Monsieur Baudelaire called suddenly, “Gabriel, find me all the papers. We shall confirm this little loophole and if it stands true”—his eyes darted from Bastien to Celine—“then I see no reason why you cannot enter, Mademoiselle.”
• • •
To Celine’s relief, the loophole did, in fact, exist.
Monsieur Baudelaire ushered them inside and told them to join the other contestants in the main hall. Celine slowed her pace and took in the long corridors of Maison Baudelaire. She had only ever been to his boutiques—all of them, as though they were a temple of worship—but never inside the actual fashion house. Her breath caught a little in her throat as they passed through the hallways. There were impressive picture frames lining the walls, showcasing designs of the most famous gowns Maison Baudelaire had produced over the years.
She marvelled at the sharp and confident pencil lines of each sketch. There were no wobbles that showed indecision, no faint marks that proved an eraser had been used. There was only talent and precision, and beyond this corridor, she knew, the actual gowns were displayed inside glass cases.
Celine peered over her shoulder to check on Bastien. She still couldn’t get over his lie and the peculiar encounter that had followed between him and Monsieur Baudelaire.
“What was all that out there,maestro?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you tell him your last name was Reneau?”
Bastien, hands hidden in his pockets, only tipped his chin at one of the golden plaques underneath a framed design. Celine’s eyes grazed the engraved name with such curiosity, that she abandoned his side and silently strode towards it.
Adalene Reneau
Celine looked up. The sketch was the first gown she had ever attempted to recreate, before she had started assembling original ones from her own imagination. Adalene Reneau had been her number one idol since she could remember, and now…
Bastien approached with some sort of undefined emotion rippling beneath his features. Celine’s eyes moved from him, to the name written on the plaque, to Bastien again. Realisation settled in. Her hand came up to her mouth.
“You’re—you’re her—”
“Son?” Bastien finished for her, looking bored. “In the flesh, darling.”
Celine’s jaw slacked open. “But—but—how didn’t I know about this?”
She had heard slivers regarding Monsieur Ménard’s previous wife: the woman had passed away when Bastien was still very young. That was when his father remarried—Jacques and Anaïs’s mother. Any additional information about the previous Madame Ménard had never been catered to Celine. She felt a little foolish for not knowing it wastheAdalene Reneau.
Celine peered at Bastien again;reallylooking at him this time, to spot where the resemblance to his mother lay. She knew what Adalene looked like from magazines only, but anyone would have found him a carbon copy of her: the grey eyes, the brown skin, the fashion style. This explained where he had gotten it from.
“I’m sorry,” Celine said, walking back to him. “I didn’t know she was your mother.”
Bastien shrugged. “Why should you?”
“Because…we might be in-laws soon. And we’re partnering in the competition.AndAdalene Reneau has been my idol since I learned how to point at a picture in a magazine and ask ‘Hey, who made this?’. I have catalogues of every collection she has ever designed. I have her sketches framed up on my walls.”
“I know,” Bastien said. “I saw.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you gave Monsieur Baudelaire her last name.”
“A little nepotism never hurts, baby vamp. She studied alongside him at the academy when she was just a few years older than us,” Bastien explained. “And clearly you aren’t the only one who admires her work.” He cleared his throat, hinting at the sketch Claude Baudelaire had framed. “But don’t worry that little head of yours. We didn’t break any rules, so you still made it on your own.”
Footsteps sounded behind them, interrupted here and there by the clicking of a wooden cane.
“You will have time to explore the House later, I promise. Come along now,” Monsieur Baudelaire said, ushering them into a wide hall, all marble floors and a crystal clear glass dome that allowed for proper daylight to enter the chamber and bounce off the walls. “It looks like you two were the last to arrive.”
Celine peered at the direction he was pointing at. Nine other couples lined the main hall, each and every single one of them the same age as Celine and Bastien, give or take a few years.
Celine swallowed back her nerves and situated herself at the end of the row. She still couldn’t believe she was there; showered in all the allure and elegance the fashion world had to offer, all contained in one six storey building. Monsieur Baudelaire faced them shortly after.
“Welcome everyone, to Maison Baudelaire,” he said. “As you know, as all scandal columns have been talking about for the past three months, I am retiring. Hence, Maison Baudelaire isin need of a successor. And since I have none by blood, I would rather choose one by merit.”
A faint murmur of voices issued through the room. Monsieur Baudelaire smiled.
