“All ten of you have been selected as the best young designers to have submitted your works. I was captivated by your fresh ideas, as I hope the impression will remain the same during the ten weeks that will follow.”
He moved his wrist then, issuing Gabriel to approach his side. “This is my assistant, Gabriel Delon. He will be at your disposal at all times and walk you through the competition. For any immediate questions, you will refer to him. Anything more serious, you will come to me.”
Celine wondered if Gabriel had joined Maison Baudelaire only as an assistant or if he’d wanted to become more. Perhaps he did both, though he appeared no older than a few years their senior.
“Now that that’s all settled, let us jump onto the competition,” Monsieur Baudelaire announced. “Each round you will be given a challenge to be completed within a week. I want all of you to make use of the fabrics here, as well as to study the patterns. That is to say, the promise of knowledge and the possibility of that knowledge being taken away faster than it was granted, should prompt you to work harder.”
The silence was thick enough to be tangible; anxiety was skipping through the empty spaces in the crowd, lodging itself between each contestant. Celine was confident in her skills, and yet, the thought that her journey could end on the first round caused her to shuffle fretfully in place.
Bastien must have noticed, because he drifted closer so that their arms were touching, and lowered his mouth to her ear, whispering while Monsieur Baudelaire spoke in the background.
“Don’t bite your nails like that. And stop fidgeting. The others will think you’re an amateur.”
Celine dropped her hand to her side.
“Doyouthink that?” she asked, unsure why she sought his validation. It wasn’t as though Bastien had any other options but to trust her abilities.
“Why do you suppose I agreed to be your model?”
“Do you really want me to remind you?”
“The prize money is not all of it,” Bastien said. “I peeked inside your older sketchbooks to see if you truly had talent. I wasn’t about to make a deal if you were going to lose on the first round.”
“And the verdict?” Celine gritted through her teeth.
“You really seem to have an inkling for this.”
Now that she knew he was Adalene Reneau’s son, she could fully trust his judgement. Returning her attention to Monsieur Baudelaire, she perked a little straighter at the sound of an echoing voice, coming from the group opposite them.
“And the rules?”
The question produced a strange effect throughout the room, like none of the decor and sewing machines existed and the voice bounced from one wall to another. Celine followed its direction until her gaze met a set of twins at the end of the line. Their dazzling green eyes and matching upturned lips reminded her of Milady when she was silently brewing mischief.
“What restrictions do we have?”
It was eerie hearing them speak at the same time, missing each other’s thought only by the fraction of a second. At her side, Bastien was cringing.
“My dears,” Monsieur Baudelaire said as he faced them. “You are gravely mistaken if you think there are rules in the fashion world. Only keep in mind to work fast, finish first, and keep your sketchbooks closer to your chest than your heart.”
In short, mistake no one for a friend. This was a competition, Celine reminded herself. There could only be rivals.
“So you are saying that plagiarism is what,” another contestant derided, “simply allowed?”
Celine recognised him at first sight. Franz Olivier was already a known couturier. He had been a prodigy in fashion when he was younger, but had slowly fallen behind his contemporaries in the last few years. His atelier was made up of only one floor and three workers, whereas the rest of the big fashion houses in Paris were, simply, more. For him to join a competition such as this…
Celine wasn’t intimidated. But she understood that Franz had come to win, and that her experience with haute couture or even ready-to-wear fashion was a grain of rice compared to his.
“Unfortunately, or fortunately, it is up to you to decide that,” Monsieur Baudelaire replied. “There are no rules for plagiarising your fellow contestants’ work either. Be cunning if you must, but you better pray that you won’t get caught. Especially in the long run. However”—he thudded his cane down on the floor for emphasis—“trailblazing designs are the ones that go down in history, Monsieur Olivier. Everything else that comes after and resembles it in any way is, simply put, unoriginal. A depressing replica. The creation of someone who has run out of ideas and softens the term imitation by renaming it inspiration. I reckon all of you are here to introduce something that will rattle the foundations of the fashion industry, rather than steal from it. At least, that’s what I expect.”
Silence settled in the room again.
“If that is all…” Monsieur Baudelaire trailed off, expectantly. Everyone remained quiet. “I will assume we are understood. Onto the first task then.”
With a brisk tilt of his head, he hinted towards an empty wall space where a white magnetic board was hanging underneath a yellow light. It reminded Celine of a chess board; their names were written across it horizontally, while each task that awaited them—yet to be determined—was positioned vertically throughout the duration of ten weeks.
“This will serve as your tracker.” Monsieur Baudelaire explained. “When a contestant passes his or her assignment, their magnet will be moved on to the next. If they fail, the magnet will remain where it is while they pack their supplies from their station. Only three contestants will make it to the final round and out of them only one will win.”
Celine nodded slowly along with the rest.
