Gabriel scrutinised her. Consciously, Celine brushed a hand down her dress. It wasn’t the one she had made for her birthday. That dress remained discarded on the floor of the attic, still soggy, still carrying a whole night of foolishness in its folds. Bastien had left a clean one draped on the folding screen for her, along with a note saying that nothing had happened—even though she had woken up practically naked—and that he was sorry. And had disappeared. He had even abandoned his motorcar in front of the building, with green leaves shaken bythe rain pasted all over the hood and the interior still leaking water through the outline of the doors.
“Well…” Gabriel clicked his tongue. “Your model has sent notice he will not be able to come today. So I will—”
Celine stopped him. “He has sent what?”
“He had stuffed an envelope beneath the door for Claude. I am not privy to his reasons. Only that I will be your model for today,” he added with a scowl he didn’t bother to hide. “Hurry up now.”
Celine allowed herself to be ushered inside and straight to her station, where her design stood draped over a mannequin. She was still trying to catch her breath by the time Gabriel stepped up on the platform, waiting for her to fit the gown to his measurements. To her relief, he was of the same build as Bastien, though slightly lacking in height, and she only had to tailor the hem of the gown for it to fit him perfectly. Celine moved through the routine of fitting the dress mechanically. For the first time since she had stepped foot inside Maison Baudelaire, her thoughts were anywhere but on the contest. Because after all that talk of “I care about the contest” and “I care about you” and “Let’s open my mother’s studio together”, Bastien had walked out on her. Again.
Celine’s recollections during those first few minutes of waking up had been a blur of lights, cheshire smiles, and stairs.Nothing that would reveal anything. Whatever it was that she had taken must have been a hell of a drink to conjure up Wonderland. Then Celine had peered at herself, at the gleaming watch clasped delicately around her wrist, and the night before had pieced itself together, every painful, awkward event after another.
Was the idea of loving her so awful that Bastien couldn’t bring himself to show up today?
“Ow!” Gabriel exclaimed. “You nicked me!”
Celine blinked. “I am sorry,” she said, and placed the needle back on the pin cushion at her wrist, pushing it all the way through that she nicked herself in the process. The pain did not register.
“Mademoiselle LeBeau?” Gabriel called, sounding panicked. “You’re bleeding.”
“Huh?” With a gasp, Celine released the needle and ripped off the pin cushion entirely. There was a little dot welling with blood on the back of her wrist.
“Get the handkerchief from my pocket.” Gabriel pointed at the clothes he had folded over her work table. Celine did as he instructed, dabbing at the blood with a shy “Merci,” on her lips. The soft violet silk turned a dark red.
“I would have expectedyouto be more mindful,” Gabriel chided. But he didn’t ask if something was wrong. Celine wagered Gabriel did not care, and frankly, she wouldn’t be willing to talk even if he had asked. The topic wasn’t an easy one to explain without a hefty folder of family drama and a family tree to accompany it.
Shaking off the stupor, Celine checked the gown one last time, before getting up from her crouch. “I’m done.”
Gabriel stepped down from the platform quite gracefully, to her surprise. He hadn’t seemed pleased at the idea of being her model, but he appeared to like the design now that it was on him.
“No thoughts?” she asked, if only to distract herself from the absence at her side. It was the penultimate round—even though it didn’t feel right without Bastien—and Celine wasn’t going to throw away all the effort she had put in this competition simply because her model did not want to participate in it anymore.
“I’m assuming you were in a better mood when you made this. It is flawless… And surprisingly comfortable,” Gabriel relented along with a smile. “Considering it is haute couture.”
“Beauty doesn’t always have to be painful,” Celine offered. “Not all flowers have thorns, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Franz, Coco, and Elise, along with their models, had set up in the main hall awaiting Monsieur Baudelaire’s judgement when Celine and Gabriel joined them. Celine’s cheeks flamed up. She could feel every eye on her, scanning her from head to toe. Then scanning Gabriel.
She smoothed out her dress again.
Monsieur Baudelaire clicked his cane. “Now that we are all here, let us begin.”
There were only four designers left, each presenting their wildest creation, per the challenge’s requirements. Celine started picking at the nail polish on her thumb as she half listened to Monsieur Baudelaire judge Elise Sartre’s gargoyle inspired gown. Elana looked like an eerie marble statue in it, though undeniably striking. Her dark skin contrasted beautifully with the grey fabric. Celine’s eyes roamed the rest of the designs rather vacantly. Franz had gone with a butterfly theme, with carefully crafted wings of fabric extending from the back of his model. Over the weeks, he appeared to have removed the shackles of the old ideas that were holding him back. As for herself, Celine had prepared a house of cards inspired gown for Bastien—now Gabriel—to model, while Coco with her whimsical tastes had chosenA Midsummer Night’s Dreamfor her theme. And while Celine liked it, she worried Coco might have gone a tad overboard with the layers. Some of the patchwork was falling apart, and Celine crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping Monsieur Baudelaire wouldn’t notice the flaw.
When he approached their team, Celine became alert.
“At this rate, Mademoiselle LeBeau,” he said, “I fear men will abandon their tailors and line up to get their hands on one of your gowns. You’ve gotten even Gabriel to like it. Amazing job.”
Unamused, Gabriel pressed his lips into a thin, sour line. Celine only nodded in appreciation; her focus narrowed on gouging the couturier’s expression concerning Bastien’s letter, but he remained ever the stoic, his attention moving on to Coco’s design.
“Miss Jones, I regret saying this, truly, since your designs are the embodiment of Haute Couture, considering the extravagance you build them with. But we evaluate each designer by the current round, not their past record, and you weren’t in your best form today. I would have expected poor needlework on your first challenge, not your seventh.”
He paused for a moment, and then, regretfully, pursed his lips in dissatisfaction.
“Do believe me when I say it is exceedingly difficult to disqualify one out of you four, however these are the rules. I hope you will still work hard to get yourself that fashion house in the future, Miss Jones.”
Celine’s heart shivered in her chest. She tried to catch Coco’s eye, but her friend only winked and mouthed good luck, before she shook Monsieur Baudelaire’s hand, thanking him for his advice and criticism, and slowly returned to her station to clear it out, chin held high.
