Chapter 19
Celine peered down at the city from the round window in the attic, the only one that wasn’t barred with wooden planks.
The Eiffel Tower stood out like a misplaced iron limb a giant might have dropped from the sky.
It had taken her a few years to make peace with the structure after finding out they hadn’t built it temporarily.
If she was truly frank, she frowned a little less every time her eyes fell on it during nighttime, when it was illuminated in full and the lights looked like tiny faeries dancing around it. And, in an hour, the lights would flare up and Jacques would be waiting outside to drive her around the city.
Celine’s gaze wandered to Milady, who was carefully stretched across the small window seat, cleaning her paws.
She had brought the cat along to combat the emptiness of the old house.
With Bastien there, talking nonsense and reading to her, it hadn’t seemed so eerie.
But she hadn’t seen Bastien in days, nor did she expect to see him soon.
Milady was the next available soul she could find to drag along with.
Gently, Celine flicked one of her ears. “What do you think of it, Milady?”
Scarcely lifting her head to at least acknowledge Celine’s existence, the cat stretched out her claws and nicked Celine’s thigh.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
Milady bared her teeth.
“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 was that Coco 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 sample of 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 were looking?”
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.”
Celine considered ignoring him. She felt embarrassed for studiously returning to the old house daily, not to finish the design for Monsieur Baudelaire, not to finish her birthday dress either, but to wait expectantly and see if Bastien would show up.
Spending every day with him for six weeks straight had made her dependent on him. And Celine hated that.
“It’s not for the competition,” she allowed, regardless. The pin-drop quiet that settled over them made her skin crawl. It was more difficult to ignore than Bastien. “My mother and I ran into Coco a while ago—it’s a long story. I have to sew a gown for my birthday now.”
Bastien cleared his throat, his fingers clumsily brushing against her skin again. “It doesn’t look like your style, either.” From the mirror, she saw him scowl at the high waist line.
“Yes, well…” Celine didn’t want to share too much with him on this, but she assumed he already knew. “I can’t exactly dress like a flapper. Jacques will propose that night, and my mother wants everything to be perfect.”
“In that case,” he grunted, “you might want to wear something that doesn’t resemble a safe lock. Or a habit. I can hardly see your feet.”
Celine waited until the last button went in and turned to face him.
“It’s too long,” Bastien supplied, looking up at her with deceivingly clear eyes.
He resembled a saint in supplication so much that Celine had half a mind to slap him again. The resentment she had nursed since the night of the party rushed back in waves. Then her lips split into a smile.
She could use this as an opportunity to get back at him—her turn to play.
All these days, besides missing Bastien and hating herself for wanting to see him again, Celine had been brewing ways to get back at him.
Clearly, Bastien Ménard was not one to self-reproach.
He wouldn’t come to her, guilt-stricken, to ask for forgiveness and refrain from repeating the same mistake.
He only knew how to settle the score—she had seen him do so enough times with Jacques.
And Celine was tired of his antics. She wanted a little revenge of her own.
She wanted to toy back, with his life, his head, his heart, too, if she could reach it.
So she pinched the pleats of her dress and lifted it, so that it hung below her knees. “Is this length better, then?”
Still kneeling, Bastien lifted a brow. “I doubt you want my opinion on that.”
“Your mother was a designer,” Celine said calmly. “You have a good eye for fashion, I won’t deny it. So?”
He shook his head.
She lifted it to her knees. “How about this?”
Bastien considered her with a flat expression. Then shook his head again.
Celine lifted the dress higher.
Finally, his lips cracked into a confused smile. “What are you doing?”
“Me?” Celine shrugged. “Nothing.”
Slowly bringing himself to his full height, Bastien towered over her. “Is that so? I thought you were angry with me. Now you’re flirting?”
“You’re not the only one who gets to be fickle.” Still holding the pleats of her dress, Celine walked to her desk and sat on the edge so that the elegant length of her legs was on full display. “Isn’t this what you were begging to do the night of the party, anyway?”
“Begging is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Isn’t it?” she pressed.
“I was drunk. I don’t exactly—”
“You made a quip about Jacques not knowing how to touch me. You said you would teach me a few things instead.”