I arrived in Avon-upon-Kynt one day later. I had slept fitfully throughout the trip, my sleep filled with troubled dreams. After slumbering and waking repeatedly, it was hard to tell the time of day. When the train lurched to its final stop, everything felt odd and surreal. The unfamiliar steam-engine fumes hung rank in my nose and seeped into my clothes and hair. My head was heavy and sluggish. I’d spent the past day and a half sitting in a plush train seat and dozing in a comfy bed in the sleeper car, yet my body throbbed, and there were knots in my neck and shoulders. I told myself it was just worry about going someplace new—not homesickness, not so soon.
As I stepped off the train, I discovered I had been deposited inside a cavernous marble building, not outside, as I had initially thought. Dull sunlight filtered in through skylights high above my head, bleaching the marble walls stark white. Voices echoed in the station, rising above the hissing of steam and thuds of trunks being wrangled out of the luggage compartment. It was chilly. Fall came much quicker to the capital city.
I’d kept my carpetbag with me, and I clutched it as I slowly walked through the station. People streamed by me in a flood of colors and textures. They wore the latest fashions: elegant suede coats, headwraps, and black boots with pointed toes. Huge mirrors lined the walls, multiplying everything by two.
Mirrors were as much a part of Avon-upon-Kynt as fashion was. I’d heard the capital city had more mirrors per square foot than any other city in the world because the citizens needed to see their fashions. It was true. People glanced at their reflections as they walked, adjusting their coats and smoothing their hair. Normally I would’ve been enthralled, but I was more alarmed that no one seemed to be waiting for me. Nervously, I glanced from one side to the other and then—
“Ooof!” I ran right into a man. Or, more accurately, his midsection. As his shoes trampled my toes, my carpetbag slipped from my hands and I stumbled, nearly falling onto my backside. “Ouch!”
The man grabbed my shoulder, steadying me. He towered over me, a striking figure in a black suit with a ruffled black necktie. I was about to apologize when he said, “Watch yourself, girl.”
His annoyed tone seemed to imply it was my fault my toes were burning and bruised from his heavy shoes.
“You stepped on my feet,” I said, unsure if I was more angry or more hurt.
Even though I knew he’d heard me, he continued on his way, disappearing into the crowd without another word. Moving quickly, I picked up my carpetbag and limped over to a wall. I fanned myself with my hand, trying to cool my hot face. This was the city. These people obviously cared more about beautiful clothes than saying “Excuse me.”
The wall I was standing against was covered in canvas. I thought there would be a mirror underneath it, but as wind funneled through the station from the open doors, the canvas lifted and revealed a flash of blue and red. I had other things to focus on—my throbbing feet for one, getting to the Fashion House for another—but I caught the edge of the canvas and peered underneath it.
For a moment, it was hard to make sense of the image because I was so close to it but, as I stared, the shapes started to fit together in a mix of colors and lines.
A woman in eighteenth-century garb stood on a pedestal, cradling a cuttleworm in one hand and stroking the head of a sheep with the other. A banner reading Britannia Secunda Forever: Our Fashion to the World swirled over her figure. I recognized her from our currency: Queen Catherine. A century before I was born, just after Britannia Secunda had secured its independence from England, Queen Catherine had assumed the throne. According to our stories, Britannia Secunda had been too small to support itself and was on the verge of collapse. Queen Catherine used the remaining reserves to hire explorers to find resources or innovations that we could use to support ourselves. One returned with a cuttleworm—a strange creature that could be raised on the farmlands to spin silk threads. With her exquisite taste and aesthetics, Queen Catherine guided our country to its independence by not only manufacturing the best fabrics in the world, but also by turning them into stunning fashions.
“They are going to paint over it.” I dropped the canvas. A young blond man was standing next to me, staring up at the same wall. “It’s a shame.”
Blue. The word popped into my head. His eyes were bright blue, like a Shy sky in spring. But it wasn’t just his eyes. Tired circles were etched beneath them, forming blue half-moons below his lids. A bluish hue distorted his bottom lip, as if he’d recently been socked in the mouth with a large, clenched fist, and a herringbone-patterned blue scarf was tied tightly around his neck. Something drew me to him—maybe the bruises or his sleepy eyes. I’d always liked things—and people—who were different.
“They are?”
I caught a whiff of his aftershave. A deep, clear scent.
“Yes. It’s an initiative from the Reformists Party.”
The Reformists Parliament Party. That name was often splashed across the newspaper headlines. Every year, Parliament granted the Crown an arts budget. And, every year, the Crown had given a large portion of it to the Fashion House . . . until now. The Reformists, who formed part of Parliament, had voted to cut the arts budget so they could invest in new factories that would create cheaper fashions to export.
“It’s such a beautiful painting,” I said.
The young man pulled the canvas aside again, so we could both see it. “It is,” he said. “I’ve always liked it, especially how the artist put a hat on the cuttleworm and a dress on the sheep.”
Another gust of wind rushed through the station, catching at the canvas and making it billow like a sail, ruffling the young man’s hair. He laughed and let it go. The sound was cheery, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him. The canvas settled back over the mural, obscuring it once again.
“Are they really going to paint over it?” I asked.
“Yes. And it’s probably just the start. The Parliament appointments are happening this year, and it looks like the Reformists will get the majority over the Classicists for the first time,” he said. “If that happens, they’ll do more than just paint over murals.” He stopped then, hesitating, as though worried he’d bored me.
“I’ve read about that,” I said encouragingly. The same brightness that lit up his eyes spread to the rest of his face. “The Reformists aren’t fans of couture, right? They want cheaper fashions.”
“It’s true,” he said, and paused. “So, are you coming or going?”
“Coming,” I said.
“Good. It’d be a shame if we’d just met and you were off to somewhere far away.” His smile was easy, relaxed. But those blue eyes of his studied me. Our shoulders were nearly brushing. Had he stepped closer to me at some point? Maybe this was how young men acted in the city. Or had I leaned in toward him without realizing it?
“I’m trying to get to the Fashion House.” There. Safer ground.
“The Fashion House? Is that so? Are you the girl from the North? The one picked to be part of the Fashion House Interview?”
I tucked a strand of hair back behind one ear. “Yes.”
“If that’s the case, can I get a comment?” He procured a notepad from his coat pocket and quickly flipped through its worn pages.
“A comment?”
“I’m a reporter for the Eagle.” A pencil appeared from the same pocket. “The Fashion House told the press you were going to arrive tomorrow—probably trying to throw us all. I’ve come to check the rail times, so I could come back then. But look. Here you are and here I am. This, my friend, is what you call an exclusive scoop. Now, what is your name?”
He waited, pencil poised over notepad.
“Emmaline, but everyone calls me Emmy.” At my words, he started scribbling furiously in the notepad. “You write for the Eagle?”
“Well, yes.” His shoulders slumped a little and he sighed. “For now. But don’t hold that against me!”
“I’m not so sure I should be talking to you.”
The Eagle was a
tabloid notorious for running fascinating stories with dubious origins. Of course, every now and then the tabloids broke big stories. Unlike the more serious papers like the Avon-upon-Kynt Times, they operated independently from the government, so they could print whatever they wanted.
Usually, though, they took this freedom a little too far. In fact, even now I could see the front page of the Eagle displayed on a newspaper stand just behind the young man. Its headline read, “MYSTERIOUS MERMAID FOUND IN THE TYNE RIVER.” He followed my line of sight to the paper and grimaced.
“I didn’t write that one, promise. And now you see what I’m up against. Give me a good quote and you’ll make my day.”
His voice took on an unabashedly pleading note. I opened my mouth, ready to talk, drawn in by his easy charm.
Then, just before I started to recount meeting Madame Jolène back in Evert, I stopped. I might be from the country, but I wasn’t stupid. My mother had taught me to be wary of handsome men.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have anything to say on the matter.”
The train exhaled more steam onto the platform and it whirled around us in a damp, white cloud. He was nothing like Johnny Wells. As pathetic as it was, Johnny was the only young man I could compare him to. My mother had always kept me away from the few boys in Shy until she started pushing Johnny on me.
“Nonsense!” He made a swirling motion in the air with his pencil as though the gesture could command words from my tongue. “I’m sure you have something to say. Everyone does. You’ve left your home and traveled all this way with a carpetbag and a dream. Hoping to make something of yourself, possibly. Or perhaps hoping to prove someone wrong.”
He spoke quickly, like his mind was jumping from point to point and he could barely keep up.
“Sounds like you’re telling me my own story.”
“Is it accurate?”
“No comment.” I smiled back at him, and he sighed, shaking his head. “Though if you do describe me, can you add a few inches to my height?”
He laughed then, the sound ringing merrily through the station, the sole note of happiness amid the travelers sniping at each other to move or step aside.
“Very well. How does this headline sit with you? ‘MADAME JOLÈNE’S NEW COUNTRY MOUSE ARRIVES TODAY, AND SHE IS QUITE TALL.’” He seemed inspired by his fake headline. He lowered his notebook, giving me a peek. Indeed, he had even written down “country mouse,” with a poorly drawn slice of cheese beside the words. He cocked his head to the side as he stared at me. I tucked my hair behind my ear again. “You look different from what I was expecting.”
“Different?”
“Yes. It’s been the talk of the city. The Reformists Party has always tried to force Madame Jolène to do things this way or that. Normally, she ignores them, which was just fine because the Crown has always supported her. Until now, that is. Everything is shifting, and the Reformists have more power.”
I already knew Madame Jolène didn’t want me at the Fashion House, but from the sound of it, neither did any soul in Avon-upon-Kynt, aside from the oft-mentioned Reformists Party. I glanced from the reporter to the other travelers. Suddenly, their passing gazes seemed cold and mocking, even though they couldn’t possibly know who I was.
“What were you expecting?” I asked almost desperately.
“Oh, you know, a girl with a humble way of talking and lots of freckles,” he laughed. “The Reformists Party wanted someone who looked the part, but Madame Jolène didn’t listen, it seems.”
“Well, people in the country aren’t all humble and freckled.”
“That’s the Reformists Party.” He shrugged. “They tend to caricature the people they claim to help.”
“Emmaline!” A bulky figure emerged from the steam and walked briskly toward me. I stepped back from the reporter. “Don’t say anything to him!”
Francesco. He swept up to me, his dark mink coat extending all the way down to the train-station floor. A hint of a frilly purple tunic layered over fitted leather pants peeked out from beneath the fur.
The reporter turned to Francesco but not before winking at me. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and asked in a brisk, professional manner, “How does Madame Jolène feel about Parliament cutting the Crown’s arts funding?”
“No. Comment.” Francesco put his arm protectively around my shoulders.
Without missing a beat, the young man asked, “Will she ask the Crown to renegotiate the budget?”
“We must be going.” Francesco guided me away. “Reporters!” he huffed, even though the young man was still within earshot. “Earth’s scum, feeding on information.” His hand was reassuringly warm and strong on my shoulder. “Welcome, my little scarecrow dresser. We must hurry. Orientation is starting soon, and we must get you . . .” He trailed off, glancing at my travel-worn, simple-cut overcoat before saying, “Presentable.”
I barely heard him. I twisted around, trying to see the reporter one last time and glimpse his blue, blue eyes, but he was already concealed by the train’s thick, white steam.
We took a hansom cab to the Fashion House, the driver shouting at the crowd from his perch behind the passenger carriage. Francesco prattled on about how ridiculous it was that journalists who wore cotton trousers and boots without spats dared to critique the Fashion House—oh, and no, Francesco wasn’t wearing spats either, but it was a “deliberate fashion choice,” not a “casual attitude about booting.” His monologue slipped into the background with the driver’s cries. I realized I didn’t even know the reporter’s name.
Finally, the cab pulled to a stop and we stepped out into a cobbled courtyard, the cool city air stinging our faces. It was a stark change from Shy, where the summer heat lasted into September, sometimes even October.
“Hurry now. We must give you time to change”—Francesco paused to face me and wave a hand over my entire being—“everything, before orientation.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring up at the Fashion House. The stately brick building was covered in ivy and surrounded by a tall iron gate. Its white-trimmed gables stretched toward the sky, nearly covering the smokestacks emerging from its roof. Unlike the other businesses we’d passed, it wasn’t joined to any other buildings. Instead, the Fashion House stood alone, a striking silhouette against the gray sky.
It appeared we were in the back. A man with a horse-drawn cart was delivering meats wrapped in brown paper, and a woman emerged from the door to dump out a bucket of water. Despite the mundane activities, the place exuded luxury. Through the open upstairs windows, I could see chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors, and silk curtains, intimations of the beauty and glamour contained within the walls. Francesco called to me, “Come along, Emmaline.”
“You can call me Emmy,” I said, reluctantly dragging my eyes from the Fashion House to him. “No one calls me Emmaline.”
Francesco wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Emmy? You aren’t a simple milkmaid any longer, dear child. Emmys, Suzys, and Beckys belong on farms, just like Franks belong in law offices or seminaries. No. Here, I am Francesco, and you are Emmaline.” He whispered Emmaline and it sounded grand, like the kind of name a designer would have.
Still, it wasn’t me. No one from home ever called me Emmaline. Suddenly, everything seemed to be moving too fast. I didn’t have much—just a carpetbag, a few dresses, and me—and I wasn’t ready to relinquish any bit of myself just yet.
Francesco gently rested a hand on my shoulder, as if he knew my thoughts. “We all make sacrifices, dear. It’s the Fashion House way. Everything tells a story here, names included.”
I nearly protested, but he had already whirled around on his heel to continue inside. I followed him. We entered a narrow lobby and, before my vision could adjust from the light, we started up a staircase lined with art. The first painting was small in comparison to the others, and it depicted a man in a tweed suit. I wondered if it was Lord Harold Spencer. I didn’t know much ab
out him, just that he’d been the previous owner of the Fashion House, years ago, before Madame Jolène had taken it over. Now he was merely a forgotten footnote in Fashion House history.
The rest of the paintings were of famous Fashion House designs, their enormity magnifying the details of the couture. I squinted at them. The first two showed the queen’s watercolor coronation gown and the light, airy red dress with the twenty-foot chiffon train that the wife of the Moroccan ambassador had worn during the Parliament vote several years ago.
The third painting featured a woman in a sky-and-midnight-blue sparkly gown. I stared at it as we passed by, certain it was Princess Amelia in the gown she’d commissioned for the queen’s Diamond Jubilee. It was one of Madame Jolène’s most famous looks and had always been my favorite.
“This way, Emmaline.”
On the landing above me, Francesco turned down a separate hallway. With one last glance at the blue dress, I stepped into the corridor. It was lined with cherrywood doors and paraffin-oil lamps with glass shades that threw squares of colorful light onto the carpet. Francesco opened one of the doors.
“Enter your new paradise. There is a dress lying out for you. As soon as you are ready, return to the foyer and line up with the other girls. Madame Jolène will direct the orientation.”
My breath caught in my chest like a hiccup as I stepped over the threshold. I barely noticed the door closing behind me or the sound of Francesco’s footsteps retreating down the stairs. A wash of muted colors overwhelmed me—ivories, champagnes, blushes, and soft blues—and I had to blink before I could see any one detail. It was all so still, as though there wasn’t any air in the room and hadn’t been for a long time. Everything was mirrored in the light-blue marble floor—the two vanities, the two canopied beds, and the two full-length mirrors.
A Dress for the Wicked Page 3