Bastien might have scraped together what strength he had left and present the design just to smooth away the worry from Celine’s brow and stop her from chewing off her bottom lip altogether. Only, he felt like he was on a ship, even though the floor beneath his feet was smooth and even. Any step he would take forward would undoubtedly veer off at least thirty degrees to the left. Even if Celine’s gown was worth the first place, his poor display alone would kick them straight to the last.
“Stay here then,” she said faintly. “I will try to explain to Monsieur Baudelaire.”
Bastien parted his lips to—offer an explanation? An apology? He didn’t know.
“Say nothing,” muttered Celine, holding up a hand. “I won’t force you up there if you’re not feeling well.”
She scuttled away, where Monsieur Baudelaire was giving some directives by the catwalk. Bastien watched their lips move; Celine’s were slightly trembling, but she was stubbornly thrusting her chin up, refusing to cry. Instead, she was fretting with the lavender beads of her dress, tugging at them until the thread snapped and they unravelled in her hand. Then he caught them both looking in his direction. Monsieur Baudelaire broke off first, shaking his head in disappointment.
When their discussion was over Celine didn’t think of returning to Bastien. She swerved for the fabrics room and didn’t come out even when the presentations began.
Bastien threw his head back, cursing himself. This was the fifth task they had to complete for the competition. To lose now…
He turned his head to the side and peered at the gown Celine had designed for today. She had stitched the entire thing in one afternoon—while he’d done nothing but complain and tease her the entire time—and now all that effort would be wasted, along with her dream. Guilt turned acrid in his stomach, making him feel sicker than he already was. Bastien closed his eyes again and tried to dispel the turmoil of thoughts that was swirling in his head. The conversation with his grandfather; the threat of being disowned; the fight with Jacques; that stupid party; and something that had happened during it, which was making a vague return to his memory, aiding the headache and the guilt.
He was seriously going to be sick.
Suddenly, something fell on his lap, causing Bastien to jerk upright.
Monsieur Baudelaire loomed above his head with a strange expression etched on his face. “It’s the rule booklet.”
“What’s the point?” Bastien returned, tossing it aside. “We have already lost.”
Picking it up again, Monsieur Baudelaire opened the booklet and tapped on a page. “Read it. I think you will find it quite interesting.”
The last thing Bastien wanted to do was read a rule book. He was ready to protest again, but Claude Baudelaire’s focus had meandered to the mannequin by their station, wearing Bastien’s gown. “A shame,” he said under his breath, “it was one of thebest designs I saw today.” He hinted at the booklet with his chin. “Read. Number nine is a personal favourite.”
Bastien’s brows furrowed, but he took it nonetheless. The queerness of the request wasn’t lost on him, despite the current state of his mind. Sluggishly, Bastien flipped it open to rule number nine.
In case of a fire ensuing within the building, all participants must evacuate the premises immediately and leave their designs inside. They will be granted a second try to repeat the challenge.
It didn’t take him long to decrypt Monsieur Baudelaire’s intention. Bastien’s gaze whipped towards the fire sprinklers spanning the walls. They spiderwebbed across the area where the ceiling dome connected to the sides of the room, though they were scarcely noticeable if one didn’t know where to look.
He didn’t necessarily need to set off a fire. He doubted Monsieur Baudelaire actually wanted Bastien to set his fashion house aflame. But he could set off the alarm for a fake one.
In front of him, the stage had flared up with lights and music from a gramophone Gabriel was winding up, giving the room the semblance of a real fashion show. The sound floated jarringly to Bastien’s ears, causing his headache to throb loudly against his temples. He scrunched his brows and rose from his seat.
Elana was the first to walk down the catwalk, posing in her sister’s design. Bastien waited until a few more models had swept onto the catwalk, before slinking behind one of the cubicles. Then he lifted his lighter up to the sprinklers and gave it a sharpflick!
“Come on, come on,” he urged, as though his words alone would will the flame to hold. The effort of holding the lighterup sent his vision spinning. But soon enough, the pipes running along the ceiling started to groan like they hadn’t been used in a while. A moment late, water burst upon the entire hall.
The lighter set the sprinklers off one by one; all around the room artificial rain whipped down on the cubicles, the catwalk, the designs, turning everything into a sopping mess. Tiny yelps and shrieks filled the hall.
Bastien ducked instinctively and hurried to join the others in their hysterics. Celine had reappeared from the fabrics room, soaked through, with kohl running dark streaks down her cheeks. It made the redness in her eyes more pronounced.
Something twisted in Bastien’s gut.
“Everyone outside,” he heard Gabriel voice directions, pointing to the back doors. “No need to panic. It was probably a malfunction of the light switches. One of them always gives out a little smoke.”
Franz was grumbling under his breath as he walked outside while Elana and Coco complained about their hair. Bastien rushed towards Celine and grabbed her wrist.
She resisted his tug. “Where is the fire?”
“Come on,” he said, jerking her towards the door. “I will explain outside.”
But Celine was still inspecting the room, attempting to pinpoint this alleged fire and its proximity to her design. Her gaze dropped to a silver rectangle glimmering behind one of the stations. She glanced up at him. “Did you do this?”
Bastien muttered a curse. The lighter must have slipped from his fingers when the water started pouring. “I had to do something, Celine. I couldn’t let you lose.”
