Bastien cocked his head to the side. “Have I convinced you yet?”
Peering at the designs again, at the artistry and technique Adalene had put into them, a sudden tightness seized her chest. What he was asking of her—it was intimidating. House of Reneau had been revered back then. Celine glanced at him carefully.
“Bas—all of this is such a dream, but—you forget I’ve had to sew in secret from my mother. I’ve never had any guidance. My only professional experience is this competition, and—and even now Claude keeps correcting me on things. What if I fail to meet the expectations and I ruin this place’s name and reputation?What if I run out of ideas?” Celine covered her mouth as a gasp escaped her. “Mon Dieu!What if I do that to Maison Baudelaire as well? What if we win and I run that place to the ground?”
“Hey,” Bastien said, genuine concern flickering in his eyes. Taking her hand, he pressed it between his. “I didn’t bring you here so you could second guess yourself. The very fact that you have come this far in the competition speaks more about your ingenuity than anything else.”
“What if it was just luck?”
“It was not,” Bastien insisted. “Otherwise I would have taken you to a casino and made some money out of your luck.”
Celine frowned at that. He grinned.
“If you don’t want to believe Claude when he says you are talented, then believe me.” Bastien’s hand tightened around hers. “No one else could do this place justice, Celine. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t believe in you.”
The gesture grounded her. This was real. He was serious. As his words washed over her, Celine allowed herself to entertain the notion. She would have her own fashion house, her own studio. She wouldn’t have to hide her supplies under her bed or behind her closet or lie to her mother that the dresses she had made herself were from the store. She wouldn’t have to sew in her grandmother’s dingy attic anymore.
She would finally be free to do what she had always longed to do.
Bastien was still holding her hand, though he seemed to realise it the same time as she did, and released her fingers.
“You don’t have to say yes right away. I know I sprang this up on you quite abruptly.” He cleared his throat. “And besides, there’s a lot of sprucing up to do before we can even open this place. We will need to get a few mechanics to rewind the sewing machines, of course, and someone with a ladder to get rid of all the cobwebs, and…”
Celine let him go off on a tangent. Bastien was too excited to be shot down by thoughts of funds—which neither of them had to fix all of the things he was listing off, not without winning Claude Baudelaire’s contest.
She moved away from the station and drifted farther into the studio. Unlike Maison Baudelaire, whose main hall had been fashioned to look like a designing room for the sake of the competition, this place looked lived in.Loved. Celine found a cork-board with magazine headlines ripped and pinned onto it, and a few yellowing photographs of Adalene in front of her own boutique. She was beautiful, Celine thought, with her little dimple on the right cheek, matching Bastien’s. The rest of the papers were pages from her sketchbook, a child’s jagged drawing of a red motorcar, and a picture of Bastien when he was younger, with a star sticker on one corner. Celine smiled to herself. She tried imagining Bastien young and half his current height, running around this place and dreaming about fabrics and the new line coming out. A golden memory prodded at her: a rainy evening, her and Francine walking back from the park, the drizzle peppering and rolling down the sides of her tiny umbrella, a shiny boutique at the end of the street with warm light pouring from the windows and onto the wet pavement. Celine had never thought that while she hopped eagerly across the storefront, admiring the gowns from outside, Bastien had been inside, doing the same.
One of the pinned designs caught her attention then. Pink silk and glittering mesh pieces were clipped to it.
“I remember this,” Bastien said, joining her in front of the board. He tugged at the design. His eyes sparkled with awe as the paper came off. “There was a summer party,La Mille et Deuxième Nuits—The Thousand and Second Night—that Paul Poiret was throwing, to debut his new line. My mother had worked on it with him and they had invited all the designers tosee the clothes. I remember being fed tons of ice cream the day before while she hauled me along to shop for new fabrics. She wore this dress that night…”
His words trailed off; his smile fell.
“What happened then?” Celine asked. She hadn’t noticed how close they were standing again, until her knuckles brushed his. He didn’t draw his hand away. And neither did Celine. Timidly, she moved her wrist and slipped her fingers through his, offering what comfort she could.
Bastien kept looking at the dress. “Grandfather wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. He never liked that my mother wanted to work, rather than be a useless socialite. He didn’t care, even when she became well-known amongst the other couturiers. My father would never pick her side either. And I…could do very little.” His thumb was digging into the paper. Releasing a shaky breath, he pinned the design back onto the board. “I don’t know. There were a lot of fights back then.”
Celine didn’t want to prod at any past wounds, so she dropped the subject. But the words tasted of vehemence as she tried to swallow them down. She had always known Monsieur Ménard to be a harsh man; it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, he had disowned his own grandson.
She was staring vacantly at the cork-board when something caught her attention from the opposite side of the room: Bastien had left her side and was dragging a fabric roll across the floor. Curiously, he spread out the sheet, then kicked off his shoes and laid down on his back, closing his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Visualising,” he said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. “Join me, it’s peaceful down here.”
Celine hesitated, but seeing as there was little else she could do, she unfastened the straps of her Mary Janes and sat beside him. “What now?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just close your eyes and try to imagine your perfect life. My mother used to tell me this place was magical when I was younger. Her dreams had come true in here. Who knows, ours might too.”
Celine peered at his profile. Dark eyelashes swept up from under his lids, turning gold in the reflection of the lights above them. So did his skin when he rustled in place and the sequins in the fabric started casting fractured light beams on his cheek.
“Do you miss her a lot?” Celine inquired softly.
Bastien kept his eyes closed, waiting a moment before answering, “Every day. But I have this place and the memories it holds. It is the only belonging of hers that my grandfather couldn’t have a say in because she left it in my name. Although, he did suggest I sell it when he cut me off.”
It would have unquestionably paid for all of Bastien’s lavish expenses, and then some. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Celine said, more to herself than for him to hear. “I really am, Bas.”
The fabric rustled as he stirred. “Why don’t you sound it?”
