A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “Will we receive feedback after each challenge?” Ky asked.

  “Of course. Critiques will be given for every challenge, and a winner will be announced at the end of each. However, don’t be too dismayed if you don’t win the early challenges. I’ve seen girls come from behind many times.”

  “It’s hard to believe that only two of us will be hired,” Kitty whispered to me. “And the rest of us will be fired.” She nervously shook her hair back from her face. She wanted this as much as I did. In fact, they all did. I looked up and down the row at the resolute faces and narrowed eyes. They were stylish girls, yes, but more than that—they were also determined. I needed to beat them, or I’d be back in Shy, washing dishes and waiting on tables and resisting my mother’s campaign to wed me to Johnny Wells.

  “You will, of course, enjoy the lifestyle the Fashion House provides during your time here,” Francesco said. “We create luxury, so we live in it as well. You are as much a part of the Fashion House aesthetic as the wallpaper or the marble.”

  Everyone nodded. It was well known that the Fashion House was a unique place—even the servants wore couture.

  “Madame Jolène!” It was Sophie. The girl in the black gown. I had to lean forward to see her face. For a moment, I thought she was looking down, but it was just her lashes, so thick and black that they shielded her eyes. Black hair, as shiny as her black silk gown, twisted into a knot at the very top of her head. Her porcelain-white features were beautiful, each one perfectly formed and placed. By all accounts, she was stunning—I couldn’t find any flaws—but there was something grim about her, as though her beauty didn’t extend below the surface.

  Slowly, Madame Jolène, who had remained perfectly still during Francesco’s speech, unwound from her pose to stare down at her. I wasn’t sure how she did it since the girl was taller than Madame Jolène.

  “Yes?” Madame Jolène asked.

  Sophie didn’t flinch or blush. She did hesitate, though, before saying, “What about her?” She pointed at me.

  Me.

  I stifled a gasp and took a step back, almost knocking into Kitty. Sophie’s finger remained pointed. The girls watched, their eyes flitting from the black-haired girl to me, and then to Madame Jolène.

  “What about her?” Madame Jolène asked.

  “It seems you are including a different class of contestant this season,” Sophie said. “Have the requirements changed? I’m just wondering because a reporter asked me yesterday if the Fashion House is becoming more . . . well, like a factory that mass-produces shirtwaists.”

  As she spoke, my breath grew short. My ribs tried to expand, but they couldn’t. It was as if my new dress was suffocating me. I would faint, right here in front of everyone, and then they would really know I didn’t belong.

  “Well,” Madame Jolène said. Her expression remained neutral even as something behind her face darkened. The single syllable hung in the air. Sophie shifted, and beside me Kitty softly exhaled. Then Madame Jolène spoke again. “Things are changing in Avon-upon-Kynt. But the Fashion House has never been and will never be a place that produces standard things, even when forced to include . . . some standard people.”

  Madame Jolène didn’t glance at me even once. The other girls did, though. They openly stared at me and then turned to each other, their whispering punctuated by little snorts of laughter. Even Kitty took a small step away from me, as though trying to distance herself.

  They thought I was a joke, just like Madame Jolène did. I kept my shoulders back and my chin raised, but my stomach twisted into unrelenting knots. I felt as small and ridiculous as they all thought I was.

  Chapter Four

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, EMMALINE?” Kitty asked, noticing I was lagging as I followed her up the stairs. Our rooms were located on one of the highest floors, far above the sewing rooms and fitting areas. I wasn’t sure I’d recall which one was mine, so I’d asked Kitty to help me. I was worried she might not want to be seen with me, but she had agreed.

  No, I’m not all right. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Don’t worry too much,” Kitty said. She paused on a stair. “Sophie is a strange one. She’s a Sterling, after all.”

  “A Sterling?”

  “Yes. You know, the Sterling family.”

  For a second, I wavered between pretending to know who this family was—from Kitty’s breezy tone, it seemed like I should—and just admitting my ignorance.

  The delay was enough to tip Kitty off. “They are, or were, I should say, a well-known family. Sophie’s parents died a few years ago, and it caused quite a stir. They weren’t titled, but they were wealthy. Her parents were always getting attention for doing things like dancing in the city fountain at midnight or showing up together at the Gentlemen’s Club. But try not to worry about Sophie. Such things will distract us from our work if we let them.”

  I nodded. Everything was happening so fast: the rude maid, Sophie’s cutting comment, Madame Jolène’s icy response. I arched my neck, trying to ease the throbbing at its base, and my eyes settled on the gilt-framed painting of Princess Amelia in her dazzling midnight gown, the one she’d worn to the queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Without Francesco rushing me along, I could stare at it for as long as I wanted. Kitty stopped next to me.

  She grinned. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  Even more than the gown, I loved the story behind it. I was ten when Avon-upon-Kynt celebrated the queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Everyone said Princess Amelia wouldn’t attend the festivities. Rumors had percolated for months that her husband, Prince Willis, had taken up with the nubile Duchess Cynthia Sandringham. And just two months before the jubilee, he had gone on a weeklong trip with the duchess in Italy, while Princess Amelia stayed with their children, Prince Andrew and Princess Astrid, back at the main palace.

  According to the society pages, Princess Amelia had shown up, resplendent and with her head held high, wearing a sheath gown of raw silk dyed a rich blue. Now all the details were right in front of me. I hadn’t known the fabric was a mixture of blues, both bright and dark. The gown had long sleeves and a high neck. In fact, it might have been considered prudish if it wasn’t so tight that one could see the outline of Princess Amelia’s entire body. Starting mid-thigh, crystals sparkled and glinted over the skirt, pooling around the hemline like shimmering raindrops. Layers of black and gray tulle fell from the back of the waist, creating the impression of a ball gown from behind.

  “I was eleven when it happened, but I remember it all like it was yesterday,” Kitty said. “It was quite past my bedtime, but my parents let me stay, and I was the only girl my age there.” She smiled proudly. “Prince Willis and the duchess arrived before Princess Amelia did. Did the society pages mention that the duchess was formally introduced? It was awfully vulgar.” Kitty shook her head. “The duchess was wearing a horrid gray silk A-line gown—and pearls, of all things. As if she were fifty! ‘Dumpy’ was the only word to describe her.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of Kitty’s mouth. “My mother told me Madame Jolène had canceled the duchess’s appointment at the Fashion House because Madame Jolène is a personal friend of the princess’s. The duchess has been blacklisted from the Fashion House ever since.”

  “So it’s true.”

  I’d read about the blacklisted duchess in the society pages, but since I was so far away from the city, it was easy to forget the people in Avon-upon-Kynt existed beyond the confines of the articles. According to the papers, the prince and duchess had separated shortly after the jubilee, and the duchess had never been featured in any fashion spreads since.

  “When Princess Amelia was announced, I’d never seen anything like it,” Kitty continued. “There was so much noise—you know, people jostling, vendors yelling, that type of thing—and it stopped. The moment Princess Amelia stepped out onto the steps of the Parliament building, you could hear a pin drop. No one could look away. The gown was unlike anything I had ever seen, eve
n here, where everyone lives for fashion. There was something about it . . . I don’t know . . . it was glittering, glowing, even . . . it was like seeing something divine.”

  Kitty trailed off, and we both stood facing the painting, lingering, held by the blue gown’s spell. For the first time, it made sense to me. The gown was exquisite, but more important, it told a story. It allowed a scorned princess to show her prince she didn’t need him anymore.

  “Come,” Kitty said. “It’s getting late, and we need our rest for tomorrow.”

  I followed her the rest of the way up the stairs, but the blue gown’s image floated in front of me, filmy and ghostlike. Blue. It reminded me of something . . . but what?

  The reporter’s eyes.

  They were as blue as Princess Amelia’s gown. I shook my head vigorously, enough to make Kitty glance curiously at me.

  No matter. There wasn’t time for men. I needed to work hard and make sure that at the end of the season I was offered the apprenticeship. And then one day I could dress someone like Princess Amelia and tell her story, one stitch at a time.

  I said goodnight to Kitty and opened the door to my chamber. Everything gleamed just as before. Now, though, night had fallen, casting the room in a golden light. The chandelier sparkled, and the room, warmed by its glow, seemed less clean and frigid. It’s like living inside a jewelry box, I thought.

  I wasn’t alone. There was a girl sitting at one of the vanities. Her evening robe had fallen off her shoulders and it hung from the crooks of her elbows, revealing snowy skin and a black nightdress. With her long fingers, she pulled pins from her hair, sending cascades of dark waves down her back. She turned slightly so her reflection appeared in the vanity mirror.

  Sophie.

  Every single one of the emotions from the lobby came rushing back, as though I was standing there again, and she was pointing at me, making all those eyes fix on me. For the second time since I’d arrived, scorching heat rushed to my face, turning my cheeks pink.

  Sophie’s eyes flicked up to mine in the mirror. Then, just as quickly, she returned her gaze to the vanity’s marble top.

  “Sophie,” I breathed. “I didn’t know we’d be sharing chambers.”

  “It appears as such.”

  After her bold comments at orientation, I expected her to say something disdainful. This emotionless response was unnerving, much more so than a sarcastic comment or insult would have been.

  “So, what did you think of the orientation?” Sophie asked, glancing at me once more in the mirror from under her black lashes. She picked up a pencil and began to draw long, harsh lines on the paper in front of her.

  “I was quite impressed,” I said finally, with a touch of derision. It seemed like the safest response. One that wasn’t weak or threatened. “It was terribly exciting for me, especially since I’m a ‘different type of contestant.’”

  Sophie picked up her sketch and tucked it behind the vanity mirror. I was still standing in the doorway, as though I were a guest in my own chambers, waiting for permission to enter. Hastily, I crossed the room to my vanity and sat down on its cushioned stool.

  How could this be happening? Of all the contestants, I was rooming with Sophie, a girl who already seemed to hate me, a girl who didn’t think I should be in the Fashion House Interview just because I was poor and from the country.

  I realized I was sitting motionless on the stool, staring at her. I needed to look busy, occupied, not intimidated. Quickly, I opened the top drawer of the vanity. Its shiny glass knob was odd beneath my fingers. It was so much smoother than the brass latches on my drawers at home, the ones that were so badly warped that I had to develop a complex strategy for opening each one.

  “I saw you looking at Princess Amelia’s gown with Kitty.”

  I twisted around on the stool so we faced each other. She had been watching me? I hadn’t even seen her. The thought of those black eyes following me sent a chill through my bones.

  “There hasn’t been a ‘big’ dress since then,” she said. “Or at least, not one that has shaped society and fashion in one swoop. I’m going to design the next one.”

  “You are?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Sophie spoke in such a deliberate tone, it sounded as if it had already happened. She had already created the next big gown. The public had already loved it. She already was a celebrated designer. There was no bravado in her manner, just frankness.

  “How are you liking the city?” She picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry from a silver platter on a nearby end table and nibbled at it. “It must be quite a change from Shy.”

  I looked down at the contents of the vanity drawer, trying to think before I spoke. Corsets of pink and white, each one adorned with delicate lace and gems. Clearly everything was beautiful at the House, even the garments no one would see.

  “You’ve heard of Shy?”

  Shy was so small, it wasn’t on most maps of Britannia Secunda. Since most of it was rural, travelers always had a hard time knowing where it began and ended. It simply rose out of the farmlands, built into a few simple buildings and forests, and then faded away into roads leading to other places.

  “Of course not.” She gave a smug little smile and licked a smear of chocolate off the back of her hand. “I researched the other contestants. Where they came from. What they want.”

  Her black eyes focused on me the way our cats stared at mice before devouring them. I turned away from her to reexamine the corsets in the drawer. I pulled one out to inspect the stitching.

  “Why did you research everyone?”

  I ran a finger over the corset, my body as stiff as the strips of whalebone lining its seams.

  “Madame Jolène is only accepting two girls to apprentice as designers. And that’s only if they’re good. I am going to be one of them. I wanted to familiarize myself with the other contestants. I have to say—overall, I was impressed. Oftentimes, it seems like the contestants for the Fashion House Interview are only in it for the prestige. This time, though, it looks like it’ll be a real competition.”

  “Really?” My voice faltered. What if the other contestants were already so much better than I was that I didn’t stand a chance? Sophie seemed to think as much. “How so?”

  “Well, Alice’s mother hired a former Fashion House designer to tutor her, and Ky has spent years studying fashion in Japan. Cordelia’s family petitioned for her spot before Madame Jolène even began making her list of girls to invite.” Sophie rattled off each girl’s background with ease. “I’m not too worried about Kitty. I’m sure she’ll be strong with the technical skills, but she hardly seems to have any creativity, and I bet her parents bought her entry into the competition.”

  “Bought her entry?”

  “Yes. She’s from the Quincey family, and they lost their title some time ago after Kitty’s grandfather led the Crown into an illegal investment. They’ve been trying to regain their social capital ever since. But their money can only get them so far—it certainly can’t buy Kitty an imagination. So you aren’t alone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You and Kitty.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well.” Sophie’s eyes flashed with something. Something I knew too well from the families who would give my mother and me bags of used clothes back in Shy. Pity. Sophie didn’t continue, but she didn’t have to. I knew what she was saying. Kitty and I weren’t real competition. Not in her eyes.

  That’s fine. Let her underestimate me. Yet even as I told myself that, I faltered. Maybe I really was outmatched. Maybe I really was beaten before I even began.

  “Oh, don’t look so glum,” Sophie said. “Perhaps you can get hired as a private seamstress to an aristocrat once the competition is over.”

  Her tone reminded me of the maid’s from earlier. Too sweet. She was still watching me, her hand still over her sketch. I forced my face to relax, my eyes to soften. It made sense that she didn’t consider me real competition . . . but i
t also made sense that she would want me to give up. I’d never considered that there might be another aspect to the Fashion House Interview. I’d never considered that the other contestants might just try to slip into my head and defeat me before I’d even sewn a stitch.

  “Maybe.” I mimicked her overly sweet tone. “I’m not too worried. I think training in the country gives me fresh perspective.”

  Training was a ridiculous stretch of the truth. My training, if one could even use such a word, was entirely self-directed and had occurred at the dining room table in our pub and over the threadbare quilt on my bed, where I’d spend hours sketching, studying the fashion pages, and sewing my own creations.

  Sophie’s eyes widened in a moment of surprise, and then she smiled. It was a small smile and the last thing I expected. I glanced down at the patterned paper lining the bottom of my vanity drawer, unable to hold her gaze.

  “Well.” That small, secretive smile still hung around her lips. “We shall see, Emmaline Watkins.”

  My name sounded strange in her low voice, as though I was hearing it for the first time. I didn’t know how to respond to such a comment, so I pretended to be occupied with the corset I held. Yet while my eyes were fixed on it, my mind raced. I didn’t want to be a private seamstress to an aristocrat, even if everyone assumed that was the highest I could climb. I wanted to create, to actualize the visions living in my head, even if my dreams were preposterous for a girl from the country with no family name or wealth to speak of.

  “Oh, usually the maid unpacks for us, but I don’t think she did for you.” Sophie suddenly changed the subject, motioning to my carpetbag. It sat near my bed, a blight on the beautiful room, still full of my things.

  I put the corset back into the drawer and walked over to the bag. Leaning over, I intended to shove it beneath the bed’s dust ruffle and unpack it later, when I was alone. But as soon as my fingers touched the soft, familiar fabric, I couldn’t shove it away. No, it wasn’t very nice. But it was one of the few things I had, and it was part of me, as much as my work-callused hands.