“Monsieur Olivier, Mademoiselle Sartre, and Mademoiselle LeBeau—you have made it to the next round,” Monsieur Baudelaire said with a smile wide enough that showed all his teeth. “I am proud to witness that there’s very little that bars the flow of your ambition. To say nothing of your imagination. From start to finish, your techniques and designs match those of the most revered designers in Paris. I must say, I am very proud to have been your mentor these past few weeks. Congratulations, because you three have made it to the final round.”
A solemn wave ofthank yous echoed throughout the hall.
“Your last challenge will be to overview all the designs you have competed with so far. Judge them as you see fit, but at the end of the week I expect you to present me a curated collection. Each of you will be provided ten models for the ten gowns you have designed for this competition, including the five sketches from your first challenge. Once he is done modelling, Gabriel will elaborate further…”
Celine was only half-listening, until she saw the group slowly disperse, realising that Monsieur Baudelaire’s speech had finished. There was an absence at her side, and craning her neck, she realised that Gabriel had moved away too.
Celine found him at her station, or rather only his silhouette behind the dressing screen as he changed into his own clothes, and waited until he finished to approach with her questions.
“What exactly did my model say about not being here today?”
Gabriel squinted at her while struggling with his tie. “Whatever lovers’ spat you two seem to have, I don’t want to get in the middle.”
Rolling her eyes, Celine slapped his hands away and straightened the two ends of the tie. “Let me do that.” She looped it around once. Twice. “And we are not lovers.”
“Please,” Gabriel scoffed.
“Please what?”
“Maybe you’re not that in love with him, but he certainly is.”
Celine sniffled. “Since you seem to know so much about Bastien, why don’t you tell me why he wasn’t here today?”
“I told you,” Gabriel huffed. “I don’t know. Claude took the letter before I could read it.”
Celine glanced at the office on the second floor, pursing her lips. She waited until everyone had left before ascending the iron-wrought staircase, Gabriel at her heel, and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Monsieur Baudelaire said from the other side.
Any other day Celine would have raved over being in his office and seeing the design board behind his desk. Today, however, she noticed very little upon entering.
“Gabriel,” he said, looking up at his assistant from a set of designs propped before him. “Good, I was meaning to—Mademoiselle LeBeau,” he added, surprised.
“I told her not to come up here,” Gabriel interjected.
“It’s fine,” Monsieur Baudelaire said. He turned to Celine. “Everything alright?”
Celine had prepared a profound string of apologies for Bastien’s absence as she was climbing the stairs, but Monsieur Baudelaire interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “It wasn’t your fault he wasn’t here today. There is no need to apologise, Mademoiselle LeBeau.”
“Still—” She looked down at her hands. “Thank you—for not disqualifying my team.”
“I do have rules, but the designer is allowed to choose their model as they please.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I simply failed to imagine the model deciding to quit.”
Celine stilled. “Quit?”
“Monsieur Reneau had made the decision to quit the competition in his letter, as long as it did not affect you.”
Quit. Confusion grew quick, a hot and horrible wave within her. How could he quit now when they had only one more round to go? This made no sense.
The headache started gnawing at her temples again. Celine couldn’t sort out any of her thoughts anymore past the need for a large glass of water and a handful of Aspirin.
Monsieur Baudelaire regarded her thoughtfully. “You didn’t know.”
She caught herself staring blankly ahead, her fingers falling on her watch. “No, I…I did not,” she uttered quickly, pushing down on her chagrin. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he said. “Regardless, you have made it to the final round. Gabriel will be more than happy to assist you in Monsieur Reneau’s place.”
Gabriel looked liked would rather run through the streets naked. He produced a grumble in protest which was rendered quiet by a curt glance Monsieur Baudelaire sent his way.
