been wearing one of Adalene Reneau’s designs, let alone one refashioned by her son.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, then tugged at her wrist. Celine followed, head thrown back in admiration, wanting to take in as much as she could of the boutique.
“Wasn’t that the whole purpose of bringing me here?” she inquired while Bastien tried to get the elevator going. “To surprise me?”
“My skill on the sewing machine wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The swirling iron door slid open and they entered. Bastien pressed a brass button that read 2 in elegant calligraphy. Despite the disuse, the elevator operated smoothly. “This is.”
A little belldinged. The iron door opened to the second floor, entirely occupied by working stations. Floor to ceiling racks of fabric rolls and ribbons covered one entire wall. A cabinet of buttons and gems stood near a corner, while the other was taken up by a low shelf of journals and sketchbooks.
Celine’s heels echoed loudly on the coral tiles as she neared one of the stations. The needle in the sewing machine glinted under the lights. Her eyes snapped to Bastien. “Is this your mother’s studio?”
“Was,” he corrected quietly. “It was her private atelier. Whenever she wanted to create something, she would come up to the second floor while the customers shopped downstairs.”
Celine tried to stifle her excitement, unable to determine what Bastien was feeling at the moment, but his disposition revealed nothing. Ever the unfazed, he simply leaned against the elevator door. So Celine remained transfixed, her arms taut at her sides as she buzzed with the impulse to run around the entireexpanse of the floor, squealing at the thought of being in Adalene Reneau’s studio.
She, Celine LeBeau, was standing in Adalene Reneau’s studio!
When she looked over at Bastien again, she found him frowning. “I understand it’s not in its best shape and there’s probably a resident spider somewhere around, but I expected a little more excitement from you.”
“She worked here!” Celine finally let out. “She actually worked right here!”
“Actually,” Bastien pointed at the other side of the room, “she worked over there. Better lighting.”
Squealing, Celine rushed to the sewing machine, planted her palms on the table and let out a string of barely legible praises.
“Is that supposed to be an indication of excitement?”
“Are you kidding me?” She shot her arm forward, displaying her fingers as they trembled with amazement. “Look! This is the stuff of dreams!”
Bastien chuckled. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Because I want to reopen the studio.”
Celine’s arm slackened at her side. “You—really?”
