They both sighed. Celine brought her hand up to her lips, then realising it was her injured one, she switched hands and started chewing on her nails.
“Do you really think someone stole it?”
“My bet is on Franz,” Bastien gritted out, glancing around the hall to see if he could spot the couturier. To their disappointment, everyone else had already left.
“Franz is provoking, yes,” she murmured, “but I doubt he would stoop that low.”
“He is desperate,” Bastien insisted. “Look at what he has to lose. His dignityandhis atelier are both at stake. I doubt he would draw the line at pilfering.”
“But why mine? He hates me.”
“Maybe he doesn’t. Men have strange ways of showing they like someone.”
Celine planted her hands on her hips; cocked her head to the side. “The only way to get Franz Olivier to make heart-eyes at me is to plant my head on a stick outside of Maison Baudelaire. Now stop being funny and start searching.”
“Look,” Bastien attempted again, grabbing hold of her by the shoulders. “It’s getting late. I should take you home.”
“Bas”—Celine rooted herself at the edge of their cubicle—“everything I’ve designed so far is in that sketchbook. I can’t just simply leave without—”
“I know.” He tugged her away from the scene. “But you won’t be able to find it tonight. Everyone is gone. Whoever took it wouldn’t be sticking around for you to confront them.”
He was right. And even if they had any chances of finding her sketchbook, she wasn’t so sure she would want it anymore. Whoever had gotten their hands on it would make sure to exhaust all the designs inked into those pages. Celine kicked a spool of thread with the toe of her shoe. “The world could end today and it wouldn’t surprise me.”
To his credit, Bastien refrained from teasing her for being dramatic. He simply handed her the bag before she could forget it and led them outside. Celine sniffled as he opened the door to his car for her.
“You do know you have to drop me off at least three blocks away from my house, right?”
Bastien shook his head. “You are such a bizarre girl,” he muttered.
Celine tossed her purse onto the backseat and settled herself in the front. Too fatigued to argue with him any longer, she tilted her face towards the cool breeze and let it kiss her cheeks as they motored down the avenue.
Chapter 13
Hell Hath No Fury
“Sneaking off to the Latin Quarter again today?” Francine asked, eyes pinned on the curls she was trying to keep together.
Celine handed her another roll.
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” she said, a little miffed. “I can’t dawdle inside for days on end.”
Over the course of the week, Celine had managed to fill out half of the pages of her new sketchbook, outlining some of her looks from memory and coming up with new ones. Her pierced finger still hurt, but thankfully it was her right one, so she had no issue using a pen. It wasn’t until Friday dawned, rosy bright and warm, that she decided to shuffle out of her room after living like a hermit for days. Her mother had been nagging at her heels the entire time, wanting to schedule a day with Coco and see the dress.
Celine felt tired, weary, like those balls of yarn Milady liked to play with, tugging at them from every direction, pulling and pulling, until they were nothing but a mess of wet, wiry strings on the floor. She was entirely undone. She had the competition to think of, the stolen sketchbook to mope over, her birthday dress to start sewing, Bastien to contend with, and…Celine was certain there was one more thing she had to finish doing before her tasks finished her. She just couldn’t remember.
As if sensing her anxiety, Milady jumped onto her lap, nudging her head against Celine’s chin while Francine placed thelast roll into her hair. “There, all done. Now go downstairs and have some breakfast before you take them out.”
“I can’t,” Celine sighed dramatically, lifting Milady up on the vanity. Then she scraped her chair backwards, stalked to her bed, and dropped face-first into the pillows so the hair rolls wouldn’t dig into her skull. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. “I sense maliciousness in the air. It’s making it impossible for me to eat.”
“You mean it’s making it impossible for you to eatdownstairs.”
Celine looked up, pouting. “I can’t stand another list of inquiries about my dress, Francine, I can’t! I have told maman so many vague details about it that I cannot remember any of them at this point, and if the end result matches nothing of what I’ve told her so far, she will murder me right as the cake arrives.” Celine tossed her head back into her pillows. “Ah, the cake.”
“And you won’t be able to remember anything if you don’t eat,” Francine insisted.
“It’s not as if she will let me eat anything, anyway.”
Francine raised a brow. Begrudgingly, Celine willed her limbs to move from the soft covers of her bed. “I hate it when you win.”
