A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  I couldn’t see her, but I felt the bed give beneath her as she rolled over to face me. Her hand found me in the dark, touching my shoulder and following it down to my arm, where her fingers closed around my wrist. She held it tightly, securely.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Emmaline Watkins.”

  It wasn’t much of a reassurance—she didn’t say that we would succeed. But even if I didn’t believe in myself, it seemed like she did. That alone abated my firestorm of worry.

  She released my wrist and turned back over, the curve of her back against the length of my arm. A few seconds later, her breathing deepened as she fell asleep. I paced my breathing to hers. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, but before I knew it, darkness—one much deeper than the darkness in the room—overcame me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE DAY OF THE FASHION debut began with a shower of rain and a clap of thunder. For the second time, we packed our collection into a hack. It was much smaller than the one that had taken us to the train station after we left the Fashion House, and there was no room for us in it. We had to follow behind in another hack, using the last of our money to pay for it. I watched Sophie count the bills out into the driver’s hand, realizing that we had just enough to get to the debut but not enough to go anywhere afterward.

  We sat next to each other in the hack, watching as we passed businesses with signs in their windows reading GONE TO THE EXHIBITION. Once we neared the exhibition square, the hack slowed to a crawl, caught in traffic. The exhibition was in full swing. A man holding a black umbrella was giving a speech on the steps of the parliament building, and a crowd had gathered around him. Farther back, behind the crowd and in the center of the square, street musicians played, and people danced while holding tankards of beer.

  Slowly, the hack inched its way past the exhibition and came to a stop in an alley just a few blocks from the square. When I stepped out of the cab, a blast of cold wind greeted me. I twisted, trying to angle myself so my hair blew away from my face. I was hemmed in on both sides by brick buildings with sooty windows.

  “This is it, Sophie?” I asked.

  “We’re in the back,” Sophie said, stepping out of the hack.

  I walked up to the unpainted door. Its doorknob was covered with grime. I twisted the knob and pushed, but the door didn’t open. The hack driver noticed my struggle and motioned me aside. He grabbed the knob, leaned his shoulder into the door, and shoved hard. The door sprang open, squealing on rusted hinges.

  “Glamorous,” I muttered. Taking a breath, I stepped inside. I knew we didn’t have endless funds to get a beautiful venue. But the building’s drafty, brick-walled interior and musty smell made me cringe. A long narrow stage was built against one of the walls. Red curtains, their color dulled by dust and sun, hung limply on a rod. The curtains were supposed to cover the ladders on either side of the stage leading up to a suspended platform, but they didn’t quite manage it. Old theater chairs were scattered haphazardly across the floor, cotton tufts bursting from their seams.

  “Come help.” Sophie pushed her way past me.

  “It’s . . . dismal,” I said. I pictured Charwell Palace in my mind, how all its opulence accented Madame Jolène’s vision.

  “We didn’t have any other choice,” she responded, garment bags draped over her arm and partially dragging on the floor. I took a deep breath and surveyed the wooden stage, battered theater chairs, and smudged windows once more. I pictured our gowns moving along the stage, lone silhouettes of beauty against the theater’s drabness. The sight was more pleasing than I’d first thought. The building and collection would contrast each other—and it felt fitting for the setting to be so humble. I didn’t come from much. This was part of the story our collection told.

  Once our gowns were on that stage, our collection would create its own type of beauty.

  We unpacked the garment bags in the cramped space on the side of the stage. Every time I pulled a dress from its bag, I almost knocked into Sophie. We had to hang the gowns awkwardly on a hook anchored to the stage wall, piling them one on top of another. The delicate laces and silks caught on the beadwork, and we struggled to protect them.

  There were two unfinished gowns without buttons or corsets, so we would have to sew the models into them. Some seams were misaligned, and we hadn’t had time to alter all the dresses to the models’ proportions. Three hems were much too long, and one dress was puckering along the closure.

  “Do you think everyone will notice the imperfections?” Sophie asked.

  “Hopefully they’ll see the vision behind the collection, and that will be enough.” I tried to fold a garment bag and give the backstage area some sense of order. “We just need enough interest and private funding to get started.”

  The old door screeched open once again. The models trailed in, one after another, and gathered around the front row of the theater seats.

  I climbed up the small staircase to stand on the stage. The whole theater spread out in front of me.

  “Everyone,” I called, and the models raised their faces to me. “Thank you for coming. Let’s get dressed.”

  It wasn’t a very inspirational speech—if it could even be called a speech—but anything I said would’ve been meaningless anyway. Our gowns would speak for us.

  The girls obediently started to file back to our makeshiftd dressing area. I stayed for a second longer on the stage, trying to calm myself.

  This was the second time in my life I’d been on a stage. The only other time had been at the gala, and I’d been a Fashion House Interview contestant then—or as much of a contestant as I could be. I’d never really been part of the competition.

  Now, I was the designer. I pictured Madame Jolène. Not the Madame Jolène who’d stared at me with pure disdain. Not the Madame Jolène who’d stood on the stage at the gala, hands raised and face flashing with true joy, or even the Madame Jolène who walked the Fashion House hallways, overseeing fittings with brisk professionalism.

  I saw the Madame Jolène waiting behind the stage, breathing in and out, eyes closed, still. I gave myself my own moment to catch my breath and savor this, then went over to the backstage area to help the girls slide out of their clothes and into ours. I was glad for the rush of activity. Soon, my motions pushed my worries to the back of my mind.

  It was an awkward, rushed transition to transform the girls from factory workers into models. Their elbows gouged my sides and their hands clawed my arms as they struggled into their gowns. They wavered like colts taking their first steps as I helped them slip into the heels. Problems arose faster than solutions. Two dresses just weren’t fitting right, and we’d forgotten an all-important champagne lining. One of the models could sew, so we put her to work stitching the last few crystals on the finale veil. Even though we hadn’t moved beyond the small space, I was out of breath and sweaty, as though I’d been running for miles.

  “The guests will arrive any moment,” Sophie said to me as I tacked up a hem, stitching faster than I ever had in my life. “We need to light the stage lamps.”

  “I have to finish this.” I pulled a needle through dark-gray fabric. “Hold still,” I implored the model. My back, neck, and knees burned from bending down and standing up over and over again, and my voice was hoarse from talking over the models to Sophie.

  “Come on,” Sophie said. “I took some matches from the tenement building.”

  She tossed a packet to me.

  “All right!” I didn’t have the will to protest. I left the needle dangling on its thread from the dress and went out onto the stage.

  It was much cooler out there than in the cramped backstage area. The rafters were high above my head and I had to lean backward to see the rickety platform hanging over the stage. I slid open the matchbox and struck one against the box. It blazed to life, one small pinprick of brightness in the gloomy room.

  Each stage lamp had a kerosene glass base and a blackened wick. I wasn’t sure if they would catc
h, but the minute I knelt down and held the match to the first wick, it burst into a bright blue-orange flame. The mirrored panel behind the lamp magnified its effect. I lit them one by one, until the stage was framed in a half circle of warm light.

  “Emmy!” a warm, familiar voice rang out, and a blond head moved up the side of the theater.

  “Tristan!” I leaped off the stage and ran to him. Sweaty though I was, I jumped into his arms.

  “I’ve missed you,” he murmured into my ear, his arms wrapped around me, his hands spreading across my back.

  “I missed you too,” I said. I buried my face into the side of his neck, staying still in his arms for one minute, two, three. For once, I was safe, held in his embrace. “It’s been so busy.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Unless you’ve somehow learned to sew, I don’t think so.”

  “I have something for you.”

  Tristan let me go and walked back to one of the theater seats and snatched something from it. He came back down the aisle, carrying a single rose. Its fluffy head was a brilliant red. “This is for you. To congratulate you on the show.”

  “I love it.”

  “I figured it was better than one of my chicken-scrawl sketches.”

  “Those are my favorite!”

  “Glad to hear it.” He seemed to notice my distraction. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Just worried about the show.”

  “That makes sense. You’re taking a big leap, Emmy. Big leaps can elicit some pretty big emotions.”

  And so can old proposals.

  “I need to get back. The show’s going to start soon.”

  “I’ll be right in the front row if you need me.”

  His hand went around to the back of my neck and pulled me into him. I let myself be pulled, my worries and fears disappearing as my lips found his.

  Only a few people came. They trailed in, picking their way through the theater seats and settling into the most comfortable ones. I observed from behind the curtain. Sophie peered over my shoulder, and the models, standing on their toes behind us, watched too.

  “I was hoping more people would come,” I whispered.

  “It’s who they are that matters,” Sophie said. “Look! There’s a reporter from the Avon-upon-Kynt Times, and that’s Ms. Walker from the Ladies’ Journal. Those two alone are more valuable than a crowd of a hundred.”

  Four figures made their way over to us, the stage lights revealing their faces. Alice, Ky, Cordelia, and Kitty. They garnered attention as they moved, their styles differentiating them from the rest of the crowd.

  “I didn’t think any of you would come,” I said. I bent down on the stage so I was eye level with them. It was strange seeing them outside of the Fashion House.

  “We wanted to see your show,” Cordelia said. “It’s all everyone’s been talking about.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Of course, Madame Jolène doesn’t say anything, but the whole city has been abuzz.”

  “It’s true.” Kitty pushed forward. “From the maids to the customers, everyone is dying to see what will happen with your new collection.”

  “Kitty . . .” I’d pushed her to the back of my mind, especially since we left the Fashion House. I didn’t know if she’d been the saboteur—that letter still implicated her. It could’ve easily been her. Or maybe one of the other girls.

  But, as they gathered at the edge of the stage, staring up at me, it didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

  “Do a good job.” She reached up and caught my hand in hers. “For all of us.”

  The other girls nodded, their eyes suddenly flashing. It reminded me of that first night in the lobby at the Fashion House, how they’d all looked so determined and strong. We really weren’t so different. They’d all come to the Fashion House Interview to escape, to find, to be. For them, like me, fashion put their futures into their own hands.

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  They found their seats, and as I took one last glance out at the small gathering, my heart started to pound. Raw, nervous energy made me skittish. I wanted to run around or jump up and down, but there wasn’t any room. I had to just stand there in the small space, feeling the heat radiating from the models and Sophie.

  “Tristan’s here,” Sophie murmured, more to herself than to me. She hadn’t seen him arrive earlier. I searched the audience for his outline. I found him right in front, like he’d said. He was nothing but a black silhouette against a bulky theater chair. We both stood quietly on the side of the stage, staring at him.

  Then Sophie said, “Here, we only have a few minutes. We need to change.”

  “Change?”

  I glanced down at myself. I was wearing one of her gowns: a black dress with tiny Swiss dots printed over the fabric. It was stylish but hardly memorable, and now it was stained with sweat marks and dried raindrops.

  “There’s something for you.” Sophie pointed to a garment bag lying in the corner. I hadn’t noticed it in the rush to get the models dressed. I pushed through the smothering, narrow backstage to get to it. As I undid the strings closing it, I caught a glimpse of purple silk through the bag’s opening. Cynthia’s gown. Sophie had brought it.

  “You finished it?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Then how . . . ?”

  “Your mother finished it. I told her you wouldn’t have anything to wear at our debut and she sewed down the embroidery and finished the hem. I told her I’d bring it for you.”

  I unlaced the garment-bag ties and stared at the dress. My mother, who hadn’t even wished me luck when I left, had finished the gown for me.

  “Hurry up.” Sophie cut into my thoughts. “I’ll help you change.”

  I quickly unbuttoned my dress and slipped out of it, letting it fall to the ground. When I touched Cynthia’s dress, I slowed. The gown’s beauty and the fabric demanded reverence. It slipped onto my body as though it were dressing me, not the other way around. The silk clung to my frame and it seemed to seep into my skin, as much a part of me as my bones and marrow.

  We didn’t have a mirror behind the stage, so it was impossible for me to see myself. But it didn’t matter. I understood the dress better than anything else. It was everything I imagined: couture beauty that transformed me as much as it would have transformed Cynthia.

  The gown was all of that but also so much more. My mother’s hands had finished it. She’d dressed me for the day, even if she didn’t understand my dreams.

  “It came out well,” Sophie said, pulling her new dress up. She paused to examine me, her dress around her hips. She was like a mermaid, the dramatic lines of her lacy black gown emerging just below her navel, her long locks covering her chest, her arms drawn up in front of her.

  Sophie pulled the rest of her dress on, and one of the girls buttoned her into it. Incremental rows of black lace created the skirt and built into a plunging V neckline. I thought she would wrap her hair into a topknot like she usually did, but instead she shook it out, letting it fall down her back.

  “Should we start, misses?” one of the models asked.

  I nodded and suddenly, after all the busyness, I didn’t have anything to do. Everything dulled except for my throbbing pulse. Sophie stepped out and welcomed the guests, but I couldn’t focus on her words. She returned backstage and I motioned to the first girl, Anna, and she walked forward into the stage light.

  Everything was different on the stage. In the fitting rooms at the Fashion House and my bedroom in Shy, each design element had seemed so exaggerated. But as I watched from behind the curtain, Anna’s ombre gown suddenly seemed slimmer to me, its details swallowed into a blur of fabric and flash of beads.

  Anna walked the stage’s length, back straight, hands at her sides, head erect. I heard the audience gasp collectively, and I smiled. There weren’t many people, so the sound was almost a whisper, but I knew.

  They saw it.

/>   They felt it.

  I was so enthralled with the ombre dress floating across the stage and the audience’s response that I didn’t notice Anneke until she walked past me.

  My favorite look was going out.

  Anneke moved casually, as though the stage was simply a cobbled city street. I fought the urge to run over to her and lay out the small train for the millionth time. She stepped out of the shadows and onto the flickering stage.

  When I was young, my mother would read me the Bible verse “For he spake and it was done.” For the first time, I understood the scripture. My gown was suddenly alive, ignited by the lights, the audience, and the stage. The smoky gray charmeuse rippled like water and waved like wind through grass. The leather bodice glistened, sleek and durable.

  It embodied the best parts of Shy, the parts that would always be mine. Everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache, the homesickness—had been for something much more meaningful and powerful than I could understand. I only wished my mother could be here to see it.

  Anneke moved down toward the audience, but I saw only my gown, drifting like an untethered ghost across the stage. She was up there for an eternity and, at the same time, a split second.

  Once she was back behind the curtains, everything sped up. I hurried the girls out one after another. It seemed like I only blinked before Sophie and I were stepping out onto the stage. Suddenly I was standing right in the stage lights, staring off into the blackness just beyond them.

  The sound of applause started slowly, almost carefully, and then mounted faster and faster, louder and louder. There were only a few people, but they rose, dark silhouettes outside the lights. They clapped, stomped, and cheered. The acceleration of sound and excitement built inside me until I thought I would burst. Sophie held my hand and tried to say something, but everyone was still clapping, so she simply curtsied, pulling me down with her. We straightened together, leaning into each other.