Chapter 23
Castles in the Sky
The car pulled up to an almost deserted street, right in front of a store with yellowing newspapers covering its windows and a sign that had been painted over to conceal the previous name of the establishment. A faint R and E stood out the most, but they could have meant anything.
Bastien turned the engine off, stepped out, then opened Celine’s door for her.
“We’re here,” he announced aloud. “You can get out now.”
She held fast to her seat. “Where have you brought me to?”
“Your paranoia astonishes me.” Bastien held out his hand. “No hidden agenda today, I promise. I’m not as careless as to murder you in a place surrounded by windows.”
“Covered windows.”
“Please, get out of the car.”
Begrudgingly, Celine took his hand, and didn’t let go, even as he struggled to unlock the door with his free one. She was being ridiculous, but this place was peculiar, even for him.
“How come you own a key?”
“All part of the surprise,” he said as he jingled the handle until the door gave way and swung inwards.
A cheerful little bell welcomed them inside.
The entrance was only a small welcoming hall with two tall lamps layered in dust that flanked another door.
It looked no different than a storefront vestibule.
Bastien unlocked the second door, and whatever Celine had expected to greet her, it was definitely not glass displays and racks of clothes.
He let go of her hand and, in three quick strides, crossed the room to turn on a light switch. Power sizzled through the ceiling.
It was a boutique, she realised belatedly, all cream marble walls and floors, with gilded accents decorating the corners.
Mirrors hung on the walls like paintings, framed in swirling, brass Ss.
The lamps overhead were tulip-shaped. There was even an in house elevator at the corner, its iron door patterned with whiplash lines.
The whole room was an ode to Art Nouveau.
“Is this…” Celine trailed off.
A facade of tall, newspaper-covered windows faced the street outside. Mannequins were displayed before each one, covered with a white sheet to protect the dresses from the dust and what little sun pierced through the newspapers.
“Welcome to House of Reneau,” Bastien said. “Or at least, the cobweb version of it.”
“I—” Celine was utterly stupefied. She had only ever seen the outside of it, back when she was still a little girl, too young to go in and try any of the gowns. And then Adalene had passed, the boutique had closed, and Celine had only the magazines to flip through and gaze at the designs.
Not knowing where to look, she proceeded towards the first rack of dresses her eyes landed on and tugged at the white sheet.
It came off with a flutter of dust motes, revealing five designs of sparkling gold and lapis lazuli beaded gowns.
Delicately, Celine touched one of the gowns, weighing the fabric on her fingers. The pattern appeared familiar…
“Is this where you got the Cleopatra dress?” she asked, squinting at him.
Bastien scratched the back of his neck, joining her. “It was on short notice. Although I had to make a few adjustments to it. Fit it more to your style.”
“Bastien Ménard made me a dress just to carry out his evil plan?” Celine exaggerated a scandalised gasp. “Your mischief-making is unmatched, Monsieur.”
She could hardly believe she had been wearing one of Adalene Reneau’s designs, let alone one refashioned by her son.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, then tugged at her wrist. Celine followed, head thrown back in admiration, wanting to take in as much as she could of the boutique.
“Wasn’t that the whole purpose of bringing me here?” she inquired while Bastien tried to get the elevator going. “To surprise me?”
“My skill on the sewing machine wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The swirling iron door slid open and they entered. Bastien pressed a brass button that read 2 in elegant calligraphy. Despite the disuse, the elevator operated smoothly. “This is.”
A little bell dinged. The iron door opened to the second floor, entirely occupied by working stations.
Floor to ceiling racks of fabric rolls and ribbons covered one entire wall.
A cabinet of buttons and gems stood near a corner, while the other was taken up by a low shelf of journals and sketchbooks.
Celine’s heels echoed loudly on the coral tiles as she neared one of the stations. The needle in the sewing machine glinted under the lights. Her eyes snapped to Bastien. “Is this your mother’s studio?”
“Was,” he corrected quietly. “It was her private atelier. Whenever she wanted to create something, she would come up to the second floor while the customers shopped downstairs.”
Celine tried to stifle her excitement, unable to determine what Bastien was feeling at the moment, but his disposition revealed nothing.
Ever the unfazed, he simply leaned against the elevator door.
So Celine remained transfixed, her arms taut at her sides as she buzzed with the impulse to run around the entire expanse of the floor, squealing at the thought of being in Adalene Reneau’s studio.
She, Celine LeBeau, was standing in Adalene Reneau’s studio!
When she looked over at Bastien again, she found him frowning. “I understand it’s not in its best shape and there’s probably a resident spider somewhere around, but I expected a little more excitement from you.”
“She worked here!” Celine finally let out. “She actually worked right here!”
“Actually,” Bastien pointed at the other side of the room, “she worked over there. Better lighting.”
Squealing, Celine rushed to the sewing machine, planted her palms on the table and let out a string of barely legible praises.
“Is that supposed to be an indication of excitement?”
“Are you kidding me?” She shot her arm forward, displaying her fingers as they trembled with amazement. “Look! This is the stuff of dreams!”
Bastien chuckled. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Because I want to reopen the studio.”
Celine’s arm slackened at her side. “You—really?”
“Mhm.”
“I will finally get to shop at Adalene Reneau’s boutique?” She squealed again.
“Or…” He slid his hands in his pockets. A slow smirk formed on his lips as his gaze met hers. “You could open it with me and design in Adalene Reneau’s boutique.”
Celine paused in her excitement. She jerked her head to peer over her shoulder in case someone else had materialised behind her and Bastien was addressing them. But the space remained empty, just a shelf of drawers holding sewing supplies.
“Me?” Was he being serious? “You want me to design for you?”
“Assuming we don’t win Monsieur Baudelaire’s competition, yes.
I want you to open this place with me and be a designer here.
I have seen all of your works, Celine, your style is incredible.
I know how much you want to do this. And it doesn’t have to be Maison Reneau—I don’t want to revive the studio as it was.
We can call it whatever we want. We can make it better. ”
We.
Celine gaped at him, joy and stupefaction flitting across her face like ripples in the water. What sort of epiphany had struck Bastien Ménard?
“Are you sure you didn’t fall from my window last night and suffer a concussion?”
“I’m perfectly fine, Celine,” he assured.
But she shook her head in disbelief. “What could have possibly inspired you?”
“Claude Baudelaire might have suggested something. And…” he trailed off. “You. All you’ve done these past few weeks is run around, being headstrong about becoming a designer despite your mother’s aversion. It’s rubbing off on me. I want to do my own thing now, too.”
“This place must hold a lot of memories for you,” Celine said softly, running the pad of her finger over the dusty balance wheel on the sewing machine.
She took another look around, and now that the daze had somehow evaporated, she noticed how still everything stood in the room, as if frozen in time, including a piece of fabric fed halfway through the needle in the machine.
He had preserved all of it—she realised with a start—after Adalene’s death. “Are you sure you want to change it?”
“Change doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Bastien replied truthfully. “My mother would have hated to see this place stagnant. I’m looking forward to revamping it.”
She could tell how giddy and nervous he was in the way his shoulders were holding his posture up stiffly while his bottom lip was being tormented between his teeth—waiting for her answer.
She had never seen Bastien this way before.
He was always so nonchalant and uncaring that this excitement of a little boy who has just been given a treat made him look like a completely different person.
“You do know,” Celine started, “you won’t be able to get away with triggering the sprinkler system in your own atelier. And if I’m the designer, I won’t be as lenient as Monsieur Baudelaire about wet fabrics.”
Bastien pushed off the elevator door, walking over to her. His grey eyes were two bright stars.
“Our atelier, and you won’t have to worry about that,” he said, placing his palms on the desk, the sewing machine standing between them.
He was almost at eye level with her, even by leaning down a bit, but Celine had thrust her nose up in the air and that made her feel better about the height difference.
“I will find reliable models to replace me.”
“And what will you be doing in the meantime?”
“Dealing with our customers, of course. Someone will have to.” He pulled a face. “Your people skills aren’t really up to par, considering.”
Celine narrowed her eyes at him. “Considering what exactly?”
“The fact that you are a desperate people-pleaser,” he put forth bluntly.
“I still haven’t said yes, Bastien. You might want to tone down the insults.”