Chapter 14
An Act of War
There were spots in Celine’s vision the morning of their next challenge, and none of them had been the effect of Coco’s faux ermine dress. Blinding rage was pockmarking everything in her line of sight as Monsieur Baudelaire praised Franz for his design. That is, his stolen design.
“Magnificent work, Monsieur Olivier.”
Leaning on his cane, Monsieur Baudelaire reached his other hand to take a piece of fabric.
He lifted it to give the skirt a new shape, dropped it again, lifted it once more, then finally let it go with a hum.
“It’s rather perfect as it is. I see that you have put my advice to practice.
Breaking away from your pillars of comfort might seem daunting at first, but you’ve done an outstanding job.
” Tilting his chin up, he spoke in the air, “As I hope the rest of you will have, too.”
Franz grinned. “We all need to learn a thing or two, I suppose”—he threw a careless glance at Celine—“don’t we?”
Every day for the past week he had taunted her while they worked: her sketchbook propped open on his desk, her design on his model.
And while Celine had done her best to retain her composure—even as she dreamt of pinning his photo on a board and tossing darts at it—she was slowly feeling her anger slip out of her grasp.
“Of course, of course,” Monsieur Baudelaire uttered as he continued to the next designer.
Celine could only make out the audacious patterns Mademoiselle André had used.
The gown featured an awfully low neckline of the fifteenth century, but a contemporary skirt cut.
It was an odd combination, though Celine couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to the criticism it was receiving. She couldn’t stop seething at Franz.
Monsieur Baudelaire had requested them to pick a historical timeline and modernise an entire look from that specific time.
Franz had decided to repurpose one of her sketches, switching the initial fabric she had originally planned for that dress, and adding a few modifications of his own, but it was glaringly Celine’s style.
Monsieur Baudelaire handed his notepad to Gabriel and addressed the hall again.
“Monsieur Baker.” The youngest contestant amidst them—a lanky boy of sixteen who Celine had admired for his wild choices in patterns—stiffened in place. “I’m afraid your work today was missing its usual awe-striking factor. You have until the end of the day to clean your station.”
Celine winced when she noticed a silver tear slide down the boy’s cheek.
But sympathy had no place in a competition.
She turned her focus to her own gown, carefully eyeing the design she had presented today.
She had chosen ancient Greece, the time of myths and gods.
The dress itself was a plain black fabric, cut scandalously low in the back, but the showstoppers were the adornments.
A full body mesh of thin, golden chains woven together was thrown over it as the top layer, speckled with the pattern of tiny suns all over the back.
The final touch was a pair of shoulder pads in the shape of wings, fastened around Bastien’s collarbones with the same golden chains.
He looked like a sun-kissed Apollo in it—as Monsieur Baudelaire had pointed out during their evaluation.
“You’re staring,” Bastien whispered, his mouth so close to her cheek that it tickled her.
Celine squirmed away. Her nerves were already on edge. She didn’t need Bastien to push her over.
“I’m admiring my design, not its wearer.”
“Mhm. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He winked. “All the better if it’s moi.”
The distraction would have been a welcome one if Franz hadn’t been glaring back at them.
Every inch of Celine’s body itched to walk up to him and wring his neck until his eyes popped out like cocktail onions.
She clenched her fists around the loose, mesh sleeves of her dress, feeling the fabric stretch under her death grip.
“The rest,” Monsieur Baudelaire continued, “will have to exceed higher expectations on the next round.” His gaze landed on Celine. “And Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
Bastien gave her a little jab in the ribs to bring her into the present. She blinked out of her stupor, feeling a hot flush creep up her neck. “Y-yes?”
“Congratulations, my dear. Your rendering of the Greek gods in today’s fashion was simply beautiful. If you happen to win in the end, I shall like to see that dress encased in this very hall.”
Words left her entirely. She was sure she was gaping at him; she felt her jaw slackened, though no sounds made it out of her lips. Claude Baudelaire, the idol whose boutique she knew better than her own house, wanted her design in his maison de mode!
“Merci,” Bastien replied in her stead.
Monsieur Baudelaire smiled amicably. “Very well, then. Before you leave, make sure to take a slip of paper from Gabriel. It will contain directives for your next challenge, which will be evaluated tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Coco asked sceptically.
“You heard correctly, Miss Jones,” he replied.
Taking one of the cards from Gabriel, he read: “Suppose you have to deal with capricious clients in the future. They will ask for an entire wardrobe of new looks to be ready in one night.” He lowered the card.
“I wish to test your expertise by being your capricious client on the next challenge. So, oui, tomorrow.”
An entire wardrobe…
Coco’s brow creased in distress as she swallowed, but in the end, she said nothing. Monsieur Baudelaire headed for his office. “Gabriel will explain the rest.”
Once his door was closed, Celine loosened a long, exhausted breath.
She needed this horrible day to end, immediately.
She didn’t want to see buttons, or needles, or stencils.
She only wanted to submerge herself in a steaming bathtub full of bubbles, close her eyes, and wallow in self-pity until she somehow got out of the bath a different person, in a different life.
But the day wasn’t over yet. And she had to squeeze sewing a whole gown in one afternoon.
Celine returned to her station to collect her things. A small smile broke across her lips all of a sudden. She had been too distracted by her stolen sketchbook to register exactly what Monsieur Baudelaire had said earlier.
He loved her design! And he wanted it displayed by the end of the competition!
It was almost enough to make her forget about Franz.
Almost.
“Help me with this?” Bastien said, coming up to her side. He pointed at the embroidered wings on his back. “It itches.”
He must have started scratching his neck a while ago, because thin, red marks marred his skin. Silently, she undid the clasp that held the wings together. And just as silently, she slipped away.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Hey,” Bastien murmured, stopping her before she could leave their cubicle. “Are you alright?”
“Something like that.”
“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 they belonged to her—they were her work, her imagination, a small part of her soul. And she wanted them 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 to beg for 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.