Chapter 29
Following the conclusion of the initial meeting with the Royal Comms and the design team, I’m immediately plunged into the research and ideation phase of the regalwear collection.
While it might seem tedious to some, it happens to be my favourite part of any project. I actually enjoy the process of immersing myself in the background and history of an assignment.
Deciding to stay behind after work, I began researching information on Toussaint’s royal fashion, traditions and ceremonial wear for the regalwear collection.
With music blaring and my third cup of coffee in hand, I’m sliding over to the printer to collect the images being printed for the moodboard. I’ve forgone wearing my platform Mary Jane shoes out of comfort as I walk around the studio, gliding across the hardwood flooring in my knee-high socks instead and dancing clumsily to the songs playing as I go. Silk ribbons wrapped around my neck and lace fabric draped over my shoulders, I’m twirling around the room with a mannequin in my arms when I catch a glimpse of a figure standing by the door.
“August?”
I skid to a stop, nearly tumbling as I straighten myself up.
“The door was wide open,” He explains. “And your music was hard to ignore.”
My cheeks flush in embarrassment at being caught candy dancing with a dressmaker dummy to some alt-indie band and I quickly reach towards the speakers to turn the music off.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you were working overtime.”
August’s office is always dark from the outside so it’s hard to tell whether or not he’s actually in. It’s just past 7 PM and, whilst the rest of the studio left two hours prior, the design team sans Sebastian decided to stay behind to do much-needed work.
“What were you listening to?” He asks, gesturing towards the speaker.
“Umm, medieval rock?” I reply sheepishly. “I’m not sure, it was on a playlist with different artists from Toussaint.”
I slide the mannequin back over by the sewing machines, removing the ribbons and fabric around me and draping them over the dressmaker dummy instead. Walking back to the computer, I suddenly feel oddly nervous about August’s presence as he enters the studio.
“No wonder it sounded familiar,” He muses. “You were listening to music by Saintians.”
I blink. “Saintians?”
“People from Toussaint,” He adds. “Toussaintians, technically. But they shorten it to Saintians. Less of a mouthful.”
“Oh that’s how you pronounce it,” I mutter to myself, jotting down the name on my notepad before turning to August. “Sahn-tee-uns. How did you know that?”
“I was born there.”
“You’re…” I blink up at him. “Toussaintian?”
“Half,” He nods. “My mother’s side of the family is from Toussaint.”
He doesn’t elaborate, ever the enigma.
But it makes a lot of sense. How he’s related to the Toussaint royal family. August has that refined air about him too, gaining the attention of people in the room with his presence effortlessly.
Even now, with just the two of us.
“Is there anything you need from me?” I ask curiously.
“No,” He replies. “I just wanted to see the source of the deafeningly loud music.”
“Sorry,” I wince. “I’ll be camping out on the fourth floor over the next couple of months to work on the collection but I’ll make sure to close the door and keep the noise down.”
“You’re fine,” He shakes his head, eyeing the box in the middle of the worktable of silk ribbons and lace fabric. “What are these for?”
“Oh, they’re mine,” I answer. “I have a commissioned piece for Mahalia Made. But it doesn’t interfere with studio work, don’t worry. I work on it during my breaks.”
He pauses, staring at me. “You work during your breaks?”
“I get restless when I’m not doing anything,” I laugh nervously.
He narrows his eyes, concern marring his features. “Do you ever not work?”
“When I’m sleeping,” I reply jokingly.
August sends me a serious, scolding look this time. “Working yourself to the point of exhaustion is concerning behaviour, Mahalia.”
“Blame my hands, they don’t like being still.”
His grey eyes sweep over my left hand, almost assessing, and I retract it from his view out of self-consciousness. There’s a subtle shift in his expression as he redirects his focus, scanning his surroundings.
August’s attention flickers to the humidifier stationed in the corner before his gaze drifts around the room, briefly settling on various homeware accessories. I grimace at the random bits of decorative pieces I’ve scattered around the room to make it feel cosier since I’m practically going to be living in this studio for the next couple of months.
“Is that supposed to be a thimble?”
He squints, evaluating one of my peach-coloured plushies sitting on top of a thick blanket haphazardly thrown over the sofa in the back of the room.
“Oh, yes.” I nod, slightly embarrassed. “It’s a comfy pillow.”
He turns back to me. “Please don’t tell me you sleep in the studio too.”
I eye him hesitantly. “Are there rules for taking naps in the studio?”
“You’re impossible,” He exhales a breath, shaking his head. “How’s the regalwear collection coming along?”
“Good,” I nod. “Really good, actually. I met Prince Tobias and members of the Royal Comms of Toussaint earlier this week. Sebastian and I discussed the official brief and we’re just doing the research phase at the moment.”
“By ‘we’, do you mean ‘you’?”
“Sebastian’s working from his home studio,” I explain.
“I’m very familiar with Sebastian’s work practices,” He mutters disapprovingly.
“He was at The Duke Dalton a few nights ago,” I glance over at him, hoping to catch a glimpse of a reaction but his face remains stoic. “Babble hosted a PR event.”
“You attended?”
“I was Gigi’s plus one,” I reply.
A beat.
“Did you drink?” He asks.
“Yes,” I nod. “The fancy glass bottles of spring water from the Swiss Alps were very refreshing. I sneaked about half a dozen bottles in my purse.”
At this, he chuckles.
“They were looking for you.” I attempt a conversation. “The boys? Alfie, Benji and the Contis.”
“Ah,” he nods. “I was… working.”
August looks like he doesn’t want to expand further, like he’s unsure of the answer himself.
“What are these for?” He motions towards the early stages of a moodboard, printed images scattered all over the table.
“Research,” I answer. “I had no idea Toussaint was on par with Great Britain when it came to textile manufacturing during the Industrial Revolution.”
A small island nestled between the coast of the Mediterranean and Europe, Toussaint is renowned for its expertise in fabric production spanning centuries. The country’s history is rich in power looms, cotton gins and carding machines, even rivalling Britain which is impressive for a small country by the Mediterranean Sea.
August nods. “Toussaint is known for its textiles.”
Listening as he effortlessly provided more information about the country, I expected a more business-oriented conversation so I was genuinely surprised when he shared little anecdotes, recalling nostalgic details of his time there.
“Cionne is teeming with culture,” He continues, referring to the capital city. “And it’s beautiful in the summer.”
From my research, the island’s capital is a picturesque city, boasting cobblestone streets, vibrant houses and breathtaking views of the Mediterranean Sea.
“It looks it,” I sigh dreamily, looking down at the images I’ve collected. “It would be amazing to conduct primary research to see the textiles in person.”
Standing in front of the computer, I continue to scroll through more research on the island, momentarily falling into a daydream of warm sand, saltwater hair and sun-kissed skin.
“–so we’ll go.” August nods at me.
“Huh?” I turn to him, missing part of what he was saying during my daydream.
“To Toussaint,” He replies as he casually surveys the images on the table.
“I, um, don’t know how long HR will take to approve work trips.” I begin, still uncertain whether or not I heard him correctly. “Not to mention going through it with Sebastian. He told me his schedule is really busy over the next couple of weeks so I’m not sure if he’ll find the time.”
I’ve already been warned by Pollux that working around Sebastian and his erratic schedule will be challenging. The senior designer doesn’t seem to adhere to the usual 9-5 routine, often working from home and responding to emails at 3 AM. Despite holding a senior role, he spends more time outside the studio than in it and suggesting an international trip doesn’t necessarily align with my typical duties as an intern.
“I said we will go,” He repeats, firmly. “We can plan it for this weekend. Are you busy?”
I blink. “I’m not but…”
“Great.” He nods, sliding the photos of a fancy-looking building as well as the exterior of a mill factory towards me. “We can pay a visit to the National Museum of Cionne and go to the textile factories at the Toussaint Foundry. You’ll have plenty of source material and inspiration for the collection.”
“Are they even open during the weekend?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Before I can voice any objections, August retrieves his phone and begins typing, his laser-focused gaze fixed on the screen.
“So,” He begins, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “This weekend in Toussaint. I’ll email you the details of our itinerary before Friday.”
“Do you need me to help with anything?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Just leave it to me.”