A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  We stood out there for a few moments longer and then retreated to the backstage area. Our models surrounded us, smiling and cheering. I hugged Sophie and, as I did, a face came into view.

  I drew back from Sophie.

  “Tilda?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE APPLAUSE STILL RANG OUT in the theater, but all I saw was Tilda’s pinched face. She wore a cape over her maid’s uniform.

  “What are you doing here? Why are you backstage?”

  She stepped close to me so I could hear her. Her breath was hot against my skin. “Everything that was supposed to be mine—it’s all yours.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve always wanted to design. When the Reformists pressured Madame Jolène to include someone different, I asked Madame Jolène if it could be me. Do you know what she said?”

  I could barely hear Tilda over the noise. Sophie was pulling on my arm, trying to draw me away. But Tilda’s eyes fixed me in place.

  “It was you,” I said, all the pieces coming together in my head to form one horrifying whole. “You took my welcome letter and ruined my sketches. And my mother’s letters. You stole them.”

  “That man—Mr. Taylor—he told Madame Jolène that the new candidate couldn’t just be poor. She had to be from the country, too. So I was forced to stay a maid and serve you and watch you and—” She took a raggedy breath. “But it doesn’t matter. I saw Mr. Taylor and he said I could be part of the Reformists movement. All I have to do is stop you.”

  “Stop me?”

  “Yes. That’s the thing about the city. People remember dresses, yes, but they remember scandals so much more.”

  With that, she launched at me. I hardly registered what was happening until I hit the ground. Her hands clawed at my beautiful dress and the sound of ripping fabric cut through the air. We landed out on the stage and, almost immediately, the clapping turned to gasps.

  “Get off me!”

  I kicked with all my might and struggled to free myself from her hands. We rolled to one side and the bright flash of the stage lights flared in my eyes. I heard glass breaking as we shattered the light and something hard punctured my ankle.

  The models and Sophie rushed forward, pulling Tilda off me. Her nails sank into my skin before she was yanked away. I sat up. The air was hazy and thick. It swam in front of my eyes and circled around me. I smelled something acrid. Fire. Flames from the stage lights were licking across the stage and eating their way up the stage curtain. The red velvet curled beneath the fire’s heat and little orange sparks speckled the fabric and danced through the air.

  “Fire!” someone shouted. “Fire!”

  I pushed myself onto my knees and then to my feet, tripping on my skirts. Dark shapes rushed past me. It was the models, running off the stage. Sophie came up behind me.

  “We need to get out of here!”

  The flames reached all the way up the curtain and fanned out across the top of the stage. Now there was crackling and hissing, sounds I heard often in Shy when my mother lit fires in our fireplace. It was the sound of flames fed by wood. The stage was on fire, not just the curtains.

  There was only one place we could go: behind the stage. We plunged into the small space beyond the flame-engulfed curtains. It was filled with hot smoke that swirled as we moved through it. All I could see were flames above us and the gray shapes of garment bags around us.

  I groped for the rickety wooden ladder nailed to the wall. It led up to the platform hanging over the stage. We could climb up the ladder, make our way across the boards, and get down by the other ladder on the far side of the platform.

  It wasn’t wise to climb it. The smoke was rising, billowing its way to the ceiling and forming a massive gray cloud against the roof. Fire engulfed the curtains hanging across the top of the stage and they were only a few feet from the platform.

  “Climb!” I screamed into Sophie’s ear. Smoke filled my mouth, searing my tongue and throat. We had to go up, up where it was hotter. I didn’t know if I could do it. I didn’t know if I could climb up into the smoke. But there wasn’t any other choice.

  Sophie started to climb up the ladder. Once she was far enough above me, I put my foot on the first rung. My heel slipped off. I grabbed the ladder with one hand and a handful of my gown in the other and started climbing. The heat increased until tears streamed down my face and my skin blistered against my dress.

  Up. Up. Up.

  I reached the platform and barely hauled myself over onto it. My muscles shook and cinders nipped at my face, hands, neck. I wanted to curl up and close it all out. But I had to keep moving. I got to my feet. Sophie stood next to me, staring over the edge of the platform.

  “Sophie!” I croaked. “Come on.”

  She was frozen, staring down at the flames below. I grabbed her arm, jerking her hard across the moaning platform to the ladder on the other side where the fire hadn’t yet reached. I held Sophie’s hand as she swung her legs over the side and started down the ladder. Once she made it halfway down, I hoisted myself around the ladder and moved down, my skirts catching every few feet on the nails and wood. When my feet touched the bottom, my knees buckled beneath me.

  All of a sudden, strong arms enveloped me, lifting me completely off the ground.

  Tristan.

  Outside the theater, rain poured down on me, soothing my blistering skin and smoke-filled eyes. I coughed and coughed, trying to expel the ashy stinging in my chest. But no matter how much I heaved, the awful pain just behind my heart remained.

  Tristan held me tightly, his hand running through my hair, cinders flaking out of my locks.

  “Are you all right? I was—” His voice caught, and it wasn’t from the smoke-filled air. He cleared his throat vigorously. “I was terrified I’d lost you.”

  “It would take more than a fire and an attack by a maid to stop me,” I said, only I was coughing at the same time, and my joke came out choked. I turned my head so my cheek pressed against the muscles of his chest.

  There was a loud rattling nearby, and I pulled my face away. A red fire wagon was parked in front of the building, and firemen scurried around, shouting to each other and unwinding a leather hose. Black smoke mingled with black rainclouds in the sky.

  Our models milled around, their dresses—our hard work—torn and stained with soot. Nearly all our guests were gone. Tilda was nowhere to be seen. Sophie was on the far end of the street, talking to a man and Ms. Walker. They both scribbled something down in notebooks. I rose unsteadily to my feet.

  “Are you all right?” Tristan placed a steadying hand on my elbow.

  “Yes. I’ll be right back.”

  There was a woman just beyond Sophie. Her arms were folded over her chest and she was wearing a dark blue coat with a beaded capelet. It wasn’t the sort of attire to wear in the rain. Much too fashionable. A mink hat with a full brim was pulled low over her forehead. I made my way over to where she watched the smoke rise into the sky.

  “Madame Jolène?” I asked.

  She turned, clearly shocked I had recognized her. Her eyes predictably traveled from my shoes to my hair. Even though I’d just escaped the clutches of a furious maid and a fiery building, she still appraised me. For the first time, it didn’t matter to me.

  “Emmaline,” she said. “I see you’ve found your color.”

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I wanted to see the collection,” she said, shrugging slightly as though I’d asked a daft question.

  She didn’t mention the fire or ask if we were all right. Fashion was always her focus, and everything else, even life-and-death peril, were peripheral to it. “What did you think?”

  She took in a slow breath, seeming to deliberate over what she wanted to say.

  “It was beautiful. I loved it.” She stared at me, unapologetic. “I knew it would be. You girls are talented. It’s too bad it ended in such calamity. Perhaps some things—and some people—are simply ill-fated.” S
he pulled the brim of her hat down farther, shadowing her face. I could still see her eyes, though, and their gaze intensified, as though a new thought had struck her. “It reminded me of debuting my first collection, over a decade ago. Back then, the Fashion House was run by a man, Lord Harold Spencer. He used the Fashion House for profit and fame and cared little for beauty.” She paused. “You think you are doing something new, but you are merely reprising all the revolutions that have come before you.”

  She stuck her hands deep into her pockets. Her entire body was covered: her face by her hat, her body by her coat, and her hands by her pockets. It was impossible to see anything besides her clothing. When she spoke again, it sounded like she was talking to herself, not to me.

  “If, despite the scandalous ending to your show, you manage to succeed, you will pave the way for the next generation, who will have some complaint about your style or your ethics or any other ridiculous thing. Fashion isn’t linear. It’s cyclical. Just as trends are, so are movements. Remember that, Emmaline, when you go wherever it is you will go after this.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  Madame Jolène paused for just a moment, but then kept going. It was just as well. I didn’t know why I’d asked her to wait. Standing here, with soot in my throat and ashes in my hair, everything seemed so vivid—how I’d struggled so hard, how she’d always seen me as a pawn and not a person, how I’d done so many things that I’d never thought I’d do to get what I wanted. To get what I needed.

  She moved across the street and I watched her go. Life had pushed us up against each other. She had pushed us up against each other. But maybe now I could understand. She was just trying to protect what was hers.

  I woke up the next day with the scent of fire in my nose. The minute I slipped out of bed and stood up, my head swam, and I put a steadying hand on the headboard.

  Yesterday, we’d walked back to our rented room. Even though we didn’t have money to pay for another night, we slept there, crossing our fingers that the landlady wouldn’t come to our door.

  Sophie sat at the table, drinking milky tea and reading the morning paper.

  “Good morning,” she said as I approached. “How are you?”

  “I’m not so sure. Last night was . . .” I trailed off. Awful? Electrifying?

  I saw Tilda’s eyes in my mind, how they’d flashed with hatred. It had been her all along, not Kitty. The revelation filled me with a strange mix of relief and regret. As soon as I could, I would apologize to Kitty for pushing her away when she’d never betrayed me.

  “Last night was a success,” Sophie said. “Look at this.”

  A SECOND FASHION HOUSE

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN AVON-UPON-KYNT?

  Rumors have been swirling for the past week that two former Fashion House Interview contestants had created a small collection of gowns outside the Fashion House label.

  Yesterday, this newspaper confirmed the rumors. Select press members, including the Avon-upon-Kynt Times, previewed the gowns at a small fashion debut held after the Parliament Exhibition. Of remarkable note is that the two contestants are Emmaline Watkins, country talent from the north, and Sophie Sterling, the last remaining member of the eccentric Sterling family.

  After years of Fashion House styles, the collection was a breath of fresh air, featuring haunting outfits that stayed with this reporter long after the final bows. Of further interest, the designers had their models walk, showcasing the pieces’ movements. It was an ingenious decision.

  Tragically, a stage light caught the curtain on fire, ending the debut.

  “On top of it all, it’s in the Times,” Sophie said. “A year ago, the paper wouldn’t have dared write anything against the Fashion House for fear of the Crown.”

  “What about Mr. Taylor? Will he try to stop us since we won’t design for the Reformists Party?”

  “He might. But everything is in upheaval right now. It works to our advantage. There’s even an opinion piece in the front of the paper. It talks about how fashion should be free from the government—both the Crown and Parliament.”

  I sat back in my chair. I’d never pictured this moment. I’d been so caught up with getting things done that I hadn’t realized what the other side of the hard work would be like, what it would feel like.

  “I thought for sure that Tilda’s fire would ruin our chances.”

  “Normally, it would have.” Sophie shrugged. “Things really are shifting, though. Ms. Walker wrote about it in the gossip column and concluded that the Fashion House had sent Tilda to stop us. Which isn’t true, of course, but it makes us seem sympathetic.”

  “What will happen to Tilda?”

  “Well, it seems like she’s aligned herself with the Reformists Party. She probably doesn’t realize she’s in the clutches of a madman.”

  I supposed I should be happy—Tilda had tried to ruin me at every turn. But I kept thinking about my mother, how she’d been a maid as well. It wasn’t so easy, when the things one wanted were so far outside one’s grasp.

  We sat quietly for a few moments, reading the papers. The restfulness was temporary, I knew. Soon, reality would descend on us, and we would have to work and plan and figure out a way to stay ahead of Madame Jolène and Mr. Taylor. But—just for the morning—I would celebrate.

  “I wanted to say thank you. For choosing me to join you in this crazy venture.” Sophie placed her cold hand on top of mine. The gesture was strangely awkward, considering her usual grace. She seemed to realize it and pulled her hand away. “I—” She stumbled over her words. “I think you are the first real friend I’ve ever had, Emmy. It’s terrifying.”

  Sophie’s words filled my soul in a way nothing else could.

  “And I have something to tell you,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “I told you about Tristan’s proposal because I wanted to make you . . .” She stopped, struggling. She began again. “I pretend like he doesn’t mean anything to me, but that ring he gave me—I didn’t just keep it for fun.”

  I pictured the thin band sitting on Sophie’s palm that day she’d showed it to me. She’d kept it. She hadn’t really said yes to his proposal. Hadn’t really said no. She’d held on to it . . . and, in some ways, him.

  And maybe, even though I didn’t want to think it, he’d always have something with her, even if it wasn’t love. Perhaps that’s how it worked with such things. Promises of promises. They knit people together, just like simple rings of gold did.

  “I don’t think I loved him the way you do. But when I was engaged to him, it was . . .” She seemed to be searching for a word. I waited, needing to hear it, even though I didn’t want to. “I felt safe for the first time in a long while, and it was . . . comforting.” With nervous motions, she picked up the nearby saucer and poured milk into her tea, even though she already had. The milk plumed across its surface, turning the liquid white.

  I remembered the way she’d interrupted our kiss in the dining room, how she’d pretended to be heading through to her room but had stayed, watching us. All along, she’d been trying to drive us apart and for what? She didn’t want him back.

  And yet, she was apologizing. In her own way. She hadn’t said I’m sorry, but she wasn’t the sort of girl who ever would. Simply stating the truth was a lot for her.

  “I understand,” I said, and the grimness that created lines around her mouth and furrows across her brow dissipated. With a light touch, she picked up her milky tea and took a sip. I let us move on. “Can you believe that Madame Jolène was at the debut?”

  “I thought I saw her there.” She jumped on to the change of topic.

  “I spoke with her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said . . .” How could I describe our conversation? How she’d been threatening yet sad and vulnerable at the same time? “She said our collection was good.”

  “I’m surprised she could bring herself to admit it.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know. I think, above everything else, she loves beauty.”

  I stared down at the newspaper. In a few days it would reach Shy, and my mother would read it. She would know, then, that we’d succeeded. And she would know that I wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

  The thought dimmed my elation. The second we turned any profit, I would send it back to her. And, when I could, I would go see her. Getting our fashion house started was important, but certain things—certain people—were more important.

  I poured myself a cup of tea and put my fingers over the mouth of the cup, letting its steam warm my hands.

  “We have to figure out our next steps,” I said. “We’ll need to make some more gowns and start taking appointments. And we need to come up with a press plan. The more we’re written up in the papers, the better.”

  We started to talk about our new pieces, crafting gowns in the air. Their shapes and details rose in my mind and winged upward like birds, birds whose feathers were made of blue-violet silk and twisting chiffon ribbons. My heart soared with them, borne on the knowledge that, for better or for worse, my future was no longer bound by where I’d come from, but rather, what I would create for myself—stitch by stitch.

  Author’s Note

  While writing this book, I was working as a stylist at an upscale bridal salon in Beverly Hills. It’s simplest to say that I fell in love with the elaborate designs and exquisite construction of the red-carpet couture and wedding gowns. Never in my life had I imagined such beauty and, at the salon, I could see, touch, and feel it on a daily basis.

  As I developed this story, I chose to place it in a fictional country that is most like Victorian London. I wanted to set Emmy’s journey amid the Victorian sensibility for its beauty, its rigid class structures, and its etiquette. However, my imagination was and is captivated by modern-day couture and the continuous dialogue between fashion and the ways it borrows from different places and points in history. As you read, you will notice that the styles and some of the Fashion House’s operations are not consistent with the Victorian period. This was intentional as this book, in many ways, is an exploration of the universality and the evolution of the clothes we wear and how they make us feel.