They both stilled as Monsieur Baudelaire approached. “Mademoiselle LeBeau, Monsieur Reneau. I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Celine said with much more confidence than she felt.
Quickly, Monsieur Baudelaire swept his eyes over the gown. A small, amused smile entered his lips. “I assume you considered the challenge when you picked Monsieur Reneau as your model, no? Your idea is impressive, I quite like the fabric you have chosen for the skirts and the vest. He looks like he’s been draped in veils and reenacting a scene from theArabian Nights—a flapper girl version of it.”
“Thank you—”
“But”—the single utterance was sharp like the snapping of scissors—“you must base it on your given reality for it to make sense.Haute Couturewas made to be worn exclusively by one person alone. Evidently, everything you decide to make during this competition should be only for your model. The gown is incredible, but it does not match your model’s energy. Try something audacious next time.”
Celine felt the rest of his words cut through her vocal cords for she could only dip her chin in understanding. She had never had anyone compliment her designs before, just as she had never had anyone judge them either. To have Claude Baudelaire—the man she had idolised all her life—do both simultaneously had robbed her of all reactions.
Checking the grip on his cane, Monsieur Baudelaire lifted his chin high so everyone could hear his next words. “And this goes for the rest of you, as well,” he said. “You must become masters of your models’ bodies. They are not standard size mannequins. They have preferences, opinions, unique auras. Study them first, then create.”
With that, he moved on to the next contestant.
“Did you hear that?”
Vacantly, Celine inclined her head towards Bastien.
“Shall we plan a day when I show you how to become the master of my body? Or rather,mistress,” he stressed thes-es out, elongating the word.
Swiftly, Celine freed one of the needles from her pincushion and pricked his thigh. Bastien let out a whimper, jumping away from her.
“I think we just solved that problem,” she smiled, satisfied. “Thank you for remaining serious during that inspection.”
He shrugged. “I told you, we’re competing in this together. If you lose, I lose, darling.”
• • •
Their second assignment was to commence at Maison Baudelaire.
“You have presented your designs, granted along with their flaws, but now I need to see your process. Presentation is the last step; you cannot get there without having a sketch in the first place. We will start with that today. Make it elaborate, make it awe-inspiring even in its two dimensional form. That will be all for this challenge.”
“Just the sketch?” One of the contestants wrung her hands together. “Aren’t we supposed to show our knowledge and skill in creating the actual attire?”
Monsieur Baudelaire chuckled softly. “If that was the case, then all those designers you all admire so much would be glued to their sewing machines day in and day out. No, Mademoiselle Jones.
“Technique is important, indeed, how else are you going to teach your apprentices? You won’t be doing all the work yourself if time doesn’t allow it. However, it will beyourfashion house, which means it will beyoursketches you will send off to the tailors. Those drawings that seem so insignificant should be intricate, yet simple enough for the people who will recreate them to understand what the final product ought to look like.
“But if that doesn’t sound convincing, the nine upcoming weeks will be more than sufficient for me to test your abilities in sewing as well.”
“And the eliminated contestant?” Franz cut in. “You didn’t pick one the first round.”
“That wasn’t the first round, Monsieur Olivier,” he replied airily. “This is. And I suggest you apply my corrections, hmm.” He clapped his hands. “Now, Gabriel will explain to you how the challenge will commence. On to your stations. I shall make my rounds and check on your sketches every ten minutes. Give me only your best efforts.”
Letting out a breath of relief, Bastien gathered the skirts of his dress and trailed after Celine. Their new work room was a vast hall where Monsieur Baudelaire had managed to situate ten separated cubicles. Each of them was fashioned with a sewing machine, a desk where each designer would work on their sketches, a folding screen for the models to dress themselves, a mirror, and finally, a mannequin that would wear the design until the challenge was over. Their station was the easiest tolocate since it was equipped with a mannequin whose silhouette was clearly male.
“It’s ironic,” Celine said, running a finger along the surface of her new sewing machine. A body of ivory, with silver swirls that decorated the sides. “All I have ever wanted was to do this in peace, but instead I had to sew in secret and hide my supplies under my bed lest my mother found them. And now that I am actually being asked to sew freely, all I want to do is hide.”
Bastien cast her a concerned look. “I thought you were braver than this. Don’t tell me that Celine LeBeau will let nine mediocre couturiers scare her away from her dreams.”
The phrasemediocre couturiersdrew a few piercing gazes their way, especially from Franz. Celine wasn’t amused either.
Before she could say something, Gabriel sprung up on them, drawing supplies and a wide bulletin board propped under his arm.
“The challenge is simple,” he informed. “You need to render five different looks, then, making use of the fabrics room, you will gather all the samples you need, starting from cloth, to buttons, to ribbons, and even threads. You should pin everything to the board once you’re done. The evaluation will take place in four hours. I suggest you work fast and attentively.”
“Thank you, I will,” Celine said and spread out the supplies on the table.
