She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes dark and hollow, the face of someone who’d woken from a nightmare. Without a word, she lifted her hand toward me, and the item in her palm caught the light and glinted yellow. A small band, a circlet of gold.
“What . . .” My mouth was dry, and I cleared it with effort. “What is that?”
“It’s the ring Tristan gave me.” Her face was tight and expressionless as I let out an audible breath. There it was, sitting in her hand. A relic of their past, as shiny as though it’d been purchased yesterday.
“You—you carry it around with you?” While her cheeks were pale, I could feel mine afire with flush. “I thought you weren’t even sure where it was.”
“Well, I happened to have it in my pocket.” Her voice was a skeleton of itself, just bare words with no soul inside them. Carefully, like I’d done with Tristan’s letter, she tucked the ring back into her dress.
“Are you sure you don’t still love him?” I blurted out the question, my cheeks growing even hotter. She let out a careless laugh.
“Of course not.” She placed her hand over her pocket, as though she could feel the ring inside it. “I keep all trinkets from my suitors. Rings, necklaces, notes. It’s half the fun of it, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. I’d only received a postcard and a note from Tristan, and Johnny Wells had never given me any rings or necklaces—much less love letters. “It seems odd to keep a ring from a proposal. If an engagement is broken here, the girl returns the ring.”
I didn’t know if it was true or not—I’d never known anyone with a broken engagement. In Shy, engagements were nearly as good as weddings. I watched her closely, waiting to see if her facade would slip.
She didn’t even pause.
“Things are different in the city.”
By Friday, I was so sore and stiff from bending over our garments that I thought I might never stand straight again.
Since the day was clear, we went for a walk and circled the pond behind the pub. We were supposed to take a leisurely stroll, but Sophie kept walking faster and faster. I followed her, my satin flats catching on the pebbles and grass. Eventually, she stopped, staring out over the small pond.
“Are you all right?” I asked. The wind played with our hair, blowing it into our faces, catching on our lips. I wasn’t used to seeing Sophie outside. In fact, I still wasn’t used to being outside. After living in the contained Fashion House, the sun seemed much brighter and the wind much cooler, in the best ways possible.
“Things feel so different here. Smaller. And bigger.”
I watched her. As we’d worked together these past days, it had been hard to push aside the fact that she was the girl who’d had Tristan’s heart before me. But, at the same time, she was my partner. She’d stepped into the unknown with me. Yes, she was all pointy ends, rough corners, and dark passages. But when I was with Sophie, we created what we wanted. She couldn’t offer me safety or even unconditional friendship. And that was fine—because what we had together was more important. The ability to design how we wanted, without conditions or limitations, even if there was that ring of gold in her pocket.
“I’ve been in so many cages. They were all quite pretty. Alexander’s manor. The Fashion House.” She sighed and squinted as the sun reflected off the pond’s surface. “It’s easy to see everything in terms of the walls around you. You’re lucky, Emmaline.”
“Lucky?”
“Your mother loves you, and even if you leave, you’ll always bring this”—she held her hands out to the glimmering circle of water—“with you.”
“Why did your parents appoint Mr. Taylor as your guardian?” I was treading on dangerous ground. Sophie, like my mother, guarded her past and kept it tucked away out of sight. But there was something open and free about her as she beheld Shy’s beauty.
“Alexander was my father’s best friend.” She spoke slowly, as though measuring out each word before she said it. “They loved the same things: art, theology, politics. They both loved my mother. You’d think it would have driven them apart, but it only brought them closer. My father was an odd man. His philosophizing made him . . . strange. When my mother designed a manor for Alexander, my father called it her love letter to Alexander. It never bothered him.” She trailed off, her brows drawing together. “They drowned, you know.”
“Your parents?”
“They were drunk one night, and walking along the Tyne River. No one knows exactly what happened, but my mother always loved to balance on the siderail. I imagine she fell in and my father jumped in after her. They were both found the next morning, floating facedown, tangled in her skirts. I was ten at the time.”
I shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold wind. I could see her—a little girl of ten with big black eyes that nearly swallowed her face—standing in an opulent manor designed by her mother and built for Mr. Taylor. Her parents, the people who were supposed to protect her, had left her and given her to Mr. Taylor. And she’d stayed there, in his grip. No matter where she went, he wouldn’t release her.
What did one say to such a story? To such a life? “Things will be different, Sophie. If our collection is successful, we won’t be reliant on people like Mr. Taylor or Madame Jolène. It’ll just be us. Friends, designing.”
At the word friends, Sophie turned to face me, hair falling back from her face. She reached up to tuck it away, her movements thoughtful and calm. A slow smile spread across her mouth.
“I suppose we really are friends, aren’t we?” There was a note of marvel in her voice. I laughed in spite of myself.
“Of course we are. What else would we be?”
“Oh . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t know. Partners?”
“We are partners. But definitely friends too.”
“That—” She stopped and started. Then she finally finished. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Chapter Twenty
THE NEXT MORNING, we woke long before dawn and packed up our collection. We had just enough money for one-way tickets from Shy and a room in the Republic District. The debut would be the day after our arrival, and there was much we still needed to accomplish, including fitting the models. Tristan had sent word that he’d recruited them and told them when to come for the fittings. This added yet another complication—we didn’t know their exact sizes, so we’d have to adjust each garment depending on their figures.
As we packed, my mother hovered in the doorway for a few minutes, watching us. I sat back on my heels. I wanted to say something to her. Something to encapsulate the fact that I understood her better now, and that I thought she was brave for always moving forward, even when life tried to hold her back. But before I could speak, she made a sharp tsk sound under her breath and left, her heavy footsteps tromping down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Give her time.” Sophie carefully folded a black leather skirt. “She only wants the best for you, even if you have different interpretations of what that is.”
“I know . . .” But even so, I went after her. I found her at the sink, but she wasn’t cleaning vegetables or washing dishes. “Mother?”
“You don’t have much time if you want to catch the early train.”
“I know.” I walked up behind her and put my arms around her waist. She leaned her head back against my shoulder. Then she gently pulled free of me.
“I’ll miss you.” She briefly touched my cheek before turning away. “You should get going.”
I wanted to say so much more, even though it wouldn’t change anything. She wouldn’t give me her blessing. The same pride that got her through the difficulties of life now held us apart.
“Emmy?” Johnny Wells stood in the kitchen door, his hat in his hands.
“I need to check the taps,” my mother said. She left for the dining room, leaving me and Johnny together in the kitchen.
“You’re heading back to the city?”
“Yes.” I found myself drawn to his easy drawl
. There was something so straightforward about him. So open and familiar. We came from the same place. Shy was woven through us, inextricable from us. And maybe that tied us to each other, in a way. He didn’t have the complicated life of someone who lived in the city. He didn’t have a past with anyone else. Not like Tristan.
“Will you come back?”
“I don’t know. It depends on whether our fashion house succeeds.”
“If you do come back . . . I-I’m always here.” He shuffled and crushed his hat in his hands. “So just remember that. And while you’re gone, I’ll look in on your mother.”
“Thank you, Johnny.”
“I don’t fully understand you, Emmy.” He stared down at his hat. “But I’ve always been taken by you, ever since you started wearing those crazy dresses to church.”
I laughed, remembering the reactions. “The church ladies weren’t fans. They said I was a distraction.”
“Yes, they did talk. But I liked the way you looked, even if I never told you as much. I put up a sign for you in the woodshop. Course, it’s off the main road, so hardly anyone sees it. But it’s there.”
I stared at Johnny. I’d always seen him as the quiet boy sitting across from me at our kitchen table, nervously drinking tea, watching me but never saying much. I’d hated how the people in the city didn’t understand me. Hated how they’d cast me as a simple country girl. Hated how they didn’t bother to see that I was more.
But maybe I did the same to Johnny.
“I’ll miss you, Johnny.” I meant it. I would. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime.”
“Maybe,” he said, but there wasn’t any conviction in his voice. “I already know, though. Your new fashion house will be incredible.”
I left him in the kitchen while I went to finish packing. We’d hastily sewn garment bags out of old sheets. As I folded up our various pieces, I realized with a start that Johnny was the very first person to say he truly believed in this new venture.
The room we rented in the city was small, about the size of my bedroom back in Shy, but it had a large window that let in light and overlooked the busy street below. With a contented sigh, Sophie said, “The country was refreshing, but I belong in the city. Where I can be seen.”
Even though we’d spent a day and a half on a train, Sophie still managed to look stylish. Her abundant hair was swept into a knot high on the top of her head, and she wore a black coat and black boots with pointed toes.
She worked on the gray-and-nude finale gown, while I focused on my piece: a gray gown covered in hand-cut wisps of organza. I’d spent hours cutting out the wisps of fabric to sew onto the smoky-colored lining. The petals graduated from light gray to dark, giving the impression the wearer was decaying into darkness. My fingers lingered over the fabric. I was decaying too—into an exhausted shell of a person.
I set the dress aside to pull some thread out of our bags. At the bottom, a hint of lavender fabric caught my eye. It was Cynthia’s gown, folded in a Z pattern to minimize creasing. It was almost finished—in fact, it only needed the hem laid and the embroidery stitched down—but now it never would be.
It was sad to know it’d been so close to completion. At first, it had been a symbol of our new way into the fashion world. Later, it had incriminated us. It shouldn’t mean anything to us anymore—we didn’t need it. But, suddenly, I was tired of dispensing with things just because they didn’t suit their original purpose.
“What are you doing?” Sophie looked up from where she was sewing crystals onto the finale piece. The tiny, sparkly crystals filled a small box next to her. Even from my distance, I could see the tips of her fingers were red from picking up the shards.
“Just thinking about Cynthia’s gown.” I stared down at the visible part of the dress, letting its details distract me from the impossible amount of work hanging over us.
There was a quiet knock on our door.
“The modeling girls,” Sophie said. She adjusted her gown in front of the long mirror propped against the wall.
I slipped into a pair of heels just as Sophie opened the door. Twelve girls in plain work shifts and aprons entered. They peered around curiously, huddling and whispering together.
“Girls!” I called, and they automatically formed a ragged line. They were all different from each other. Some were tall, others short. One had voluptuous curves, while another one had freckles all over her face, shoulders, and arms. I loved the variances. “We will fit you into your outfits to see what alterations we will need to make. Now, what is your name?”
I addressed the tallest girl first. Not only was she tall, but her torso was straight with hardly any indentation at the waist. Her arms and legs were disproportionately long, like twigs extending from her body.
“Anneke,” she said, ducking her head a little bit.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She linked her fingers together in front of her. The way she shifted awkwardly in front of me reminded me of someone. I frowned for a moment before I realized who it was. Me, when I’d first met Madame Jolène. I intimidated her, just as Madame Jolène had intimidated me. If I wanted to, I could cultivate a persona of aloofness and pride, something befitting an important designer.
Or not. I smiled at her and she shyly smiled back.
“Thank you for coming,” I said. “Let me show you the dress you’ll be wearing.”
My piece was entirely completed and hanging on a dresser door. I took it off the hanger while Anneke slipped out of her work shift. Just as I’d thought, her torso was straight and her legs unusually long. The gown would hang flawlessly on her body.
“The closure is on the side.” I lowered the dress to the floor so she could step into it. She did so gawkily, holding onto my shoulder. I carefully worked the gown up, inch by inch. It was a tight fit. It had to be—I’d designed it to mold to the body. I laced the side shut with black leather cord and stepped back to see the dress on a real girl for the first time.
The black leather bustier bodice transitioned perfectly into the pleated, charcoal-gray skirt. Dramatic Antwerp lace covered the bust cups and neckline, forming a high collar right at the neck, and cap sleeves, cut from the same lace, cupped Anneke’s shoulders.
“You’re beautiful.” I whispered more to the dress than to Anneke. I motioned her over to the long mirror and stood beside her. She raised her hands to her mouth, gasping.
“I feel . . .” Her voice trailed off and she ran her hands over the pleated skirt. It shimmered underneath her fingers. “Powerful.”
I knelt to pin the hem. Somehow, this dress had sprung from my heart to my fingertips to the world. Anneke kept running her hands over the skirt. Her motions reminded me of the way Shy’s farmers would run their hands through waist-high wheat. The skirt moved at her touch, undulating like it was underwater.
I glanced over to see Sophie styling three girls in a tableau. She pointed and hustled them into position. One was standing, one was sitting, and the other one was lounging on the ground, each trying to stay perfectly still. It was a configuration borrowed from the Fashion House’s debuts.
I turned back to Anneke. “Can you walk for me?”
“What?” She abruptly stopped, but the skirt continued to flow around her body.
“Just walk up and down the room.”
There was only one small sliver of space where Anneke could walk, because the ground was covered in fabric pieces, patterns, sketch paper, pin holders, and halfway-finished dresses. As she crossed the floor and stepped around the mess, the dress took on a life of its own. While she was stiff and uncertain, the dress rippled around her, the skirt surging with her strides as light danced off the pleats.
I couldn’t contain my awe any longer.
“Sophie,” I breathed. “Look! The dress is alive.”
It was like a spirit possessed the dress: the skirt sank, rose, fell, and twisted, sometimes wrapping tightly around Anneke’s legs to show hints of her shape, other times
billowing out to completely conceal her.
“That’s stunning.” Sophie watched from where she was looping a measuring tape around a model’s waist. “It shows the dress in a completely different way.”
“We should have them all walk.” I spoke so fast that I nearly started stammering. I didn’t care. I was too excited. “We’ll see the gowns the way people see them in real life: in motion. When women wear dresses, they aren’t simply standing still. They’re walking or strolling or dancing. That’s how we should present the gowns.”
“Girls!” Sophie clapped her hands. “Everyone start walking like Anneke. Single file.”
They fell into one moving line. I watched, holding my breath. They walked rigidly at first. Then their bodies surrendered to their natural gaits and the dresses glided with them, the skirts swinging forward and backward against their legs, their movements revealing all sides of the gowns. They drifted, a row of gray and champagne-colored figures. Each one led to the next in a dreamlike sequence that built to the finale dress, with its huge overlay skirt.
“It takes my breath away,” Sophie said. We stood, Sophie on one side of the girls, I on the other, watching them for a few moments longer.
A thought burned in my mind: We might just pull this off.
By the time the girls left our fitting, the light had taken on an orangish twilight hue—we’d worked through the day. We continued into the night, long enough for the sun to start streaking the sky, and only went to bed for a few hours before the debut.
I lay down next to Sophie, my limbs so achy that relaxation was impossible. I thought she was asleep, but when I brushed against her, she stiffened.
“Sophie,” I whispered, even though there was no need to be quiet. “Are you awake?”
“No,” she whispered back.
“Do you think . . . ?” Slowly, I rolled from my side to my back. Even though I couldn’t see anything in the darkness, I didn’t shut my eyes. “Everything is much more complex than I thought it would be.” I didn’t know what I was saying. I tried to cling to the fierce moment of confidence I’d felt earlier. But now, on the cusp of the debut, a dark sense of doom settled over me. “Do you think . . . do you think it will all be worth it? Everything we’ve been through? Do you think our collection will be successful?”
A Dress for the Wicked Page 28
