A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “What are you doing here?” Sophie placed the white silk down on the bench and glided to her feet with catlike grace.

  “I . . . can we sit?”

  Her heart-shaped chin dipped in a nod. I moved toward the bench and sat down on it, her eyes following me. Now I was sitting and she was standing. I’d thought she was going to sit down as well, but she remained as she was, hands in the pockets of her robe. Cool detachment emanated from her as strongly as her witch hazel–violet scent.

  “Is this what you do down here all night?” I asked, futilely trying to start a lighthearted conversation.

  She took one step closer until she was looking down her nose at me, ignoring my question. “What is it you want?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Her presence made me fumble for the right thing to say. Her eyes, twin pools of darkness, stared at me. All I could see in them was the reflection of the candlelight and my own outline. “I—well, we are roommates, after all, and I thought we should get to know each other a little better.” I held out the bottle of wine in one hand and the box of chocolates in the other. “Kitty gave me these. Would you like to share them?”

  Sophie’s gaze flicked from my face to the wine and chocolates and then back to my face again. I smiled weakly, feeling dumber than I had in all my life.

  “Very well.” She crossed her arms. “Did you bring a corkscrew?”

  “A what?”

  “A corkscrew. To open the wine.”

  “I . . . no . . . want some chocolates?” I set the bottle down and opened the lid of the box. The rich smell rose into the air. White chocolates in the shapes of mermaids and seashells lay on turquoise tissue paper. I held the box out to her and she stared down at its contents for a long moment before taking a mermaid, as though the decision was of the utmost importance.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, delicately holding the chocolate between her pointer finger and thumb.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes. Don’t you have a cold?”

  My lie from earlier. I’d completely forgotten.

  “Oh, yes, much better,” I said, but I spoke too quickly, too nervously.

  “You don’t look very sick.” She bit into the mermaid’s tail, never once letting her gaze stray from me. Bloodlike raspberry filling oozed out of it. “Did you go somewhere today?”

  “Go somewhere?” I tried to laugh. “No. Where on earth would I go?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “But I noticed my cloak was missing from my wardrobe when I went to our chamber at break. And you were missing as well. Perhaps with my cloak?”

  “I . . .” I started talking before I had a lie ready, my stomach twisting into so many knots I thought I might throw up.

  “It’s fine.” Sophie held up a hand. “I don’t really care where you went or why.” She smiled smugly and I stared up at her, confused. Did she just want me to know she could tell I was lying?

  This whole idea was a mistake. I would have to figure out how to make the collection on my own or with someone else, someone less calculating. I stood up, quickly replacing the lid on the chocolate box.

  “What do you want, Emmaline?” Sophie asked, still standing in front of me. She held up the mermaid, which she had nearly nibbled into oblivion. “You came down here for a reason, and it isn’t just chocolates and wine. What is it?”

  For a second, I considered pushing past her and retreating to our chamber. But even if I hid the truth from her now, how would I make a full collection when she lived in the same room? She was already suspicious and, somehow, always seemed to be a step ahead of me. If I showed her I trusted her and needed her, I could turn this disastrous roommate get-together into a business partnership.

  “I want to make a gown for a blacklisted client.” I was glad I was standing. Sophie was taller than me, but not so tall that I couldn’t look her right in the eye. “And create a fashion collection.”

  “Oh?” Sophie sounded surprisingly unmoved, considering what I’d just said.

  I squinted hard at her, trying to interpret her lack of reaction. “I want—well, need—your help to make the gown and the collection.”

  She popped the mermaid’s head into her mouth, slowly chewing and swallowing before speaking again.

  “Were the chocolates and wine some kind of bribe?” Her tone was mocking and she neatly wiped raspberry filling off her fingers.

  “No. I just wanted to . . . be nice when I asked.”

  She didn’t seem to pick up on that lie. I’d wanted to wait before asking her, to see if I could trust her.

  “Good. I can hardly be bought for such cheap sundries. Who is the gown for?” Even though her face was impassive, there was a note of intrigue in her tone.

  “It’s for Duchess Cynthia Sandringham. I want her to wear it to the Parliament Exhibition.”

  “And why are you asking me to help?”

  “I . . . well, you are talented and quick and think for yourself. Also, Tristan Grafton thought it was a good idea.” It was awkward to mention him. But Sophie didn’t even seem to register his name.

  “And the collection?” She was all business.

  “I—” There wasn’t a way to undo things now. I pushed aside my worries about Tristan. “I want to debut it just after Cynthia attends the exhibition.”

  “Debut it? To whom?”

  “The Eagle and some members of the Avon-upon-Kynt Times who are loyal to the younger Parliament members. I’ll send invitations just a few days before . . . I was thinking you’d know who’d be best to invite.”

  “And then?” Her questions came out agilely.

  “Then hopefully we can start our own fashion house somewhere here in the city. We’ll have to get funding outside of any banks. It’ll be hard, but the city is divided, and this is the perfect time to strike.” My hands were slick with sweat as they grasped the chocolate box, their moisture catching in the velvet. She played with the ends of her hair and twisted a single strand around her finger. Other than that small motion, she might as well have been made of stone. “What do you think?”

  “I will consider it.” Abruptly, she turned away. “You should go now. Don’t forget the wine.”

  “Wait—what do you need to consider?” I sputtered. I’d assumed yes and no were the only two answers. This nonreply sent my head spinning.

  She bent down, picked up the bottle of wine by its neck, and held it out to me. Slowly, I took it from her, and she walked briskly over to the entrance to her fitting room, drawing back the curtain with a sweep of her arm.

  “Sophie,” I entreated, clutching at the wine bottle and chocolate box. “At least tell me what you think.”

  “I think it’s late,” she said. “I will let you know.”

  “When? Tomorrow?”

  “Soon.”

  There was sharpness in her tone. She stood by the entrance, waiting for me to leave. When I got to the entryway, she followed close behind me, her toes nearly clipping the backs of my ankles with each step, shooing me out. I stopped and turned around to face her one last time.

  She’d come to a stop right behind me, and I found myself closer to her than I’d ever been before. The scent of her perfume filled my head with its heavy scent, and I could see every one of her black lashes, and the almost translucent nature of her fair skin. Though many things are distasteful up close, Sophie was stunning. She didn’t seem unnerved by my proximity. Her unfathomable black eyes remained evenly on mine, and she regarded me calmly.

  “You won’t tell Madame Jolène, will you?” I hated how pleading and small I sounded.

  “Of course not.” As she spoke, she angled her chin up and planted her hands on her hips.

  When I was little, my mother had read me Paradise Lost. I’d been mesmerized by the passages about Satan. He sounded like the most beautiful creature in the world: proud, unrelenting, an angel of light. If I ever drew him as a girl, Sophie would be the only inspiration I’d need.

  “Thank you,” I murm
ured. “Please let me know soon. I’m meeting Cynthia at the gazebo outside the gala. Will you let me know before?”

  She didn’t respond. She simply stepped back into her dressing room, whisking the curtain shut behind her.

  I didn’t see Sophie again until the next morning at breakfast. The dining hall was one of my favorite rooms. Three chandeliers in the shapes of swans hung from the ceiling, their wings extended and their necks stretched downward. The ceiling was painted varying shades of blue, making it feel like we were underwater, watching the swans dive for fish.

  Sophie sat at an angle across from me, in between Alice and Ky. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t seem to notice me as she stirred milk into her tea and remarked on Alice’s new ribbon bracelet.

  I swallowed a bite of crunchy toast and it caught in my throat. Coughing, I picked up my own tea to wash it down. It dislodged the toast, but my throat was still tight. Probably because the tightness didn’t have anything to do with the toast. It had been that way since last night.

  I stared at Sophie, still trying to make eye contact, desperately trying to read her thoughts. If she didn’t agree to help me, I’d have to drastically rework my collection—and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I wasn’t worried she’d tell Madame Jolène. That wasn’t like her.

  But as I sat there, I realized with a streak of panic that there was someone else she might tell. Mr. Taylor.

  It seemed as though she hated him. That she wanted to be free of him. But I couldn’t be sure—so the thought hung over me, as heavy and present in the room of my mind as the swan chandeliers overhead.

  “Emmaline?” I twisted around in my chair to see Francesco standing behind me. “You have a gentleman caller.”

  “Me?” I blurted out.

  “Yes, a Mr. Tristan Grafton. We typically don’t allow these types of personal visits here but”—his eyes softened as he stared down at me—“I can hardly see the harm. You’ll only have a few minutes before you need to dress for the botanical garden lunch. He’s in the second-story parlor.”

  I tucked my hair back, trying to make sure there weren’t any errant wisps. My heart lifted for the first time since talking to Sophie last night. I hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. At least my gown was a dark shade of pink instead of the sickeningly pastel pink most of my dresses were. In fact, in some lights it could even pass for a soft purple.

  “You look beautiful,” Francesco said, noticing my actions as he led me out of the dining room and up the stairs. “No need to be nervous.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, my hands still fussing with my hair. We reached the second story, and Francesco gestured for me to keep going.

  “Have fun.” He grinned, jiggling his eyebrows up and down.

  I opened the door and stepped inside. Tristan was standing by the window, his back to me. The sight of his messy blond hair made my heart jump. At the sound of the door opening, he turned around.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. Maybe he’d slept on my proposal and decided he was backing out. If he did, the entire plan would crumble before it even began.

  “Good morning to you too,” he replied. “Shall we sit?”

  We met in the middle of the room, and he stepped aside, offering me that atrocious orange-and-pink settee I’d sat on last time we’d been in this room.

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll take the chair.” I sat down on a wingback upholstered with a light-gray fabric. Tristan took the settee, and I laughed nervously at the sight of him balanced on its edge. “The colors complement you.”

  “Do they? I’ll remember next time I’m buying a suit—I’ll get one in orange and pink.”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. I didn’t mean to be rude but I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “I’m not sure.” He didn’t seem to mind my abrupt change of subject. “Last night, I finally finished going over the textile factory employee lists.”

  Textile factory workers. My mother. Amid everything else, I’d forgotten Tristan had taken on this task for me.

  Almost involuntarily, I glanced over at the small clock sitting on one of the side tables. Nine thirty-five, it said. Back in Shy, my mother would be checking the taps and getting the beer glasses ready for the day. The stew, which she always set to simmer overnight, would be filling the whole pub with the rich notes of steamed rabbit. I saw myself there, too, pulling out silverware for the noontime customers and folding an endless number of napkins. But that wasn’t right. Only she was there, alone.

  Guilt rose in my gut.

  “You did?”

  “Yes. But it was very strange—there was no record of her. There were plenty of Ediths, but there was no Edith Watkins anywhere.”

  I blinked at him. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. The records seemed thorough, but perhaps she slipped through the cracks somehow?” Thoughtfully, he tapped his fingers on the side of the settee, his gaze distant. “Or perhaps she worked somewhere else?”

  For as long as I could remember, my mother had always said she worked at a textile factory in the city. That was where she’d met my father. That was why she hated the city so much. Yet . . .

  She did keep things from me. She’d never told me who my father was. Never told me about the letters from the bank.

  “No, she said it was a textile factory.”

  “Could be so,” Tristan said, shrugging. “What did she tell you about it? Did she say anything specific about where it was or what she did there?”

  “Yes, she . . .” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t have anything to finish the sentence with. I thought hard, willing myself to recall something, anything. She must have said something I could remember and hold on to. But nothing came to mind—it had never seemed odd before. I always just thought she didn’t like thinking about the past.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” He placed his hand on my knee. I held still, wanting his hand to stay there forever. “She could’ve very easily worked there and never been recorded.”

  “Yes, but what if she never worked there?”

  Since arriving at the Fashion House, I hadn’t heard a word from her. I’d written her letters and sent her money, but I might as well have sent them into a black void. I’d never expected silence from her.

  “If she didn’t, then I’m sure she had a reason not to tell you,” he said gently, soothingly. “Everyone has a right to their secrets. Sometimes they are the only things we truly possess.”

  A memory came to me. My fifth birthday. I went down the stairs to find my mother had baked a cake for me. Of course, I’d been expecting a cake. She made one every year for me and, occasionally, for our best patrons. They were always the same: a brown cake dusted with powdered sugar and topped with berries. That year, though, was different.

  That cake was covered in the frothiest white frosting I’d ever seen and sprinkled with crumbled candies.

  “It’s extravagant, I know,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he saw this. But five is a very important age.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” I gasped, my eyes nearly as round as the cake.

  “Do you think so?” She came to put her arms around me and lift me up so I could see it better. “It’s as pretty as anything you’d see in the city.”

  As pretty as anything you’d see in the city.

  Before, I’d never given the comment a second thought. But now, it didn’t make any sense. Now, I’d been to the Republic District where the factories were located. I couldn’t imagine anyone having a decadently frosted cake there. In fact, the only confectionery shop was located well within the Quarter District.

  “Did your father ever say anything about her time in the city?” Tristan asked. “Maybe she told him more than she told you.”

  “I—no,” I stammered. “Actually, I never knew him. He passed away when I was young.”

  “Really? So did mine. Ne
ver knew the bloke or my mother.” He spoke casually, unconcerned.

  “That must’ve been difficult,” I said. His hand was still on my knee, his touch so warm I could feel it through my skirts. “You were an orphan?”

  “Raised in the children’s home in the Republic District. But it wasn’t so bad. You don’t miss what you don’t know.”

  “I suppose . . .” Almost without thinking, I placed my hand over his. A startled expression crossed his face and, for a moment, his bravado was gone and it was just him, staring at me.

  “Emmaline?” Francesco opened the door. “Sorry, darling, but it’s time to go.”

  We both withdrew our hands. I took a deep breath, reordering the bits of myself that’d gone soft and loose under his touch.

  “Thank you for checking,” I said as I stood up. It was hard to sound professional, but I had to—Francesco was watching. I doubted he minded (in fact, he seemed to enjoy all affairs, romantic or otherwise), but I didn’t want word getting to Madame Jolène that I fancied a reporter. “I appreciate it.”

  “Take care of yourself. You have big things to focus on.” He meant my new collection and Cynthia’s dress, the things that mattered in the here and now. I nodded, but my mind wasn’t on my plan. Instead, it was filled with elaborate cakes, my mother’s eager eyes, and the sensation of Tristan’s hand on my knee.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE DAYS LEADING UP TO the gala were torture. I felt disassembled, scattered. In the mornings I was sent off to press events, and in the afternoons I struggled to work on my wedding gown in the sewing room with the other girls. All the while, I had a hundred imaginary conversations. Most of them were with Cynthia. I would beg her to let me design a dress for her, but no matter how I tried to rewrite it in my head, she said no. The rest were with my mother, only I couldn’t finish those. In my mind, I would ask her, Did you really come to the city? What happened? You didn’t work at the factory as you said, did you? and she would stand there, biting her nails, staring at me with no response.