“You try sleeping on that chaise and not complain.”
“This was your doing,” she reminded him. “Consider it part of your punishment.”
“As if I’m not suffering enough.”
Though he wasn’t suffering half as much as Celine. Not that he would ever admit it, but concern for her might have crossed his mind once or twice. Maybe three times. He knew she was wearing herself thin, having to sneak out and lie, while also having less time than the others to finish her gowns in secret. Wearing a pretty dress and standing still was the easy part.
“You like it, don’t you,” Juliana teased, nudging his foot with hers. “Playing dress-up.”
Bastien blinked himself into the present. The purring and honking of motor cars driving down the street and the clinking of tea cups on the tables around came into focus again.
“It’s not just dress-up.” But he knew she understood that. Jules knew about his mother; knew how much he had loved going to her studio when he was younger. Bastien sniffled and extended his hand, wriggling his fingers for a cigarette. “I didn’t realise how much I missed her until I saw her designs framed.”
Juliana offered a small smile, then gave his foot another nudge. “Stop it now. I forbid you to look sad wearing that sweater. You’re going to have our table swarming with girls wanting to pet and hand-feed you until you stop pouting.”
His habitual smirk returned. “Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself? You know I’d let you hand-feed me anytime, Jules.”
“You wish.” She produced a lighter from somewhere in her fur coat and handed it to him. Then levelled Bastien a sly, inquiring look. “And your little designer friend?”
He scoffed. “Celine is more inclined to poke me than pet me.”
Juliana chuckled. “No, I meant, how is that going? Have you set your evil plan into motion yet?”
Bastien considered it a moment. He hadn’t had much time to do anything concerning his brother and Celine. His morningswere occupied at the studio, his afternoons at the old house, his evenings at the Gaîté, watching Elana up on the stage, and his nights stretching his limbs on her silk sheets. Truth be told, he had forgotten about it—that he needed to even the score between himself and Jacques.
He let out a long exhale. Smoke curled out of his lips as he answered at last. “The evil plan has been postponed for a while.”
His friend’s eyes flashed green, all-knowing. Bastien had learned to dread that look.
“I told you you’d have a change of heart.”
“You know what’s at stake.” He shook his head. “If Jacques finds out about that competition, your chaise will bear a permanent imprint of my ass on it.”
Juliana drew her brows together. “There goes my resolution not to spend the rest of my life with a man.”
“Aww, Jules.” Bastien reached forward, took her hands in his, and placed a dramatic kiss on her knuckles. “I will be a good husband, I promise.”
“Shush, you.” She drew her hands back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, though. Who knows, this fashion thing might inspire something in you.”
Unlikely, Bastien thought. He let his gaze wander away from their table and out onto the street, in the direction of Maison Baudelaire. Another challenge awaited them tomorrow. Strangely, he found himself excited for it.
Chapter 14
An Act of War
There were spots in Celine’s vision the morning of their next challenge, and none of them had been the effect of Coco’s faux ermine dress. Blinding rage was pockmarking everything in her line of sight as Monsieur Baudelaire praised Franz for his design. That is, hisstolendesign.
“Magnificent work, Monsieur Olivier.”
Leaning on his cane, Monsieur Baudelaire reached his other hand to take a piece of fabric. He lifted it to give the skirt a new shape, dropped it again, lifted it once more, then finally let it go with a hum. “It’s rather perfect as it is. I see that you have put my advice to practice. Breaking away from your pillars of comfort might seem daunting at first, but you’ve done an outstanding job.” Tilting his chin up, he spoke in the air, “As I hope the rest of you will have, too.”
Franz grinned. “We all need to learn a thing or two, I suppose”—he threw a careless glance at Celine—“don’t we?”
Every day for the past week he had taunted her while they worked: her sketchbook propped open on his desk, her design on his model. And while Celine had done her best to retain her composure—even as she dreamt of pinning his photo on a board and tossing darts at it—she was slowly feeling her anger slip out of her grasp.
“Of course, of course,” Monsieur Baudelaire uttered as he continued to the next designer.
Celine could only make out the audacious patterns Mademoiselle André had used. The gown featured an awfully low neckline of the fifteenth century, but a contemporary skirt cut. It was an odd combination, though Celine couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to the criticism it was receiving. She couldn’t stop seething at Franz.
