“Am I not the one person who vexes you the most?” he asked.
“Do I really need to answer that? I thought it was already established as fact.”
Attentively, Bastien ran his thumb along the soft skin of her wrist, giving her something else to focus on while he held her hand steady.
“And what is the one thing that occupies your thoughts at that moment?” he went on, keeping her attention fastened on working through an answer.
Her lips quirked. “The thought of strangling you with my gloves does cross my mind a lot.”
“There you go. All those moments are mine. Every second you spend thinking about killing me and quarrelling with me—they belong to me, Celine darling.” He gave himself a little push on his knees until he got closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “In those seconds, simply put, you aremine.”
He could see she was already getting enraged by the way her brows furrowed and her nose twitched excitedly at the prospect of making true on her threats. Without giving her another second to process what was happening, Bastien pinched the thickest end of the needle and slipped it clean out of her finger. Then immediately pressed a cotton pad over the wound to stop the bleeding.
“First of all…” Celine broke off. Any further protests died on her lips when she glanced down at her hand. Her expressions flitted from anger to relief to confusion. “Wha—”
“Would you look at that? It’s gone,” Bastien interrupted. “And you didn’t even scream.”
Celine sniffled, still staring at her finger. “I reckon you would have enjoyed that.”
“In different circumstances, I would have,” Bastien hummed. “But not when you’re in pain.” Releasing his grip on the handkerchief, he wrapped the cloth around her finger, tying it in a bow and giving it a small kiss. “There, that ought to heal it immediately.”
“Why? Are your kisses magical?”
“Yes, I’ve been told numerous times they have magical properties.”
“My, I wonder why they haven’t crowned you town doctor yet,” she said drily.
Seeing that she was smiling, Bastien relaxed his spine at last, and slumped on the steps next to her. A second later, he felt Celine’s head on his shoulder. He heard her breathe in deeply, then let it out in a long, trembling exhale. She was still shaking abit; the walls of the building blocked out the sun on this side of the street. Bastien shrugged off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders.
“You can stop being nice to me now,” she said. “I’m not dying anymore.”
“It’s sad that you doubt my intentions.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
He hadn’t exactly made it easy for her to trust him—he knew as much. But he was beginning to wish he had spared Celine from getting roped into his game. Bastien had broken far too many hearts for his own to start growing a conscience now, but judging by Celine’s short fuse, he didn’t suspect her heart was all that fragile for him to break.
They lingered on the steps of the back door for a while longer, until the sun fully disappeared behind a rooftop and Celine’s initial shock had died down.
“Thank you for that,” she muttered absently, scratching off a dot of dried blood on her skirt. Hugging her knees to her chest against the cool breeze, she rested her cheek on them. “How did you know to distract me like that?”
“Believe it or not I have stitched through my finger when I was younger, too,” Bastien replied. Celine nudged him to continue. “Reckless child that I was, I fancied myself capable of using my mother’s sewing machine. The needle stitched right between my thumb and pointer finger and she did the same thing I did with you. I still have the scar.” He turned his hand over to show her. “See? You’re not the only one who has sewn their finger.”
Seeing that she was feeling better, Bastien opened up the aid kit and began cleaning the dried blood from her hands. He was cautious not to go over the puncture wound until the very end. Luckily, the needle had only pierced her skin while her nail remained intact.
“I think your mother would have delighted in seeing you here at Maison Baudelaire,” Celine said softly.
Bastien didn’t reply immediately, letting silence stretch between them, filled only by the sound of scissors running through gauze. He scarcely mentioned recollections of his mother to anyone—mainly because he couldn’t fully dissociate her image from the rest of his family, despite his many attempts. It felt like half of the happy memories he had with his mother still lingered inside the Ménard mansion, even if everything she had owned had been thrown out long ago.
Bastien let out a shaky breath as he wrapped the gauze around Celine’s finger.
“I highly doubt that,” he said, his voice calm, oddly serene. He was sure his mother would have hated everything he had become.
“I mean it,” Celine said. Reaching out with her good hand, she flicked away a piece of hair that had fallen over his eyes. “Think of it this way. You get to relive that part of her life you only heard about in stories. Monsieur Baudelaire seems to own more of her memorabilia than I do. It wouldn’t be so bad to get to know more about her, don’t you think?”
Bastien wasn’t sure how to reply. Although he knew Celine was right—all that he could remember about his mother was the drama his grandfather used to cause on the daily. Nothing worth preserving.
He was spared an answer when Celine apologised. “It’s none of my business, I know, I’m sorry. I just—if it was me, I would have considered it a great gift.”
