A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  I clenched my sketchbook and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my belly. It was happening again. I was failing at the Fashion House Interview for the second time.

  I was numb through the interview, my mind running rampant as I thought through my options. Vaguely, I heard the reporter ask me something.

  “Yes,” I said automatically. Francesco cleared his throat loudly, and I blinked.

  “Ms. Walker was asking you how you felt about the first challenge.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” I focused on the bespectacled woman in the blue serge office dress. I hadn’t answered the question, but she wrote something down in her notebook. She was probably taking notes on how odd I was. “The first challenge . . . well, it was . . . I learned a lot.”

  “I’m sure it was overwhelming for someone from the country,” Ms. Walker said. “When I heard you were included in the Fashion House Interview, I wrote an op-ed about how it really isn’t fair. To you.”

  “To me?”

  “Indeed. You don’t have the background of the other girls.” Ms. Walker stared owlishly at me, her eyes magnified by her thick-framed glasses. They were terribly dated, the style popular a couple years ago. On top of that, they didn’t flatter her face shape. Even as I focused on her words, my mind fixed them for her. “It isn’t your fault, but you were set up for failure just to appease the Reformists Party. These artificial changes to the system don’t benefit anyone.”

  “That certainly isn’t the case—” Francesco started to say.

  “It’s true.” I interrupted Francesco. He tried to kick me discreetly with his cheetah-print slippers, but his motion was overly dramatic, and Ms. Walker rolled her eyes. “I don’t have the same background as the other girls, and because of my press duties, I don’t have the same time for the challenges or Fashion House fittings. I must admit, it has been difficult.”

  “Keep going,” Ms. Walker said at the exact same time that Francesco said, “Goodness, Emmaline, stop.”

  Just moments ago, my mind had been frazzled. Now, I was fully present, aware. Aware of Ms. Walker’s hungry eyes, waiting for a juicy comment. Aware of Francesco’s desperate attempts to shush me. And aware of my own heart, beating hard underneath my ridiculous dress.

  “I may have been set up to fail, and I’m not like the other girls,” I said. “I don’t come from much. But I wouldn’t trade who I am or where I came from for all the wealth and status in the world.” My mother’s face flashed before me. Yes, there were lines around her eyes and across her forehead. But there was something else. Not fire. Smoldering. A long-simmering power forged by a lifetime of hardship.

  Everyone judged her by her mistakes and told her she couldn’t run a pub on her own. Despite them, she’d done it. Was doing it. “My whole life, nothing has been handed to me. I get it on my own. You say that I’m set up to fail—and maybe I am. But I will design, and if Madame Jolène doesn’t like it, I won’t stop. I’ll design another gown and then another. And another one after that.”

  I stopped abruptly and the three of us sat in silence. Ms. Walker nodded, slowly at first, and then faster. I thought Francesco might scold me, but when I looked at him, he smiled back.

  “Emmaline is strong,” he said softly. “I knew it from the moment I saw her outside that tent in Evert.” He straightened his fitted suit jacket. “Now, then. I think you have enough quotes, Ms. Walker. Emmaline needs to get to the judging.”

  “I still have five minutes!” Ms. Walker protested.

  “So sorry.” Francesco stood up, motioning for me to do so as well. “But this contestant is needed elsewhere.”

  Outside the salon, I grabbed my sketchbook from a side table. Francesco had told me to leave it there during the interview, but now I clutched it to my chest.

  “Thank you, Francesco,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Just . . . thank you.”

  “Oh, never mind! Now, get going to the judging. I’ll see you there. I just need to freshen up and change.”

  I nodded, still smiling. I’d learned that people in the city changed at least three times a day because they were always looking for ways to show off their new styles. Francesco, though, sometimes changed four or five times.

  A sudden sound of heeled footsteps and voices came from the stairway. It was the other girls—Kitty, Cordelia, Ky, and Alice were walking down to the challenge critique. Sophie was nowhere to be seen. I quickly joined them on the landing, sketchbook still held tight.

  “How were your interviews?” Kitty asked.

  “Good. Though they didn’t afford me much time to work on the challenge. I only have two sketches right now.”

  “Just two?” Cordelia asked, glancing over her shoulder at me. Her sketches faced outward, and I could see detailed designs, complete with dashes of watercolor.

  She wore a skirt held up with men’s suspenders. A few days ago, I’d asked her about her style. I was familiar with Kitty’s classic looks, Alice’s girly fashion, and Sophie’s dramatic aesthetic. Even Ky made sense to me—she’d cross-pollinated her style with looks from both Britannia Secunda and Japan. But I’d never met a girl who wore men’s pants, blazers, and work boots.

  “Menswear is interesting to me,” she’d said. “In a way it’s more limiting, but I love how strong the lines are. Growing up, I always dismantled my father’s clothes to look at their patterns and shapes.”

  After I’d asked her about her style, she seemed a bit friendlier. Before, she’d never have bothered to ask about the status of my sketches.

  “Yes. For now.” I flipped open to the middle of my sketchbook.

  “Wait, are you sketching another one right now?” Ky demanded.

  “I don’t have much of a choice.” I tried to sound calm, but Kitty’s alarmed expression and Ky’s triumphant face said it all: I was doomed.

  Don’t get distracted.

  Anchoring the sketchbook against my stomach, I lifted the pencil.

  “Don’t trip!” Kitty exclaimed.

  Each step made the sketchbook’s hard cover jam into my middle. My first line jiggled across the page. Shaking my head, I flipped to a fresh sheet. But I didn’t know what I was sketching. Just like the first time, no warm fog came to envelop me. My mind was empty, as white and blank as the page in my sketchbook. I couldn’t wrestle anything out of it except basic images and silhouettes. They were jagged and rough, and none of them spoke of beauty or elegance.

  And even if they had, any sketch I did right now would be rushed, without any detailing. It would be lines without life. Without me.

  Slowly, I flipped the cover of the sketchbook back and closed it. During the first challenge, I’d submitted something I didn’t love. I couldn’t do that again. If I received an unfavorable judging (which I inevitably would) for only having two sketches instead of three, I’d prefer that to showcasing a sketch I wasn’t proud of.

  “Giving up?” Ky asked.

  “Yes.” I paused. “No. I have two strong sketches and I don’t have enough time to do another one. Or at least one that represents my style and my skills. I’ll submit only two.”

  For a moment, silence fell over the girls and they glanced at each other. Only Ky looked pleased.

  “It really isn’t fair that you didn’t have the same time as the rest of us,” Kitty said. The other girls didn’t agree, but they didn’t disagree either.

  “Thank you, Kitty,” I said softly. She was close to me, close enough to squeeze my arm. I focused on the warmth of the gesture, trying to ignore the fact that I was walking into the challenge with an incomplete entry.

  We had only a few minutes to set out our sketches in the sewing room before the double doors swung open and Madame Jolène entered with her design board. She was coming from a fitting—her tape measure hung around her neck and a pincushion was affixed to her wrist with a huge gray ribbon. Her dress was a bit less extravagant than her usual looks—a duchess satin gown with architectural folds running across the neckline
and hem. The skirt was a full A-line, no doubt to allow her the ease to stand and bend as necessary. Even though she’d probably spent the entire day attending the queen, her hair was still a perfect chignon of loops and spirals.

  She came to the front of the room and scanned us with one swift, unblinking glance. I nearly cringed when her eyes passed over me. As if in anticipation of her scorn, every muscle in my body locked and tensed.

  “Good evening.” Madame Jolène didn’t pause to let us respond. “This challenge is based on fashion updates and revisions. This is to measure your skills at breathing new life into a style while maintaining its original integrity. Since this challenge is based on sketches, you will also explain your work, so we may understand your mindset.”

  Explain your work. I didn’t know we’d have to talk. My already tense body tightened even more. I tried to think about what to say and how, attempting to conjure up some sort of script. I let out a tiny sigh of relief when Madame Jolène approached Cordelia first.

  “Sketches,” she said commandingly, holding out her hand. Cordelia gathered them up and gave them to her. I was surprised to see her fumble. In my mind, the other girls were so confident. Superior, even. Yet Cordelia’s movements were quick, antsy.

  “As you know, I like to feminize menswear and turn it into something altogether different,” Cordelia said. Her voice was devoid of natural inflection, as though she was reciting lines from memory. “I took a gown, a cape, and a blouse from last season’s collection and redid them to reflect my style. I used the original fabrics for all of them. For the gown, I was inspired by a man’s smoking robe and changed the silhouette to reflect that, complete with a loose fit and waist sash. I approached the cape and the blouse in a similar manner, turning them into pieces that a man might wear in the evening.”

  “So I see.” Madame Jolène’s attention was on the three sketches. She flipped through them once and then again. “The concept is strong. Your aesthetic is unique, so your pieces always feel distinct.” Cordelia beamed, and the design board murmured in approval. “However! You’ve completely obliterated the previous history of the pieces. You’ve used the same fabric, but other than that, one would never know what the previous items looked like. It entirely defeats the purpose of revising an existing garment—one would never know this was a redesign because you’ve annihilated the original.”

  Cordelia nodded. She tried to look unbothered, but she wilted behind her smile, her shoulders drooping like a flower in the hot sun. Madame Jolène handed her sketches back, and she took them with a limp hand. The design board shook their heads, as though they’d known all along that Cordelia would fail at the challenge.

  “Now let us see what”—her gaze swept the room once again—“Emmaline has done!”

  Every step Madame Jolène took toward me seemed to make her grow taller. With her design board following her, I felt like I was in the pathway of a stampeding pack of stylish gazelles. I took my sketchbook and held it out before Madame Jolène asked for it.

  “They are the first two sketches,” I said.

  “Two?” She took the sketchbook from me but didn’t open it. “Where is your third sketch?”

  “I . . .” Excuses leaped to my tongue. I didn’t have time, I wanted to say. You didn’t give me any. Frustration came with the excuses. It wasn’t my fault I had two sketches, and she already knew that, yet she stood there, asking me why that was the case. “Well, you see—” My voice was hard. Madame Jolène didn’t say anything, but her chin lifted, and my words died on my lips. I cleared my throat, remembering what she’d said to me before. Excuses couldn’t save me. Only my work could save me. “I did two.”

  “Well then. Let us see these two sketches.” She flipped the cover of my sketchbook back and stared down at the page. One of her design assistants let out a gasp. Madame Jolène turned the sketchbook toward me.

  Angry dark slashes covered the sketch of the red dress, mutilating the design. I nearly gasped like the design assistant, but I couldn’t. All the air in my lungs was gone.

  “What is this?” Madame Jolène’s voice was measured, but there was iron in it. She turned away from me to hold the sketchbook up so the rest of the room could see. A twitter of surprise ran around it as everyone saw the destroyed sketch. “I assume this is some manner of sabotage. I will say it now—I have no time for this and neither do any of you. This had best be the last time that anything of this nature occurs. Is that understood?”

  Scared silence filled the sewing room.

  “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Madame Jolène,” the other girls quickly chorused.

  “I can still see the sketch underneath the lines,” Madame Jolène said evenly. “I will judge your work based on that.”

  She held the sketchbook up, squinting hard at the design. I tried to catch my breath. In. Out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The air caught in my chest. It was one thing for everyone here to dismiss me and look down on me. But to destroy my work? When I already was barely making it?

  I turned to my left and right, searching the faces around me. Everyone was staring at me, but the minute I looked around, they averted their eyes. Everyone except for Sophie. She met my gaze. If she pitied me or was surprised, it didn’t show.

  Was it her? She was always at the top of the challenges—but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to stop me. Or maybe Ky? I cut my gaze to her. Everyone knew she was cutthroat. My eyes went from girl to girl, even Kitty, trying to read guilt in their expressions, their body language.

  “Tell us about these,” Madame Jolène said. Her voice was back to its usual tone—firm and commanding—as though there was nothing amiss. She turned the page of the sketchbook to look at the maids’ redesign. Just like the red dress, it was slashed over with pencil.

  “I—” My voice cracked and I struggled to collect myself. “I redid the maids’ uniforms and the red gown that the Moroccan ambassador’s wife wore.” I was numb, barely hearing my own voice. “I thought they both needed some updating, but I still wanted to maintain the overall existing lines.”

  “Ah. The Parliament-vote dress. How did you see it? It isn’t on display.” Madame Jolène’s voice was like cold water on my face, shaking me free of the red wash of anger that enveloped me. I forced my hands to relax and lifted my head. Whoever had done this to me wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.

  “The painting in the stairwell,” I said, putting my breath behind my words. “That’s where I saw it.”

  “How very . . .” She seemed to search for the right word. “Unusual.”

  “She took her inspiration from a painting and the maids’ uniforms?” One of the designers murmured. “That wasn’t what she was supposed to do.”

  “No,” Madame Jolène said. “It wasn’t.”

  I steadied myself against the sewing table. I’d failed. Again. I felt like my sketch—slashed over, torn apart.

  “But the rules were to recreate a Fashion House design, and both are Fashion House designs,” Madame Jolène said. “It shows ingenuity and creativity, and you can clearly see the existing garments in these new versions.”

  For a moment, I didn’t feel anything at all. Not happiness or joy or even the mix of despair and anger from before.

  She liked my work.

  The thought centered itself in my mind, dispelling my tumultuous emotions. I’d succeeded. I’d succeeded at a Fashion House Interview challenge for the first time.

  “Well done,” Madame Jolène said. “Your take on this challenge was refreshing.”

  Even though my sketches were still crisscrossed with pencil scars, I couldn’t help myself. I grinned at Madame Jolène. She stared impassively at me, but there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. She abruptly turned away, declaring, “Ky is next.”

  She moved on, but I couldn’t focus on Ky’s critique. I’d done something right. Possibly even found my footing in the competition. I grasped my sketchbook tightly with both hands. Th
e cover was still flipped back, revealing the maids’ uniform.

  I stared at it, wanting to enjoy the image, but the pencil lines gouging through the page demanded my attention. My breath was tight in my throat again. Whoever had done this had failed—this time.

  Once again, I looked around the room. I knew most of the girls and certainly Madame Jolène didn’t want me here. But I’d never imagined any of them would try to stop me. At least not this way. Another thought occurred to me. When I’d first arrived, I didn’t have a welcome letter. Had someone been trying to sabotage me from the very beginning?

  Abruptly, I closed the cover of my sketchbook, banishing the sight of my destroyed sketches. I clutched the sketchbook to my chest, as though it could protect me. But deep down, I knew nothing could protect me here.

  Chapter Nine

  THE NEXT MORNING, we assembled for the announcement of the challenge. I went to the meeting with a bitter taste in my mouth, the remnants from yesterday. Not only would I need to succeed at the challenge, but I now had to guard myself and my work.

  Before walking into the sewing room, I glanced at the rankings. Sophie was at the top, but Ky and I were tied just behind, separated from her by one point. Cordelia was next. Kitty wasn’t at the bottom—Alice was—but she wasn’t far from it. It was exciting to see my name so close to the top, but I couldn’t shake the unease that hung about me.

  In the sewing room, Alice, Ky, and Cordelia stood in a companionable cluster. Kitty was with them, but when I entered, she came to stand next to me. Sophie was near the other girls and chatted with them, yet, as always, she somehow distinguished herself.

  “How are you doing?” Kitty asked.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “Just a bit shaken.”