“That’s not an answer.” Bastien brought his hands to her shoulders, squeezing to get her attention. “Look, I know you miss your sketchbook, but you still came up first. Doesn’t that count?”
“It will count in a minute,” she replied tightly and brushed past him, sauntering up to Franz. There was only one thing that could comfort Celine at the moment.
She heard Bastien say, “I do love a vengeful woman,” as he followed close at her heel.
Celine paused in front of Franz’s work desk. “Monsieur Olivier?”
Languidly, as if it took him immense effort to turn, Franz peered at her over his shoulder, acting like Celine was a piece of lint that had suddenly started talking. “What do you want?” He sneered, removing the strip of measuring tape from his neck and placing it on his work table. “I didn’t peg you for an egomaniac.”
“I’m not here to gloat,” she said calmly. “I simply came to take my designs back.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Coco, Elise, and Elana had crept closer, leaning in to hear better. Celine didn’t mind them. As long as Monsieur Baudelaire wasn’t there to witness, she was fine with the rest of the contestants and their models finding out who Franz really was. She had learned long ago that if she didn’t fix the problem herself, no one else would bother to do it for her.
“My sketchbook,” Celine pressed. “I want it back. You didn’t win anyway, even though you used one of my looks. What's the point in keeping the rest?”
It wasn't that she needed them back; no, Celine had already come up with sixty more for the fifty Franz had stolen. But theybelonged to her—they wereherwork,herimagination, a small part ofhersoul. And shewantedthem back.
“At least give me the sketch of the blue gown. That one isn’t part of the competition.”
To her surprise, Franz pulled the ripped page from his own sketchbook and held it high in the air.
“You can have it,” he hummed. But just as Celine was about to reach for the sheet, he pulled his hand back. “If you say the magic word.”
Did he expect her tobegfor her work?
She felt Bastien shift beside her and quickly brought her palm down on his wrist.
“How rude of me,” Celine pouted, making a show of stretching each word out. Stepping closer, she brought her leg backwards as far as she could and swung it forward full force against Franz’s shin. Once he doubled over in pain, Celine snatched the design from his fingers without giving him time to process.
“Va te faire foutre,” she whispered, pronouncing each word intently. “Is that magical enough for you?”
Bastien snorted. Coco placed a hand over her mouth to cover her amusement. Elise, against her better judgement, permitted a smile, satisfied that Celine hadn’t let Franz off without paying the price.
He was still on the floor when his head snapped up viciously. A few strands of blond hair falling onto his spectacles. He looked like he was about to say something, but Celine beat him to it.
“I hope you will learn a thing or two from this,” she mocked back. With a whirl, she walked away from the scene, her earlier exhilaration draining from her muscles. Bastien’s footfalls didn’t lag. He dropped beside her in an instant, then all of a sudden got on his knees.
Celine stiffened as he seized her by the waist in the middle of the designing hall.
“Celine LeBeau, you are my idol!”
She sucked in a sharp breath and whipped her head around, noting everyone’s eyes on them. “Would you getup?” she hissed.
Bastien’s theatrics intensified. “Shall I build a shrine?” He nodded decisively without waiting for her response. “Oui, I shall build a shrine.”
“Get up before I kick you too!”
He didn’t. Instead, he looked her straight in the eye, his chin pressed against her stomach, and deadpanned: “I thought you didn’t stoop that low.”
“It comes and it goes. Now get up before it comes again.” He grinned. Having to resort to physical means, Celine grabbed his arms and brought Bastien to his feet. “You are pestilential, you know that?”
• • •
They spent the rest of the day at the abandoned house, working. Or at least, Celine did. Bastien had refused to leave her side, opting to hover over her shoulder and groan at the tedium of her process every chance he got.
Can’t this machine sew any faster?
