“Are you really going to disobey him on this one?” Jacques asked, plain curiosity lacing his voice. “He sounded pretty serious that day, considering he’s never kicked you out before.”
“Worry about your own problems, brother,” Bastien cut him off sharply. He didn’t want Jacques’s charity; he didn’t want his brother’s…whatever this was. “I have it solved.”
“How exactly?” Jacques switched his bags from one hand to the other, pointing at the storefronts. “To me it looks like you’re simply biding time until Grandfather backtracks. And I don’t think it will happen this time. So just accept my—”
“I’d rather not.Salut,” Bastien interrupted, turning away from Jacques and striding down the street.
“Ihadto tell him about your party,” Jacques shouted over the frantic pandemonium of Rue Cambon.
Bastien didn’t stop.
“Don’t you think he would have noticed ten thousand francs missing from his accounts?”
A hot flush of irritation overcame him. Despite his resolve to leave, Bastien made a show of slowing his pace. They were a good distance away from the fashion house that he could afford turning around. “Don’tyouthink you could have taken my side for once?”
“That party was obscene, Bas. Your whole lifestyle is obscene. You have to see that.”
“Je m’en fous, Jacques.”
“Bas…” his brother sounded exasperated. Good.
Bastien lifted his hand up in a rude gesture and continued around the block, tracing his way back to Maison Baudelaire before that vein on Celine’s forehead popped.
• • •
Inside the hall, Celine released an agitated breath and gulped down another.
Monsieur Baudelaire had been walking through their stations for half an hour now, disappointment settled deeply into his face. He hadn’t reached her and Bastien’s cubicle yet, but there was only Coco as the sixth in line, then Celine.
“This is all you managed in four hours, Monsieur Clair?” he asked, flipping through the three pages Léo Clair had pinned on his board. It should have been five. Monsieur Baudelaire sucked in his cheeks. “I should be grateful, I suppose, that I didn’t ask you to sew any of these otherwise you would have shown me fabric rolls. I expected more. Pack up your station.”
Celine’s heart dropped to her feet at the blunt dismissal. So far, there had only been onemagnifiquethat had escaped his lips when he had seen Franz’s design. The rest had received bland remarks.
He moved on to Coco. “Ah, Mademoiselle Jones. Or Miss Jones?” he added in English. “Which one do you prefer?”
Coco shrugged—a charming gesture on the arch of her shoulders. “I’m not picky.”
“Let’s see then, Miss Jones.” Tilting his head, Monsieur Baudelaire hummed to himself. “Your looks seem to have a very…fantastical style, though I would suggest experimenting with fewer layers—let the main patterns shine on their own. Overall, impressive.”
Celine held her breath when he approached her next, his cane clicking with the rhythm of her heart.
“Mademoiselle LeBeau, I see you have accommodated the silhouette of your framework to a male one, that’s good. That flapper style will help you shape the bodice better when you move on to sewing.” Celine only nodded in acknowledgment, too stunned at hearing the word flapper being used as a compliment. “Although I see no influences of the traditional.”
“I don’t like clinging to the past while everything else is moving forward,” she explained, tightening her grip on the pencil she had been twirling between her fingers since the evaluation had started. In the pin-drop quiet that had settled over the room, she could hear it splinter under her anxious grip. “I might risk being swallowed up by history before I make my own.”
Monsieur Baudelaire dipped his chin in approval. “In that case, I hope you hold tight to that spirit until the very end. These looks are exquisite.”
At last, Celine loosened the anxious breath she’d been holding.
“Thank you for today, everyone,” he said, facing the others. “You can pack your supplies and get ready for the second challenge. See you next week.”
“That went well,” Bastien said, manifesting by her side after Monsieur Baudelaire retreated to his office.
Celine was suddenly glad she wasn’t doing this competition alone. Bastien’s presence, however unconventional and, at times, irritating, was a surprising comfort. “What did you think?” she asked.
“Brutal contest.”
“Seems like Monsieur Baudelaire doesn’t limit himself to fashion when it comes to being sharp.”
