Monsieur Baudelaire had requested them to pick a historical timeline and modernise an entire look from that specific time. Franz had decided to repurpose one of her sketches, switching the initial fabric she had originally planned for that dress, and adding a few modifications of his own, but it was glaringly Celine’s style.
Monsieur Baudelaire handed his notepad to Gabriel and addressed the hall again.
“Monsieur Baker.” The youngest contestant amidst them—a lanky boy of sixteen who Celine had admired for his wild choices in patterns—stiffened in place. “I’m afraid your work today was missing its usual awe-striking factor. You have until the end of the day to clean your station.”
Celine winced when she noticed a silver tear slide down the boy’s cheek. But sympathy had no place in a competition. She turned her focus to her own gown, carefully eyeing the design she had presented today. She had chosen ancient Greece, the time of myths and gods. The dress itself was a plain black fabric, cut scandalously low in the back, but the showstoppers were the adornments. A full body mesh of thin, golden chains woven together was thrown over it as the top layer, speckled with the pattern of tiny suns all over the back. The final touch was a pair of shoulder pads in the shape of wings, fastened around Bastien’s collarbones with the same golden chains.
He looked like a sun-kissed Apollo in it—as Monsieur Baudelaire had pointed out during their evaluation.
“You’re staring,” Bastien whispered, his mouth so close to her cheek that it tickled her.
Celine squirmed away. Her nerves were already on edge. She didn’t need Bastien to push her over.
“I’m admiring my design, not its wearer.”
“Mhm. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He winked. “All the better if it’smoi.”
The distraction would have been a welcome one if Franz hadn’t been glaring back at them. Every inch of Celine’s body itched to walk up to him and wring his neck until his eyes popped out like cocktail onions. She clenched her fists around the loose, mesh sleeves of her dress, feeling the fabric stretch under her death grip.
“The rest,” Monsieur Baudelaire continued, “will have to exceed higher expectations on the next round.” His gaze landed on Celine. “And Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
Bastien gave her a little jab in the ribs to bring her into the present. She blinked out of her stupor, feeling a hot flush creep up her neck. “Y-yes?”
“Congratulations, my dear. Your rendering of the Greek gods in today’s fashion was simply beautiful. If you happen to win in the end, I shall like to see that dress encased in this very hall.”
Words left her entirely. She was sure she was gaping at him; she felt her jaw slackened, though no sounds made it out of her lips. Claude Baudelaire, the idol whose boutique she knew better than her own house, wanted her design in hismaison de mode!
“Merci,” Bastien replied in her stead.
Monsieur Baudelaire smiled amicably. “Very well, then. Before you leave, make sure to take a slip of paper from Gabriel. It will contain directives for your next challenge, which will be evaluated tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Coco asked sceptically.
“You heard correctly, Miss Jones,” he replied. Taking one of the cards from Gabriel, he read: “Suppose you have to deal with capricious clients in the future. They will ask for an entire wardrobe of new looks to be ready in one night.” He lowered the card. “I wish to test your expertise by being your capricious client on the next challenge. So,oui, tomorrow.”
An entire wardrobe…
Coco’s brow creased in distress as she swallowed, but in the end, she said nothing. Monsieur Baudelaire headed for his office. “Gabriel will explain the rest.”
Once his door was closed, Celine loosened a long, exhausted breath. She needed this horrible day to end, immediately. She didn’t want to see buttons, or needles, or stencils. She only wanted to submerge herself in a steaming bathtub full of bubbles, close her eyes, and wallow in self-pity until she somehow got out of the bath a different person, in a different life. But the day wasn’t over yet. And she had to squeeze sewing a whole gown in one afternoon.
Celine returned to her station to collect her things. A small smile broke across her lips all of a sudden. She had been too distracted by her stolen sketchbook to register exactly what Monsieur Baudelaire had said earlier.
He loved her design! And he wanted it displayed by the end of the competition!
It was almost enough to make her forget about Franz.
Almost.
“Help me with this?” Bastien said, coming up to her side. He pointed at the embroidered wings on his back. “It itches.”
He must have started scratching his neck a while ago, because thin, red marks marred his skin. Silently, she undid the clasp that held the wings together. And just as silently, she slipped away.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Hey,” Bastien murmured, stopping her before she could leave their cubicle. “Are you alright?”
“Something like that.”
