A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “No,” he said. “I am not just ‘one of her suitors.’”

  He took a step toward me and I flinched, unable to stop myself. He was tall, much taller than I’d first realized, and his lean frame couldn’t mask the muscles rippling along his arms and shoulders beneath his jacket.

  “When you speak to her,” he said, “you tell her this: Alexander Taylor sends his regards.”

  I nodded, certain that if I spoke, my voice would squeak. Whoever this man was and whoever he was to Sophie, I didn’t want any part of it. I broke his gaze to glance around, relief coursing through me when I saw Lady Weber motioning to me. She pointed out the open library doors to a waiting hack. It was there to take me back to the Fashion House.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Remember to tell her,” he said. “Do not forget.”

  I didn’t respond. I just hurried away, only pausing to set down the glass of wine. As the hack pulled away, I wiped my fingers on my skirts, ridding them of Mr. Taylor’s lotion. But even though I rubbed them dry, I couldn’t get rid of the musky scent. It hung in my nose all the way back to the Fashion House.

  “Where were you all day?” Sophie asked as I entered our chamber that evening. It was a strange question coming from her, considering she was the one always gone from our room. In fact, I was surprised she was there. Earlier this week, I’d asked her why she was always moving her furniture around (“I hate things that stay the same,” she’d said) and why she was never in the room (“I need time on my own”).

  “I was at a library dedication.” I stopped just inside the doorway, kicking my heels off, and pulling my necklaces over my head so I could drop them atop the vanity. I yanked at the closures on my gown and heaved it over my head. I left it where it fell, shedding my Fashion House self like a snakeskin. I was happy to be free of the dress, as though taking it off could wipe away the icky feeling I’d had since leaving Mr. Taylor at the dedication. “Sophie, I met someone at the event. Someone who asked about you.”

  “Oh? Who?” Her voice was a little higher than normal, and I walked over to where she lounged on her bed. As usual, she was attired in black and, even though we were in our chamber, she was wearing silver heels that glittered around her bony feet.

  “Mr. Taylor.” Saying his name made the musky lotion scent rise in my nose again, as though the smell and the man were indelibly linked. “He asked if I knew you.”

  Sophie, who had been leaning against a mountain of tasseled pillows, half propped herself up on her forearms. She lifted one hand to her dark hair and her fingers started twisting through it. Even though her gaze was fixed on me, her eyes dimmed in a distant way, as though the thoughts in her head were much more forceful and consuming than I was.

  “Don’t worry.” I moved closer to her and sat on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t tell him anything about you.”

  Wherever she’d gone in her head, my words reached her and she came back to herself, blinking and focusing once again.

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “You—what did you say instead?”

  “That I’d met you but hadn’t spoken much with you.”

  My response seemed to startle her and for once she seemed unsure.

  “You lied for me?”

  “Well, yes. He seemed . . . a bit intense. I wasn’t sure of the best thing to say.”

  Her brows drew together, and her fingers swirled through her hair. She seemed to be puzzling something out, something she couldn’t quite grasp. Finally, she said, “That—that was very kind of you.”

  Now it was my turn to be startled. “Oh, of course.”

  Her frown deepened, and her lips opened a few seconds before she said, “Thank you.” The pleasantry sounded odd coming from her, as though it was a phrase in a different language, something she could repeat but didn’t quite understand. “I wouldn’t have expected any of the other contestants to do such a thing.”

  She sat completely up on the bed, crossing her legs and straightening her back. She stopped fidgeting with her hair, and a pink hue warmed her cheeks, as though she was embarrassed by her frankness.

  “That’s a shame,” I said.

  “Well.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and her usual coolness descended on her in the same way that cold, gray clouds descend on the sun during Shy’s bitter winters, obscuring any brightness. “I don’t mind. They’re threatened by me.”

  She spoke without any hint of boastfulness. I nodded. It was true. She was impressive—both beautiful and talented. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, but I knew I was intimidated by her.

  “Who is Mr. Taylor? Is he one of your suitors?” I realized she hadn’t told me anything else about him.

  “Yes, just another suitor.” She spoke quickly and so assuredly I found myself nodding even though I didn’t quite believe her. “He’s a supporter of the Reformists Party, so Madame Jolène doesn’t let him visit. But he tries to send me messages any way he can.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  She gave an impatient sigh and only shrugged in response. Whoever he was and whatever he was to her, she wasn’t going to tell me. And maybe that was better. I shouldn’t get involved with her and her volatile lovers, especially one like Mr. Taylor.

  “By the way, while you were gone, Madame Jolène announced the next challenge.” Sophie spoke a bit too eagerly, as though anxious to put our previous conversation aside.

  “She did? She didn’t even wait for me to get back?” I couldn’t keep the note of frustrated panic out of my voice. The Fashion House Interview was happening without me—and no one noticed.

  “Calm down. I told her I would tell you what it was.”

  “Did Madame Jolène care that I wasn’t there?”

  “Well”—Sophie smirked—“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But she did mention that you were away on press duties. Anyway, the new challenge is quite interesting. It begins tomorrow morning and concludes tomorrow evening. It’s a bit of a scavenger hunt. We need to find three fashion elements around the Fashion House—like a gown or a hat or a handbag—and sketch out how we would change them.”

  “How we would change them?”

  “Yes. Make them better. Make them our own while still honoring their past.”

  Make them our own. I certainly hadn’t done that with the last challenge. Anxiety rose from the pit of my stomach. So much rode on this new challenge. I needed to redeem myself since I’d failed so colossally before, and prove to Madame Jolène that I was more than her press puppet. For a moment, I teetered on the brink of falling apart.

  Stop. Stay calm.

  Last time, I’d panicked. I’d panicked so badly that I’d drowned out the sound of my own voice and made something I wasn’t proud of. I wouldn’t do that again. I pushed myself up off Sophie’s bed, letting the decisive action drive me, and I walked around to my side of the chamber.

  I’d been so preoccupied with Sophie and Mr. Taylor and the new challenge that I hadn’t noticed my part of the room had been transformed. A new wardrobe had been brought up and its doors stood open, a profusion of pink exploding from it. Several white boxes sat neatly next to it, their lids removed to reveal hats, handbags, and gloves nestled on delicate tissue paper. “What’s all this?”

  “I think it’s for you.” Sophie surveyed the items. “Francesco said it’s your press attire. He left a letter for you on your bed.”

  The dresses and accessories were in the softest shades of pink, but it didn’t matter. If they’d been vomit-green, I’d have been less repulsed.

  “I should redesign one of these for the challenge,” I muttered. “Honestly, the only time this shade of pink should be used is for baby bonnets.”

  Sophie laughed appreciatively as I walked over to my bed, where a large envelope was propped against my pillow.

  The sight of the envelope made my stomach twist. I’d written my mother at least four times since arriving, and she should have gotten at leas
t one of the letters by now. A letter could still be on the way—but I hadn’t heard anything from her.

  I thrust my thumb under the flap and yanked the letter out, reading it quickly.

  Emmaline:

  You are scheduled for three interviews tomorrow starting at 12:00 p.m. in the Grand Salon:

  Mr. Tristan Grafton for the Eagle at 12:00 p.m.

  Mr. Harold Winston for the Avon-upon-Kynt Times at 1:00 p.m.

  Ms. Eugenie Walker for the Ladies’ Journal at 2:30 p.m.

  Be ready by 11:00 a.m. I will come and approve your appearance. Your press wardrobe has been sent up, and you will notice that the outfits have been labeled for your various events and interviews.

  More notes will be sent up, but your points during the interviews will be:

  —The Fashion House’s generous decision to admit you as a contestant in the Fashion House Interview

  —Your excitement for Madame Jolène’s fall collection

  —The tangible ways in which the Fashion House has worked to become more accessible to the middle-class customer

  The following day, you have three social functions. More information on those will be sent up later.

  Regards & Kisses,

  Francesco

  Three interviews, lasting from noon to three thirty, and I’d have to start getting ready at ten. Before then, I’d need to study the interview questions. I wouldn’t have any time to look around the Fashion House for items to improve.

  “These will take forever,” I said, more to myself than to Sophie.

  “What will take forever?”

  “I have three interviews tomorrow.”

  “Who are they with?”

  “The interviews? The Eagle, the Avon-upon-Kynt Times, the Ladies’ Journal.” I crawled onto my bed, holding the letter. I lay down, letting the mattress cradle me and the letter drop from my grasp.

  “No, who are the different reporters conducting the interviews?” Sophie asked. I groped for the piece of stationery and found it lying next to me. I held it up in front of my face and squinted at the cursive.

  “Mr. Tristan Grafton, Mr. William Harding, and Ms. Eugenie Walker.”

  There was a long pause and then Sophie said, “I see.”

  I swallowed my angst long enough to ask, “Do you know any of them?”

  “Only Tristan Grafton.”

  I reread the name. I wondered if Mr. Tristan Grafton might be the reporter from the station. He worked at the Eagle. Tristan. Tristan Grafton. It had a pleasing sound to it, the sort that would fit a blue-eyed, blond-haired young man.

  “Is he nice?” I asked. I wanted to ask what he looked like, but that seemed too bold.

  “He is.”

  Her usually distant tone had an awkward hitch, enough to catch my attention, but she fell silent.

  Giving up on a further response from Sophie, I sat up and slid off the bed, my skirts catching in the blankets. I noticed another Fashion House envelope on my dresser.

  What would this one say? That my entire week would be interviews and press events and not to even bother thinking about being a serious contestant?

  I opened it. Inside was a slip of paper and four bills. The slip read:

  FASHION HOUSE INTERVIEW

  CONTESTANT: EMMALINE WATKINS

  COMPENSATION FOR TWO WEEKS OF WORK

  DEDUCTIONS: BOARD, ATTIRE

  I pulled out the crisp bills and, for the first time that day, I felt something other than frustration. I counted them, hardly believing how much was there. Even with the deductions for board and attire, there was enough to cover a third of the Moon on the Square’s mortgage payment. I clutched them tightly—I’d known contestants were paid, but I hadn’t anticipated it would be this much. Money like this changed things. Money like this could justify me leaving my mother behind and coming here. I would send all of it home, aside from a small bit to keep to send her a gift later on since her birthday was in a few months.

  There was a sketch page and a pencil sitting on my vanity. Eagerly, I sat down on the stool. I slipped the bills into my pocket, picked up the pencil, and wrote,

  Dear Mother,

  Please use this toward the mortgage.

  I started to write about the press events and how Madame Jolène made me wear pink and how I’d created the most basic navy coat in all of Avon-upon-Kynt. Then I scribbled out those lines, my motions so violent they tore the paper and left a faint scrawling mark on the vanity top. Across the way, Sophie softly cleared her throat but didn’t say anything.

  Slowly, I sat back on the stool, my reflection staring back at me from the mirror. My face was white beneath my suntanned skin, the color drained away. Nothing, not even the thrill of making money, could make me feel secure here.

  I picked up the pencil again, but instead of writing a letter, I started sketching a design. As I did, it came alive in my mind: an exquisite purple-gray gown with thin lines of beading and crystals running down the skirt. I lost myself in it until all I saw was the dress and all I thought was, Even if Madame Jolène discounts me, I will find a way to succeed in the next challenge.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING, I pulled out the dress and accessories specified for the interviews. It was, of course, a blush gown. Francesco sent up styling directions, dictating everything from which wrists I was supposed to wear the bracelets on to how to carry the handkerchief. There was even a small vial of perfume for me to wear.

  Kitty helped me lay out the look on my bed. I surveyed the dress, jewelry, shoes, and perfume, morosely eating macarons from a hamper Kitty’s parents had sent.

  “Even this macaron is pink,” I sighed. I popped the last bit of the meringue in my mouth. “That’s the last one I’ll eat. I don’t want to take your entire box.”

  “Oh, please do,” Kitty said. Her tone sounded earnest, as though she wasn’t just being polite. “Eat them all, if you wish.”

  “Kitty, have you finally set aside your rule-following? Are you trying to sabotage me with a stomachache?”

  “Certainly not.” Despite my teasing, she frowned at the hamper. “It’s just that my parents send these each week.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “Perhaps. But you don’t know them. All they care about are appearances. They want it to seem like they have lots of money and that they love me.”

  The macaron suddenly seemed too sweet. I swallowed down the last sugary bits. I’d already told Kitty about my schedule and how I wouldn’t have enough time to dedicate to the Fashion House Interview.

  She’d listened, her brow furrowing with concern, and had said, “That is a tight spot. But do your best and show Madame Jolène that you can offer the Fashion House a lot more than press attention.”

  “I doubt she’ll ever believe that,” I’d replied, nearly shuddering as I’d remembered the way she’d stared at me and how her gray eyes had filled with spite. “She’s already decided I won’t win.”

  Now I wanted to comfort Kitty in the ways she comforted me. But what did I know of cold, uncaring parents? My mother, despite her firm ways, loved me and did everything she could to give me a better life, while Kitty’s parents demanded that she elevate their status.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Kitty said, seeming to see my concern. “I find satisfaction in doing things the right way. It’s my form of rebellion. And as for my parents”—she shrugged—“they are who they are. But never mind that. Let me help you into the dress. You’re running short on time.”

  She helped me lower the gown over my undergarments. Tilda was scheduled to come and help me and, as usual whenever I needed her, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Yesterday, I’d been dressed so quickly and sent off to the library wing dedication that I’d hardly had time to look at myself. Today, I could fully see Madame Jolène’s vision for me. The pink dress had an angular row of ruffles running from the waist to the hem. Thankfully, the ruffles on this gown were stiff, sharp, and modern, even if they featured a faint
vine pattern.

  Kitty turned me toward the mirror. “Ooooh, Emmaline, you look beautiful!”

  I stared at my reflection. Kitty was right. Madame Jolène was right. The gown had a huge skirt, which accentuated my slender waist. The Queen Anne neckline enhanced my lacking bust. The manipulation of the fabric and the sharp crease of ruffles running down the front inspired drama. Somehow everything fit . . . yet too well. I shifted, staring hard at my image. It was too perfect.

  “It’s so expected,” I said to Kitty.

  “It’s classic. You look like a country princess.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The door jostled open and we both looked up to see Tilda enter, her expression as dour as ever.

  “You’re late,” Kitty said. She didn’t adopt the harsh tone that Madame Jolène and Sophie used when speaking to the maids, but she was stern. “You should’ve been here an hour ago.”

  “So sorry,” Tilda said, but she didn’t bother to offer an excuse. She came up to me and motioned for me to sit down so she could do my hair.

  “Well, I have to go,” Kitty said. She didn’t say it, but I knew she needed to search for Fashion House items to redo for the challenge. The other girls were combing the different floors for gowns and accessories to improve as we spoke. “Good luck with your interviews.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to help me,” I replied. I watched her leave, wishing I too could go and rifle through sketches at the Fashion Library and stare at the gowns displayed on mannequins in the Presentation Lounge. There were thirty minutes between my second and third interviews. That would be my time to strike. I’d have to rush, undoubtedly. But it was my only true chance to find three items to redesign.

  “Floral headband . . .” Tilda read the instructions for my look. The headband sat on my vanity and she picked it up, smiling amusedly at its overly girly print. “Well, isn’t this sweet?”

  I bit the inside of my lip, hard. Tilda would never dare to be so familiar with the other contestants. Then again, they wouldn’t allow it. They—and anyone else of note at the Fashion House—treated Tilda and the rest of the staff with impersonal coolness. I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. I knew what it was like to do thankless work, the kind that ended in dishes that would just need to be scrubbed again the very next day.