“I know,” he said softly. “Come on”—looping his arm through hers, Bastien brought them to their feet—“we need to finish the dress. I’ll help you.”
“Oh…” Celine hesitated, the colour draining from her face again.
“What’s wrong?”
“The dress is ruined,” she said mournfully. “When I tried to hide my injury I got blood all over the fabric. And according to the challenge’s specifics we can’t get any more.”
Bastien latched his eyes on the splatters that were also marring the dress she was wearing. Something sparked in his mind.
“Do you have your cosmetics compact with you? I have an idea.”
Chapter 12
Fair Is Foul and Foul Is Fair
Celine couldn’t hold back the wince that pulled her face into a grimace when Bastien popped open her rouge compact and began scraping the powder into his flask.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, looking, to his credit, somewhat apologetic.
“With what money?” Celine scowled in return. She didn’t want to hit a weak spot, not after what he’d done for her, but Bastien simply laughed and told her about Anaïs’s coin bank.
Trust the process.He knows what he’s doing.
Meticulously, he twisted the lid of the flask back on and began shaking it vigorously. Celine waited, her heel tapping an anxious staccato on the white polished floor. The rest of the contestants had already begun sewing; Franz and Coco had their models up on the platform, adding the final details. Celine pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to calm herself down.
It was the third round. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—be eliminated this early on.
“Any time now, Bas.”
“Relax, baby vamp,” Bastien waved her antics off, resuming his strange potion-making. “Leave it to the professionals.”
Celine rolled her eyes and hoisted herself up on the desk, fidgeting with the bandage on her finger. She still couldn’t believe he had come to the rescue with no hesitation.
“I think it’s ready,” he said at last. Unscrewing the cap, he poured some of the mixture in the well of his palm and began sprinkling it onto the white fabric. Blossoms of dark cerise splotches bloomed along the half stitched gown, reaching out red tendrils.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Franz snicker as he took a pin from the cushion on his wrist and continued marking where he wanted to create a few more ruffles.
“Breaking more rules, Mademoiselle LeBeau?” he taunted from across their stations. Several heads spun their way, concern creasing their expression. “Where is your honesty now?”
Celine’s mouth went dry. “Bas, the rules—”
“Said nothing about this,” Bastien assured her. “If Monsieur Baudelaire wanted to put a limit on creativity he should have been more particular about his directives. He only said we couldn’t get more supplies once we had gathered what we needed. He said nothing about modifying what we already have. Besides, wasn’t he the one who claimed there weren’t rules in the fashion world?”
It should have had catastrophic outcomes for Bastien to be right. Celine waited for some sort of sign that she had entered an alternate dimension, where up was down and Franz Olivier had turned into a rat. When nothing happened, she nodded her approval. “Proceed then.”
Quickly, he masked the splotches of blood on the side by creating more, giving the design the illusion of a gash. Celine recalled Lady Macbeth and her invisible spot. If she added a few pearls and rubies to give it a stereoscopic illusion, she could recreate the image of an open wound on the ribcage. Then she could string up a few rubies to create blood drops dripping from the gash.
“There,” Bastien said when he was done. “What do you think? You can even call it by one of those eccentric names.”
“Something like…Foul Is Fair?” Celine lifted a suggestive brow at him.
He returned the gesture, somehow managing to give it a whole other meaning. She let it slide this time.
“How did you come up with this idea anyway?”
“Oh, Celine, Celine, darling Celine.” Bastien shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the table, waiting for the alcohol on the dress to dry. “You have yet to bear witness to all of my expertise.” Surveying the length of her skirt, he persisted where it had ridden up her knee a bit, exposing the lace cuff of her stocking, then flitted his eyes up to hers. Had he ran a corporeal finger up her leg she would have felt it less than his pervasive gaze. The smirk on his lips deepened. “Or you can ask Elana.”
Common ground my foot.He deserves to be smacked in the head with a Bible.
