A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  At the very end, toward the bluffs, was the pub. It was backlit by the setting sun, and warm light spilled out of the windows. Everything about it was cozy and inviting, but I was a bundle of nerves. Inside was my mother. Inside, I’d have to face everything—her anger, the reality that I’d been kicked out of the Fashion House Interview, the fact that I’d returned to the place I’d tried so hard to leave behind.

  We walked through the main dining room to the kitchen. Johnny moved easily through the pub. He stepped around the few tables and nodded to the men sitting at the bar. I walked awkwardly, breaking out in a sweat, even though I wasn’t lugging the pillowcases any longer.

  I knew every corner of the pub so well. The curtains did their gentle dance in the windows and the floorboards creaked their familiar welcome. Nothing had changed. The pub, with its well-worn yet hospitable feeling, wrapped around me with the friendliness of a barn cat weaving around one’s legs. Yet I couldn’t relax into it. It beckoned me with its easy familiarity, but I remained rigid, refusing to surrender to it.

  We stepped into the kitchen, Johnny leading the way. My mother’s back was to us as she chopped carrots at our dining room table. Usually, that was my job, and I would sit while I did it. She stood. At the sound of our entrance, she turned around. Our eyes met.

  “Emmy,” she breathed. “You’re back.”

  My mother took a few steps toward me but stopped before she reached me. Her gaze, which had been on my face, moved to the pillowcases in Johnny’s arms, and then to Sophie.

  “You’re back?” It was now a question, not a statement. Her face, which had been soft, stiffened into creased forehead lines and taut mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “I—” I didn’t know where to start.

  “Where should I put these?” Johnny asked when I didn’t continue. He held out the pillowcases and my carpetbag.

  “What’s in those?” my mother asked. “And who is she?”

  “I’m Sophie Sterling,” Sophie said. She made her way over to the kitchen table and sat down, relaxing into the straight-backed chair with a sigh. “I was in the Fashion House Interview with Emmaline.”

  “The—the competition wasn’t quite what I thought it would be.” I had the vague idea that we should sit down. There was too much space between us, and we were facing each other as though we were adversaries, not mother and daughter. But I didn’t know how to suggest it, not when she stood there, waiting for an explanation. “I tried to start a new fashion house with Sophie, but Madame Jolène discovered it. We were kicked out yesterday.”

  “And you came home.”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes sparked again, just like they had when she first saw me. I wanted to stop there and stand in the warmth of her gaze forever. But I couldn’t. I had to dash her hopes. Again. Just like I had when I left the first time.

  “I’m home for now.”

  My mother seemed to retract into herself, like a snail curling into its shell. Then she crossed her arms and lifted her chin. I knew this look of pride. I’d seen it over the years, but this was the first time it had been directed at me.

  “I see. What is your plan?”

  “To finish the collection and debut it after the Parliament Exhibition. We would like to stay here until then . . . if that’s all right.”

  “Stay here?” my mother echoed me. Before I could respond, she abruptly turned and walked back to the dining room table. She picked up her knife. The sharp chop of the knife severing the carrots filled the room.

  “Please, Mother,” I said.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Her only answer was the vigorous slice of her knife. One piece of carrot rolled off the cutting board, but she didn’t stop to retrieve it. Johnny shifted and awkwardly set down the pillowcases next to the carpetbag.

  “I should be going,” he said. “I’ll leave these here, if that’s all right.”

  None of us said anything, and he backed out of the kitchen. The minute he got to the dining room he hurried to the front door, as if he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  “Well.” Sophie stood up. “Is there a place I can wash up while you two . . . talk things out?”

  I nodded, still looking at my mother. She set down the knife and, without a word, picked up the cutting board and dumped the carrots into a pot.

  “I’ll take you up to my bedroom, Sophie.” I left my mother in the kitchen. After a few minutes, I heard the chop, chop of her knife start up once again.

  We never did talk about it that night. In fact, my mother didn’t say we could stay, as much as she didn’t tell us to leave.

  I woke the next morning, bewildered. I was in my old room, under my old quilt, but there was an elbow jabbing me in my back. Sophie’s elbow. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  There was a voice, too. It drifted up the staircase and through my open bedroom door. One that I knew, but one that most definitely did not belong in Shy. It was a cold fingertip against my spine. I jumped out of my bed, quickly tore out of my nightgown and into one of my old work dresses, and hurried down to the kitchen.

  A man stood in the middle of the room, talking to my mother. He wore a black suit with a dark red tie and matching cufflinks. Almost involuntarily, I wiped my hands on my skirt, as though they were covered in oily lotion.

  “Ah, there you are,” Mr. Taylor said. His eyes followed the lines of my plain work dress. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  My mother took one glance at my face and came to stand next to me. She put her arm protectively around me. I leaned into her, just a little.

  “I heard that you and Sophie came here after getting kicked out of the Fashion House Interview,” Mr. Taylor said. Leisurely, he walked in a slow circle around the kitchen, his eyes trailing over each dish, glass, and pot. “I came to see you.”

  “See me?” I figured he was looking for Sophie. The thought that he had business with me made the fine hairs on my arms and neck stand up.

  “I understand that you’re trying to start a new fashion house.” He cut his circle short and turned sharply to face me. I shuddered, trying to shake the feeling of his silky palm off my fingers. “I can help you with that. The Reformists Party brought you to the Fashion House as a symbol of change. But now I realize we were shortsighted. The Fashion House is the way of the past—and the things of the past must be set aside.” His eyes gleamed as he spoke, and he smiled, as though swept away by his own words. “You and Sophie can start a new fashion house. One funded and inspired by the Reformists Party.”

  Next to me, my mother let out a surprised exclamation and, despite myself, my mind began to race.

  A fashion house.

  There would be no struggle to finish our collection, no desperate need for a debut, no reliance on customers to fund the house. Our futures would be secure. We’d be designers, real designers.

  I simply had to say yes. The word nearly jumped from my tongue.

  But all I could see were the marks on Sophie’s neck. The way her hands trembled after he’d attacked her. No matter what he offered us, nothing could undo the fact that, underneath his suave hair and stylish suit, he was a monster.

  I had done a lot of things I never thought I would to become a designer. Kept secrets. Told lies. But there were lines, lines that should never be crossed, and this was one of them.

  “I cannot accept,” I said. “But thank you.”

  Dark lightning shot through his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he straightened his tie and his cuffs.

  “I’m sure you want to reconsider.” His voice was soft yet slithery. “You cannot be successful in fashion without power, and that power comes either from the Fashion House and the Crown or the Reformists Party. You’ve rejected the Fashion House, which means you’ve also rejected the Crown. You cannot reject the Reformists Party as well.”

  “I-I’m counting on a third power.” My mother’s hand was warm against my back a
nd I focused on its firmness. “The power of the customers to purchase beautiful gowns.”

  There was a quiet noise—a soft gasp—and we looked to see Sophie frozen in the kitchen doorway.

  “Sophie.” A blissful smile crossed Mr. Taylor’s lips and he held out a hand to her. “Come home with me. We will make a fashion house, together. We can find someone else to play the part of the stupid country girl.”

  I stared at Sophie, willing her to stand up for herself, trying to impart some sort of strength to her. A glazed, dead expression took over her face, as though she wasn’t in the kitchen or even the pub. Her face had an otherworldly look, like she’d slipped through the cracks of time to a place long ago.

  I said, “Leave her alone. She doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

  “No.” Mr. Taylor cut me off. “That isn’t true.”

  We looked at Sophie. Both Mr. Taylor and I were trying to speak for her, but she needed to exert her own will. To free herself. Slowly, she turned her head in profile—not enough to face Mr. Taylor but enough to see him from the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s true.” Her voice was a whisper, as thin as gossamer. “The fashion line is happening. I am going to work with Emmaline.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  At that, Mr. Taylor took a ragged breath, his anger mounting with his intake of air. Quickly, my mother pushed her way past me to stand between us and him.

  “You heard the girls,” she said. “You need to leave. This is my pub, and you are not welcome here.”

  Mr. Taylor glared down at her, his veneer of flash and style gone, replaced by raw rage. Slowly, his hand tightened into a fist, and I cried out in fear, expecting him to hit her. Instead, he struck out to the side and knocked a vase off the kitchen counter.

  Crash!

  Glass shards exploded across the floorboards. I recoiled, more shaken by his violent action than the actual sound or sight of the vase smashing into smithereens.

  My mother snatched up her rolling pin. Even though Mr. Taylor was twice her size, she shook it at him.

  “Out!” Her face was red. “Get out right now!”

  He pushed past her and out through the dining room. The door slammed hard behind him, so hard it rattled the glass in the windows. My mother lowered her rolling pin and turned around to where I was backed against the kitchen table. She asked, “Are you all right?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I bobbed my head up and down in a nod.

  My mother’s face was still red. “This is what happens when you go to the city. You get caught up in things much bigger than you and then . . .” She gestured to the shards of glass covering the floor.

  “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t think he would come here.” Numbly, I reached for the broom and dustpan. “I didn’t mean to bring any trouble here.”

  My mother held out her hand for the broom.

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of this.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” I didn’t want her to clean up the glass. Not when I was the one who’d brought Mr. Taylor there. Not when I was the one who kept hurting her.

  “I’m sure you girls have things to do.”

  “She’s right.” Sophie spoke from the doorway. Her face was whiter than normal, but she sounded resolved. “We have a lot to do.”

  She turned and headed up the stairs to my bedroom. I didn’t follow her. Not just yet. I grasped the broomstick; my hand stood just below my mother’s hand, my eyes searching her face. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for. Maybe some sort of forgiveness, or even just understanding. My mother gently placed her hand over mine, loosening my grip on the broom.

  “Go on now.”

  “Mother—”

  “It’s all right, Emmy.” Her fingers grazed my cheek as she tucked a strand of my hair back from my face. “Your friend is waiting.”

  “I really am sorry,” I said, letting go of the broom handle. “I’m sorry for—” I cut myself off. Everything, I wanted to say. I’m sorry for leaving you to run the pub alone; I’m sorry for wanting a life that’s far away from here; I’m sorry for not being the daughter you need.

  But such openness and such words weren’t my mother’s way, so I swallowed them down.

  Sophie and I started sewing in my bedroom, taking turns on my old decrepit sewing machine. I was glad to immerse myself in work. It eased the terror Mr. Taylor had brought to our pub.

  “I’m surprised Mr. Taylor came here,” I said. Sophie waved her hand glibly at me, her attention on a measuring tape she’d laid across a tulle skirt. Methodically, she pulled it through her hands, lips pursed.

  My head ached. I frowned down at my stitching, as though ignoring the pain would make it go away. I watched Sophie as she smoothed out the gray tulle, her brow furrowed in concentration, her shoulders bent over the fabric.

  Perhaps that was why she was so obsessed with designing. It was the only way to outrun the taint of Mr. Taylor in her life and lose herself in something beautiful.

  “Did you ever try to leave Mr. Taylor’s manor before going to the Fashion House?”

  Sophie’s fingers froze on the measuring tape and her foot tapped against the leg of her chair. It cast a jumpy shadow across the floor, one that sprang forward and back.

  “No. I won’t pretend to think you could ever understand. It’s terrible to take help from someone who . . . hurts you.”

  I nodded, trying to indicate that I understood, but she was right. I didn’t.

  “Sometimes the demons in your head are so strong that you don’t know how to fight the ones in real life.” There were long pauses between her words, as though she was trying to fathom the unfathomable into speech. “I did have one plan to get away before going to the Fashion House. But it wasn’t quite right, so I abandoned it.”

  “What was it?”

  “It’s not important. Going to the Fashion House was the best option, or so I thought at the time.” She gathered up the measuring tape. “The funny thing is, I could have stayed in the competition. I could have become a designer. Madame Jolène told me several times. I didn’t need to do this.”

  Though her tone was guarded, her eyes watered. Or, I thought they did. I couldn’t conceive of her crying. The wateriness had to be something else, a reaction to the stuffy room or bleariness from her exhaustion. It had to be something—anything—other than tears.

  “I don’t just want to run from Alexander. I’m tired of being under other people’s control, especially when they don’t deserve it. That’s why I’m glad we’re designing our own collection. It’s so different designing our own pieces here, free from the Fashion House. Don’t you agree?”

  Free. I wasn’t sure what the word meant. We were free from the Fashion House, but now we were in Shy, far from the city, facing an uncertain future. Freedom, it seemed, was falling into darkness without knowing if we would be caught at the bottom.

  “Well . . .”

  Sophie waited expectantly.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s just right.”

  I’d been lying a lot lately, but this lie felt different. It felt more important than the truth.

  We spent the entire day sewing, spreading the pieces of the collection across my bedroom floor and bed. The various gowns, overlays, skirts, and jackets were a little rough from their journey in the pillowcases. Snags marred some of the silks, a few small holes had appeared in the laces, and dirt stains dotted the fabrics. Even so, the pieces looked opulent and rich in my drab room.

  “Do you think we’ll have time to finish everything?” I rubbed my forehead. It was late, very late. I’d tracked the time throughout the day by the activity of the pub. The dinner customers had come and gone, and I’d heard my mother wash up the last of the dishes before heading to her room to sleep.

  That had been the worst. I had wanted to go help her wash the dishes and set out the pint glasses and silverware for tomorrow, but I couldn’t. Not when I needed to finish our collection.


  “We can finish everything if we work nonstop,” Sophie said. “But maybe we should take a break.”

  “I can stoke up the fire downstairs in the kitchen. We can have some stew.”

  “Might as well. If we don’t stop to rest, we’ll start making mistakes.”

  Down in the kitchen, I ladled stew into two bowls and I opened a bottle of cheap cooking wine. I devoured my mother’s stew, letting its heartiness stave off my exhaustion. I’d never been so worn-out in all my life. Everything was piling up—the tiredness from the Fashion House schedule, the trip here, the encounter with Mr. Taylor, the day spent sewing without any breaks—everything ached, especially my fingers.

  Knock, knock.

  The sudden rap at the pub door made us both jump. It was much too late for anyone in Shy to be out and about. I met Sophie’s eyes. We were both thinking the same thing.

  Mr. Taylor. He was back.

  “Emmy?” A voice came from behind the door, drifting from the dining room into the kitchen. I was so certain it was Mr. Taylor that it took me a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t Mr. Taylor’s at all. It was much too young, too energetic.

  “Tristan,” Sophie said.

  I sat up straight, all fears and exhaustion forgotten. Then I noticed Sophie. She grabbed her glass and gulped at the wine as though it were water. Pushing her chair back from the table, she stood up, running her fingers through her hair and arranging it so it hung down on one side of her face in beautiful waves.

  Was she primping for Tristan? My Tristan? I realized, with a jolt, that while Tristan no longer fancied Sophie, she might still fancy him.

  As though the pub was hers and not mine, she crossed through the dining room and opened the door. I followed a few paces behind.

  Tristan entered and Sophie threw her arms around his neck in a hug. In her heels she was his height, but she tucked herself against him, her entire body pressed into him so that she seemed small in his arms. A sharp pang—the sort one feels when running—contracted in the spot right behind my heart.