“Fine. Maybe I should start ignoring your irritating meows for treats from now on.”
The cat’s ears perked at the word treats, coiling and uncoiling her tail expectantly from where she was lying.
“Humph.” Celine folded her arms on her chest. “I can’t say no to you, but you shall have to wait until I’m done, Milady. Work keeps piling on me.”
Rising from her seat, Celine ran a hand over her dress to brush off any white fur that had clung to it. It was a plain rayon cloth, with mint skirts and sleeves, and a pink bodice, stitched all over with green sequins in a floral pattern. Madame LeBeau had picked it out for her, the only dress she had approved of from the ones Celine had shown her in the catalogue. A small victory, though Celine had learned not to celebrate them when it came to her mother. She had stopped licking the drops of compromise her mother offered long ago. They had kept her fed when she was starving for independence, but now they weren’t nearly enough to appease her.
Not that she would call her current predicament an independent one. Following her dream in secret didn’t make her less of a pathological people-pleaser. Just a pathological liar as well. And because of her newly found vice, she had to add yet another task to her growing list of labours.
Crossing the room, she stood before the mannequin where the midnight blue silhouette of a gown hung. Lying to her mother that Coco wasthatCoco had been, by no means, Celine’s wisest idea. On the bright side, now she could have her way with the design, without having to compromise on anything. Granted, if she managed to sew anything at all.
Jacques had been occupying her time for the past few days, asking to meet every evening to catch a picture or a performance, and Celine had only managed to sketch and stitch a plain sampleof the gown. She was positive the measurements she had used were all wrong.
Sighing, she shrugged out of the dress she was wearing, and as she slipped into the other gown, Celine realised that the measurements had been wrong indeed, when the fabric caught at her hips, leaving her to jiggle into the rest. Only when she turned to examine her effort in the mirror did she remember the thirty star-shaped buttons lining the back.
She tossed her head back. “I hate myself.”
“Need any help?”
Celine startled at the interruption. Quickly the voice registered as familiar, and she cursed herself for not fixing that door handle. Bastien stood by the threshold, hands in his pockets, an indecipherable expression on his face.
“It looks like you are struggling there, baby vamp.”
She hadn’t seen him since Monsieur Baudelaire had given them another week to remake their ruined designs, and Bastien hadn’t bothered to show up for the fittings, though the remake challenge was tomorrow.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I thought I told you, I never want you to speak to me again.”
Her tone was curt, but he deserved it. He deserved all the anger she had mulled over all these nights until it had turned into disappointment. And he deserved to feel it too—to sulk in it just as she had. Instead, he looked the image of casual grace.
“I’m not that good at obeying, as I’m sure you know.” He blew away a strand of hair that had fallen onto his eyes. “I was in the neighbourhood and saw the light on.”
Celine scoffed. “What business do you have in the Latin Quarter?”
“…Business.” Bastien gave her a once over, causing her to clasp the bodice to her chest like an armour. “Is that my gown for tomorrow?”
“No. Now leave.”
He didn’t listen. He stood there, rooted by the door, watching her. “It still looks like you need help.”
Although she did not want to admit it, the fact remained: there were more than two dozen buttons waiting to be looped along her back. Celine let a moment of hesitation pass, but it was either struggling in the old house half naked and failing to try on the dress or giving her arms a break and letting Bastien button it for her. Her birthday was coming up—she needed that dress ready.
“Fine,” she yielded. “Come help me, but you better not see anything you shouldn’t.”
“Stop wrinkling that pretty forehead of yours,” he scoffed. “I was already standing by the door when you took off your other dress, so…”
Celine gasped. “You werelooking?”
Bastien shrugged and entered the room proper. “Turn around.”
Miffed, Celine did as he asked. A pair of cold fingers brushed against the thin fabric of her undergarments, raising goosebumps along her spine. “Ouch!”
“Sorry,” Bastien grimaced. He was fumbling with the buttons. “I’m usually better at undoing them.”
“You don’t say.”
Celine watched him from the mirror as he knelt behind her to get at eye level with the buttons. The fabric tightened around her waist and she silently cursed herself. She would have to redo the whole thing; there was hardly any room to breathe. Had she gotten too comfortable with her loose, flapper dresses?
As if he had read her thoughts, Bastien ventured quietly, “This doesn’t seem like something you would design for this competition.”
