A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “Is that my gown?” I turned from the dress to Madame Jolène, still confused.

  “Your design was used for it, yes,” Madame Jolène said. Those needle eyes of hers met mine, and there was nothing in them. No understanding, no guilt, no indignation. Nothing but empty grayness—and that was the deepest insult of all. She stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway, motioning for me to continue, dismissing me as she always did.

  But I was done being dismissed. I planted my feet, distantly feeling the blood from my finger running down my wrist and soaking into my sleeve. My thoughts clarified, the confusion replaced with anger. She’d made my dress without telling me—even as she minimized my role in the competition, even as she used me to make the Fashion House look better.

  “You didn’t tell me you were having my gown made,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” The woman let out a haughty snort. “This gown was specially designed for me by Madame Jolène.” She turned to Madame Jolène. “This is highly unusual, is it not? Whatever is she talking about?”

  “Don’t mind her,” Madame Jolène said evenly. There was an almost imperceptible change in her face. Slowly, the blankness tightened into coldness. I thought she would say something—anything—to explain or defend herself, but instead she asked, “Aren’t you on your way to the washroom?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “This is neither the time nor place to discuss this.” Madame Jolène’s eyes narrowed at me.

  “I don’t understand.” I wasn’t really thinking now. I was just speaking, my words carried forth on my pent-up frustration. “I’m not an actual contestant in the competition, but you made my gown. You want to send me home at the end of this. But I’m talented. You know I am—”

  “Home.” A bit of a smile winged its way across her lips, and then it was gone. “If you wish to question me and my actions, Emmaline, you will be going there much sooner than I’d originally planned.”

  The threat hung in the air, and suddenly I hated her. I hated that she had the power, and that all I could do was stand there with my gown only a few feet away, and that no matter what I did, I could never possess it again in the same way. It was made; it had gone from sketch to dress, and I hadn’t even known until a moment ago.

  “Do you wish to go home now, Emmaline?” Madame Jolène asked smoothly.

  For a few seconds, I didn’t know what I would do. My rage swarmed and gathered inside me, my thoughts like bees readying for an attack. But, somehow, I suppressed those black points of fury.

  Instead of continuing past the consulting room to the washroom as Madame Jolène had instructed, I turned on my heel and made for the fitting rooms. I’d been holding my hand up, but now I dropped it to my side.

  My finger pulsed with my heartbeat as I moved down the hallway. I fought to keep facing forward. Everything inside me wanted to turn back and behold my gown—my gown—one last time. Even though I’d barely had time to see it, I knew it intimately, from the godets sewn into the skirt to the fifteen jet-black buttons running down the back seam.

  Behind me I heard Madame Jolène say, “Try walking in the gown. I’ll make sure the hem length is correct.” Her tone was the same as always: taut, professional, brisk.

  I picked up my pace, rushing down the hallway, away from her and my gown. If I didn’t make myself leave, I knew I would march back up to Madame Jolène and say things that would get me thrown out immediately.

  My heels were slowing my pace, so I took them off and discarded them in the middle of the carpet. It was a tremendous Fashion House violation to be barefoot, but I didn’t care. By the time I reached my fitting room, I was almost running, weaving in between customers mingling in the hall. I wasn’t sure where I was going—just that I needed to get away.

  “Excuse me!” Madame Solange called out as I brushed by. I kept going up the hallway, moving faster and faster.

  “Emmaline? Emmaline!” It was Kitty. I came to an abrupt stop, which was just as well, because I wasn’t even certain where I was heading. She was standing in her fitting room, refolding silk around a bolt.

  “What on earth is the matter?” she asked. “Gracious! Where are your shoes? Your finger! Are you all right?” She motioned me into her fitting room and picked up a strip of cotton from her sewing case. “Here. Oh dear, you got blood on your sleeve.” Wrapping the cotton around my finger, she applied pressure to the puncture. “What’s wrong?”

  “Madame Jolène—” I struggled to form a coherent thought. “She made my gown.”

  “What do you mean?” Kitty asked, frowning.

  “My sketch, the one she took at the audition in Evert. She had it made for a customer, and she didn’t even tell me!”

  The creases in Kitty’s forehead eased, and she let out a hesitant laugh.

  “You should be proud. It’s an honor to have your gown made by Madame Jolène. It happens all the time. The Fashion House is founded on the principles of collaborative design. But . . . maybe you just need a moment?” Kitty asked, patting my shoulder uncertainly.

  I nearly retorted, No, I don’t need a moment, I need my gown back, but I caught myself and nodded, attempting to smile. It wouldn’t help anything to get mad at her.

  “Let me get you a glass of water.” She left the fitting room.

  I took a few gulps of air. Something wet and sticky oozed down my finger. It was bleeding again, Kitty’s impromptu bandage failing to stop it. I reached over to her sewing cabinet and opened the top drawer, searching for another strip of cloth.

  A letter sat on top. I was about to move it away, but then I saw something that made my heart stop.

  Slowly, I picked up the letter.

  Kitten—

  Your father and I have been following the Fashion House Interview rankings and it seems that you are consistently near the bottom. You know what we have sacrificed to put you in the competition. Please do not waste this opportunity to better our family, and do anything necessary—sabotage, even—to secure a better rank.

  Regards,

  Your Mother

  Instantly, every interaction I’d had with Kitty rose in my mind, reframed in cruel clarity. Kitty helping me get ready for the interview. Kitty getting fabric and buttons for me. Kitty encouraging me when I was down. Before, the scenes had warmed me. Now they were cold sequences of manipulation.

  She was kind, and I was so desperate for a friend that I had let her in, played right into her hands. I’d invited her into my chamber, confided in her, given her plenty of opportunities to sabotage me. I should’ve known. She was sweet. Too sweet. No one was that nice.

  Not here, not in the city.

  “Emmaline?” Kitty stood in the fitting-room doorway. Her eyes went straight to the letter in my hand.

  “It was you. You told the maid not to wake me, and you destroyed my sketches. And the materials for the wedding gown. You intentionally got the wrong shade of silk and size of buttons.”

  Quickly, Kitty pulled the curtain to her fitting room closed. She set down the glass of water, slowly, carefully.

  “I know how this looks.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, its usual gentleness gone. “And yes, I haven’t been . . . completely honest with you.”

  I stared down at the letter. My finger left a bloody imprint on its grainy surface. I fixated on its rigid outline, desperately trying to make sense of everything.

  “I’m not here to win the Fashion House Interview apprenticeship. I would like to, but I’m a realist. I’m here for the connections.”

  “What?”

  “After the competition concludes, I’m going to apply to the royal family as their in-palace seamstress. You don’t have to be a great designer—you just have to be good at mending, and I’m one of the strongest technical sewers here.”

  “The in-palace seamstress . . .” I tried to clear my thoughts.

  “Nothing would make my family more furious than if I was in the graces of the royal family and they weren’t. I’m sick of being controlled by the
m, but they won’t be able to reach me if I’m there.”

  “This letter instructs you to sabotage the contestants.”

  “I haven’t, though. Think about it, Emmaline. Even if I did sabotage someone, what would the point be? It wouldn’t make me win the challenges. No, my goal is to establish myself as a strong sewer and use that to gain a new life.”

  She spoke with practiced ease. There was no sweetness in her tone or eyes—just calculating thoughtfulness. I watched her, feeling like she was transforming right in front of me and that I was seeing the real Kitty for the first time.

  Now that I thought about it, Kitty always turned in well-made clothes. And when she explained her work, she always emphasized its tailoring and fit. Since the royal family only wore Fashion House clothing, she’d be an ideal applicant for a palace seamstress because she’d participated in the Fashion House Interview.

  All the pieces seemed to add up. The question was whether to believe the story they created.

  “My family uses everyone.” Kitty pressed on. “Even me. At first, I thought I’d been accepted into the Fashion House Interview because of my skill. But my parents purchased my spot to elevate their status. I told them I was done with them, but they don’t care. They still try to use me, still send me those ridiculous hampers, still go around telling everyone how I’m going to win the whole thing. Little do they know that I’m going to elude their grasp entirely—using the scenario they put me in.”

  “But—you are like them. You pretend to be sweet, and it’s an act.”

  “I suppose you’re right. They want me to be competitive, so I’ve been overly nice and helpful to everyone, hoping they’ll hear about it and go mad with frustration.”

  Slowly, deliberately, I folded the letter in half and put it in my pocket. For all I knew, this was a performance, too.

  “I’m going to keep this, and if I get even the hint that you’re sabotaging anyone, I’m going to take it to Madame Jolène.” I could’ve turned it in right then and there, but maybe Kitty was telling the truth. If there was the slimmest possibility she was, I wanted to give her the chance to break free from her family. But I needed to be careful. “And from now on, I think it’s best if you stay away from me.”

  I wasn’t prepared for the hurt that filled her eyes. It was swift and deep, a duplicate of my mother’s eyes when I told her I was leaving for the city. I steeled myself against it—I couldn’t trust her.

  I left her there and went back up the hallway to where my shoes were sitting on the carpet, one upright and the other a few paces away on its side. I slipped them on and headed back toward the lobby and the stairs. I walked several yards before my feet started tingling, the pain from the heels renewed after being dulled all day long.

  “You look . . . tired,” Sophie said as I entered our chamber. She watched me from her perch on the wide windowsill. I stopped in the doorway, kicking off my heels. I jerked myself out of my gown. I wanted to divest myself of everything that was the Fashion House and Madame Jolène. Luckily, it was my consulting gown, so I could get out of it without assistance.

  “I am,” I said shortly, undoing the clasps running down the front of my corset and letting it fall to the ground so I was wearing only a slip. I was aimless for a few moments, my mind still half in the fitting room with Kitty and half in the hallway with Madame Jolène and my gown.

  It was all so much.

  Too much.

  I forced myself into action. I unfolded the wedding gown silk and retrieved a measuring tape from my sewing case. As I did, I noticed Sophie’s vanity had been moved yet again. “Will you stop moving things around? And what are you even doing here?”

  My snappish tone got her attention, and she set down the recent issue of La Mode Illustrée she held. She was immaculate in her slim, French-bustled skirt and high-necked blouse. The two pieces were made of a shiny black satin. The only sign she’d come from consultations was a pincushion tied around her wrist.

  “I have to change things,” she said, giving a careless shrug. “Things that stay the same bore me. And Madame Jolène lets me take my breaks when I wish.”

  I didn’t bother to reply. My hands held the silk and tape, but my mind was loose again. I wondered, for the first time, about the woman who had purchased my dress. How had she felt when she saw it and slipped it on? Occasionally we tried on Fashion House pieces to get a sense for their fit. I always loved the moment when a new gown was in place on my body—how it was completely separate from me yet encased me. There was always a bit of surprise.

  Dresses were different once they were on a figure. Garments needed bodies to complete them, to incarnate them, and I always marveled at how they appeared one way on a hook and another on a woman. Did the owner of my dress feel transformed? Did she feel more or less like herself? I hated that I would never know.

  “I need—” I started and stopped, cutting myself off because I didn’t really know how to finish the statement.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had an eventful day.” To say the least. I couldn’t tell her about Kitty. If she was trying to escape her parents, I wanted to protect her. But I could tell Sophie about my gown. “Madame Jolène took my design and had it made for a client. I know I shouldn’t be surprised. The Fashion House owns our designs. But I never anticipated how it’d feel to see it made.”

  Sophie didn’t seem startled. Instead, she slowly set the magazine down on the window ledge and swung her legs over the windowsill so she was facing me, her black skirts spilling down onto the floor like silken ink. Her full attention took me aback. I expected a sardonic comment or an empty platitude. After all, that was Sophie: always fluctuating between sarcasm and vague detachment.

  “What happened?”

  “Madame Jolène had my gown commissioned for a client.” I played with the edge of my measuring tape. “I didn’t even know until I saw it just now.”

  “How did it look?”

  “It looked . . .” I thought for a moment. It was beautiful. But there were things—subtle things—that had been changed. The skirt was fuller, as was Madame Jolène’s signature. The bustline was higher to provide more coverage, and the gold pattern in the jacquard was softened, the drama mediated by smaller swirls. Even though the dress was mine, Madame Jolène had commercialized it.

  “It looked different. Too different. I’ve been dreaming about creating that sketch, and now it’s done.”

  Sophie listened, running her hands through her black hair and wrapping the ends around her fingers.

  “I see,” she said. A glint, like a white flame, lit up her eyes. “We are similar, you and I. We have to do things our way.”

  My hands, which had been fussing with my silk and measuring tape, stilled. Similar? Sophie and I? Hardly. Aside from her also being a contestant, I didn’t think we could be more opposite.

  “Not really,” I said. “You’re at the top of the competition. Everyone already knows it. I’ll be fortunate if I get to do a few designs before I get sent home.”

  “That’s hardly the future I want,” Sophie said. “I don’t like designing for someone else.”

  “What do you mean?” I stared at her, perplexed. “You’d give up designing if you have to do it under Madame Jolène’s label?”

  “I’d never give up designing. I might as well try not to breathe,” Sophie said. She pulled her legs back up onto the windowsill, wrapped her hands around them, and then rested her chin on the tops of her kneecaps so she seemed to only be face, arms, and legs.

  “Then what else would you do?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave a small sigh, stretched out her legs, and picked up her magazine once again. I sat back on my heels, staring at her. I’d always thought that I was the only one who felt held back at the Fashion House. I’d never thought anyone else—especially Sophie—might feel the same way.

  I picked up a straight pin, but instead of slipping it into my silk, I played with it, pressing my finger lightly
against its sharp tip. Enough for its sting to register, but not enough to break the skin. The calluses from home—from scrubbing floors, weeding, lugging casks of beer—were disappearing, leaving my fingers sensitive and soft.

  For a moment, I let myself think about home. My mother still hadn’t written me, even after I’d sent the money home. It could only mean one thing: she was mad at me. The thought followed me everywhere I went. It was a shadow I couldn’t shake, darkening everything with its presence.

  I wondered what she was doing now. She probably was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over the ledger. She recorded everything in there: the sales, whether they were for a dinner for five or a single pint; the payments due to the beer vendors and the bank; the dates our keg shipments would arrive. Everything went into that book, and she spent hours analyzing the numbers, seeing where she could cut, where she could spend, when she could schedule things. Above all, she was a shrewd businesswoman.

  I stopped still. A businesswoman. No one had ever shown her how, just like no one had ever shown me how to design. She had figured it out, bit by bit, and with no money or support from anyone else.

  A realization flashed in my mind like a zigzag of lighting, nearly making me drive the pin into my skin. I let it drop to the floor.

  My mother, against the odds, had opened the Moon on the Square—and even though it was hard work, she ran it the way she pleased.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, I could do the same thing. Only not with a pub.

  With a fashion house.

  I saw it: a beautiful showroom lined with gowns in shades of purple, green, and gray. It would be my domain, where I could design whatever I desired and be judged on my work alone, not on where I came from. I wouldn’t have to fight for respect in a place that didn’t want me or even saw me as a future designer. I wouldn’t have to worry about limited competition time or sabotage or having to make a wedding gown from a silk I would never have picked.