“I know she’s dating him because her parents are forcing her to, and Jacques is dating her because he loves kissing grandfather’s—”
“That ought to be none of your business,” she interrupted. “I know you don’t want my advice, but I suggest you help her out, get your money, and forget about your little squabble altogether.”
Bastien couldn’t. The issue didn’t lie only with his recent banishment—his strife with Jacques ran deeper than that. Juliana was right, he should just focus on paying back his grandfather and return to his old life as quickly as possible. But he couldn’t disregard this golden opportunity just yet. Ever since Jacques and Celine’s relationship had been announced, Grandfather had relied on their union more than he liked to admit. And if Jacques were to fail him, then Bastien wouldn’t be the wayward son anymore.
Still, Bastien was careful enough not to fill his head with lies. Celine wasn’t going to yield that easily; she wasn’t stupid. So where was the harm in using her for a little game? He simply wanted to see Jacques act out in front of everyone, while Bastien leaned back and enjoyed the show.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I’ll stick to my plan for a little while longer.” Juliana’s shoulders drooped in defeat, though she had expected this answer. “There are nine weeks until the final round of the competition. Hearts might change.”
“Yes,” she mused. “They might. But be careful, Bastien. You are waging yours too.”
Bastien eyed her wearily. It sounded too much like a premonition. He didn’t like it at all.
Then again, what were the chanceshisheart would be the one to change?
Chapter 9
The First Task
“They are not particularly happy with us, don’t you think?”
Celine had started off on the wrong foot, that much was clear. The extent of it, however, wasn’t. All morning the other contestant had been walking right past them while she helped Bastien into the gown she had sewn. No one had bothered to greet them, though they kept chatting with one another just fine.
Bastien cast a passing glance across the room, assessing. “Speak for yourself, baby vamp. My presence is more than desired.”
Celine peered at where his attention was glued to, only to find another model winking at him. It was one of the twins—Elana Sartre. Her sister Elise was narrowing her eyes at them, not at all appeased. She gave her twin a little nudge and Elana moved her gaze away.
Celine sighed. “At least one of us is liked.”
She was used to stares. The guests at her mother’s parties, the men in the street, the girls in the cabarets—none of them shied away from seizing her from head to toe. But not here. No one was staring at her clothes, not when half of the contestants were dressed as flappers or something adjacent themselves. No, these glances were different. Hostile. Being granted admission despite not having a female model like everyone else hadn’t been welcomed by the other contestants. Or so Celine had heard when Franz Olivier had complained to his model. It wasn’t that shehad expected friendly smiles during the competition but this was a bit outrageous.
“All right.” She tied off the bow on Bastien’s hip. “Take a look.”
He did as bidden, giving himself a once over in the mirror, twisting at the waist to inspect the back.
“What do you think?”
“I lookfoxy.”
Celine hadn’t expected to hear that.
“Foxy?” she echoed. The dress ought to have given the impression of legends with a modern twist. The bodice was a beautiful mango orange shade—silk, but patterned with a golden star that stretched from the middle of his chest and spread outwards. The fabric looked almost like brocade, only it was lighter and airier and perfect for the mellow days of spring. Celine had attached a cape-like piece to the back, made out of gossamer-thin fabric and studded with gold bugle beads. The skirts too matched the cape. She had arranged them in two loosely pleated layers reaching Bastien’s knees—longer on the back, shorter on the front—and shorter still on the part where she had pinched the fabric up to his left hip, decorating the spot with a ginormous satin bow.
It looked elegant, yet glamorous at the same time. Maybe a little too soft for Bastien’s bold personality, and definitely not something she would have called—
“Foxy…” Celine repeated pensively, scrunching her nose at his reflection.
“Me, darling.Ilook foxy. The dress on the other hand…it is lovely and”—he moved his hips around—“airy. Not really my style.”
“How would you know? You’ve never worn a dress before.”
Bastien tossed her a flat look. “Did you forget who raised me?”
Celine pressed her lips, miffed. He was right about that.
“Let’s hope Monsieur Baudelaire likes it,” she said, a little disappointed, and helped him down from the platform. “And stop bending like that, you look like your spine has snapped in half.”
Though she had to give him some credit for doing his best to create the illusion of a feminine figure. It wasn’t only Celine’s job to create a stunning piece, but Bastien’s too, to know how to model it properly.
