Quietly, he trodded back inside the mansion, leaving Celine to watch the empty space where he’d once been. Music spilled into the dark garden when he opened the door. Then, as quicklyas the sound had flooded the flowers and bushes in a jazzy mirth, it was cut off by the door closing after him. A moment later, she heard a car pull out of the driveway and all that echoed through the night was the screeching racket of tires.
Celine sniffled. She waited several minutes in the silence of the pavilion, breathing in the cool air. Bastien’s words rang in her mind relentlessly.What’s one girl for another?Too much work. Not worth my time. What’s one girl for another? Too much work. Not worth my time. She didn’t care what he thought of her. When had Celine ever cared what people thought of her? That was her mother’s job, anyway. Bastien didn’t know what he was talking about.
It shouldn’t matter.
Right?
Right.
So why did it feel like he had slapped her, instead of the other way around?
Celine kicked at the grass, dislodging and turning over a small patch of dirt. Not wanting to stand there like a fool, she returned inside to search for Jacques.
Chapter 18
In Case of Fire
“Where the hell have you been?”
Bastien’s world spun at the sheer volume of Celine’s voice. He had to blink several times for the three Celines he was seeing to merge into one again. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s a disastrous morning!” she cried out.
Tenting a hand over his eyes, Bastien stared at her. It was a bright, sunny day, too bright if someone were to ask him, Rue Cambon was busy as ever, and Celine was glaring at him for being late like she always did. All appeared well in the world.
“I’m failing to see the issue, darling.”
Her nostrils flared in response.
Perhaps it was an issue with him. Bastien peered down at himself and winced at the violent wrinkles marring his blue suit. Being out all night, stumbling from one burlesque show to another, had its downfalls, apparently. As far as Bastien could recall, the last show he’d seen had involved someveryflexible dancers, three rounds of heavy drinking, confetti, and—and then he’d been whisked away in a car by Juliana and driven back to the apartment.
She had slapped him awake this morning to tell him he had ten minutes to get to Maison Baudelaire or risk Celine throttling him. Though she had forgotten to mention that the world would still be spinning for the rest of the day.
Explaining nothing, Celine grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him inside. The designing hall had turned into a catwalk overnight. It started from the second floor, where Monsieur Baudelaire’s office was, and went down an elongated stage Gabriel had fixed up for the models.
Did Celine expect him to walk down a flight of stairs in this state?
“I barely got Monsieur Baudelaire to agree to postpone your walk until the very last minute,” she prattled as she marched. “Do you have zero consideration?”
“Not so loud, please.” A bludgeoning headache was burning its way through his temples and it was all Bastien could do not to split his own skull open and pluck it out.
“I can’t believe you,” Celine went on. She paused shortly in front of him and took in his appearance. Bastien imagined he looked like he had been dragged through the trenches three times before arriving at the House. Her livid scrutinising made him wonder if he had even remembered to wear pants. “You act like a complete degenerate the night before a challenge, disappear without a trace, and now you show up like this! Do you want us to be the ones who leave today?”
The previous night was still a blur. Bastien remembered the masked party (largely because he had almost worn the toga again this morning when he had reached out to grab the first shirt he could find on the floor), he remembered switching her costume, he even remembered Jeanne Hugot, but judging by Celine’s clipped remarks, he must have done something else last night.
Bastien ran a hand over his face. “Degenerate?”
“That’s not the point!”
“Well, stop yelling and maybe I will get the point.”
Celine glared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You don’t get to request anything from me. I’ve been in here,wondering if perhaps you had really ended up in a ditch during the night, while you—”
Bastien didn’t wait for her to continue her rambling. He seized her wrist. “Stop. Yelling.Please,” he repeated, waiting for the words to make it through to her stubborn head.
Celine huffed once, before pinning him under a second inspection. “You’re really not feeling well at all, are you?”
“No,” he admitted, slumping into the nearest chair. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk down that catwalk. I’m sorry.”
