A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  I pulled my pencils and a ream of paper out of it and carried them to my vanity. I wanted the rhythmic comfort of my pencil tip against a blank page. Sophie observed, still turned in her chair.

  “Can I see your designs?”

  “Um . . .”

  “What’s wrong? I’m sure they’re very good.” She arched an eyebrow as she spoke, as though she’d already decided my sketches were terrible and was challenging me to prove otherwise.

  “Fine.” I pointed to my carpetbag, where several loose sketches rested atop my other sketchbook. This girl wasn’t my friend, that was for sure. But I didn’t want everyone thinking I was a talentless pity hire. Sophie got up, her black silky robe sliding even farther down her elbows. As she brushed past me, the scent of violet–witch hazel perfume filled my nose.

  She laid my sketches out evenly on the floor, one next to the other. My pencil stilled on the paper as she knelt to examine them.

  “Detailed, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  She held a sketch of a midday organza gown with a wide belt of round crystals accenting the waist. I’d titled it My Mother Going to the City. As I’d drawn it, I’d told myself a story about my mother deciding to return to the city and walking through Shy in the gown before leaving. Our neighbors, especially the ones who judged and pitied us, stared at her in awe. Out of all the sketches, Sophie had found the one that I thought about the most.

  The sketch was a little silly—my mother would die before she’d wear a dress like that, yet I’d designed it to fit her bony form and sallow skin, deliberating over each decision until it was perfect.

  The sight of it stung in the sharp, instantaneous way saltwater stings an open cut. I didn’t want to think about my mother alone in the pub. I needed to write her. In fact, I would write her tonight and tell her I was sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.

  Then she would write me back and I’d know everything was right between us.

  “They aren’t too bad.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am,” she said. “I have to admit—I thought you a token contestant and nothing more. But you are . . . capable.”

  She considered me, a new look in her eyes. It wasn’t quite admiration, and it wasn’t quite respect. But it was something close to those. I self-consciously ducked my head, quickly trying to change the subject.

  “Can I see your sketches?”

  “Not now,” Sophie said. “Maybe later, once I’ve finished some new ones.”

  The pleasant feelings vanished. I’d just shown her mine and she wouldn’t show me hers? I wanted to snatch my sketch away from her. I should have never let her see my work. Now she knew things about me, about what I could do, and I didn’t know anything about her in return.

  “As I said, you are capable, Emmaline.” Sophie’s tone was brisk, professional. “I’ll give you a bit of advice. The other girls will try to trip you up. Be wary.”

  “Advice? Just earlier, you were embarrassing me in front of everyone.”

  “Oh, come now. I was feeling out Madame Jolène. That exchange had very little to do with you.”

  “Certainly didn’t seem like it.”

  “However it may have appeared, that’s what I was doing. I’ll be frank. I don’t need to worry about undermining you. I look forward to a fierce competition based on talent alone, not stupid mind games.”

  I didn’t know if I should feel reassured or even more uncertain.

  Sophie carried on. “As I said, you’re in a difficult place. But I am too.” Her eyes roved restlessly over my designs.

  “What do you mean?” I turned back to the paper in front of me, feigning interest in it while waiting for her to respond.

  But Sophie stayed silent.

  “Sophie. What do you mean?” I repeated. It was awkward to ask the same question twice, but I persisted. Somehow, it seemed like Sophie knew more about my place at the Fashion House than I did.

  Sophie sighed. She turned her head to the side, and her long black hair fell over her shoulder, blocking me from her vision. “Never mind,” she said.

  I stood up, part of me tempted to walk over to her and touch her shoulder and make her answer me. The other part of me, though, didn’t know if that was too much, if it was better to just ignore her.

  “Fine. I think I shall go to bed.” Abruptly, I pushed back my vanity stool and stood up. I was done with her and our conversation—if it could even be called a conversation.

  “Have you seen this?” Her words were sudden but her tone was nonchalant, as though we’d been conversing about something frivolous the whole time. She held out a piece of paper.

  I walked over to her, tripping slightly on my overly long hem, and took the crisp page from her hand, thinking for a moment it was one of her sketches.

  Instead, it was a letter, etched in black ink on thick Fashion House stationery.

  “What is it?”

  “My welcome letter.”

  A welcome letter? I glanced abruptly from the letter to Sophie and then back. Slowly, I sat back down on my vanity stool and read it.

  Dear ladies:

  Welcome.

  As a Fashion House Interview contestant, you are in a position of esteem. As such, all behaviors must align with the dignity of the Fashion House and your benefactress, Madame Jolène.

  RULES FOR THE FASHION HOUSE INTERVIEW:

  Violations of these rules will result in immediate termination from the Fashion House Interview.

  All designs must be conceived and created by the contestants without any references to pattern books.

  Garments for the various challenges must be completed in the limited time frame set by Madame Jolène.

  The Fashion House will provide each contestant with a sketchbook, pencils, a mannequin, fabric, supplies such as buttons, beads, etc., and a sewing kit. It is prohibited to use any other items during the challenges.

  GENERAL:

  Please be advised—contestants may be seen in public only if they are wearing House fashions. Contestants must present themselves to Monsieur Francesco for approval of all outfits prior to leaving for any engagements.

  When working with Fashion House customers, contestants are strictly prohibited from sharing any private information about their customers to the press. Doing so shall result in immediate termination. Contestants are permitted to keep any tips, gifts, or benefits bestowed upon them by their customers, though all such items must be registered.

  ADDENDUM:

  This season, it is of particular importance that all interviews with the press be handled with discretion and delicacy. Interviews will be granted per Madame Jolène and only when necessary to advance the Fashion House’s visibility. Be aware that any unsanctioned comments may be grounds for dismissal. Additionally, please be wary of conversations conducted outside the Fashion House. Press members have become particularly aggressive and sometimes do not identify themselves when collecting information.

  SCHEDULING:

  The first challenge will be held on September 5. Report to the sewing room for instructions.

  —Mme. Jolène

  “September fifth . . . But that’s tomorrow!”

  I knew the contest would start soon, but I thought I would have a day or two to at least settle in. I still didn’t know my way around the Fashion House.

  “Nervous?” Sophie asked.

  “Are you?”

  There. I turned the question back on her.

  “No. It should be interesting. You’ll soon notice everything is very . . . interesting here. You can keep the letter if you want. Otherwise, put it in the rubbish bin. I don’t need it.”

  I held the letter in both hands. Miss Sophie Sterling was written across the top in an elaborate script that dipped and twisted across the page. I hadn’t received a welcome letter. In fact, if Sophie hadn’t shown it to me, I wouldn’t have known that there was a challenge tomorrow.

  Perhaps it had been an accident
, an oversight. But that seemed like too easy an explanation. Especially since everyone, from Madame Jolène to the maid, seemed to think I was a joke.

  “What’s wrong?” Sophie asked, though there was no hint of sympathy or kindness in her voice.

  “When did you get this letter?”

  “It was on my bed when I got here a week ago.”

  I searched around my pillow. Nothing. Same with the foot, where an extra gold blanket was folded into a swan. Had someone taken my letter? Or had it never been here to start with? Maybe Sophie had taken it . . . but then, why would she show me hers? And, if she was being honest, she didn’t have time for or interest in pettiness. I put my hand to my head, wishing I could wipe away the ache just underneath my forehead. I was being paranoid. All I needed was sleep and everything would be fine.

  Still, my limbs were as rigid as the scarecrow Francesco always associated me with, and as I sat on the edge of the bed, I glanced at either side of it, hoping the letter had fallen off.

  No such luck.

  Chapter Five

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  I lurched upright in bed. A ray of sunlight shone brightly on the floor, streaking the light-blue marble almost white. Holding up a hand to shield my gaze, I blinked. Sophie’s bed was empty. In fact, it was neatly made, as though she’d never been there.

  Groggily, I scanned the room. As I did, confusion roused my mind into wakefulness. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Sleepiness gone, I looked around. No, things were different. Sophie’s vanity had been moved to the far side of the room, along with her chaise longue. Her wardrobe had also been nudged over by a foot and its door stood open, revealing her black and burgundy dresses. And yet my furniture was in the same configuration as yesterday.

  Last night, I’d thought I’d heard scraping and pushing and had even looked up once to see Sophie’s shadowy figure moving around the room. I’d been so exhausted, though, I’d thought it was part of a bizarre dream.

  “Emmaline?” A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. I kicked my feet, trying to free myself from the twisted mounds of satin blankets and tasseled pillows.

  “I’m coming!”

  How long had I slept? There were no clocks in the room, but the sunny quality of the light leaned dangerously toward midday. I fumbled my way across the room and opened the door.

  “You aren’t dressed?” Kitty stood in the doorway. Her hair was swept up into a low bun, her dark-blue gown accessorized with a gold necklace. Her eyes widened as she took in my nightgown and hair, which I could tell was forming a bird’s nest of wisps and knots around my face.

  “What time is it?”

  “You aren’t ready at all? It’s time for the first challenge!”

  “That’s right now?”

  “Yes! A maid didn’t wake you?”

  “No!” Panic, raw and sharp, shot through my chest. “What should I do?”

  A maid—the snide one from the day before—was walking by, and Kitty stopped her.

  “Help her dress, Tilda. She needs to be at the showcase in five minutes.”

  The maid smirked, as though pleased at my dilemma.

  “Fine.”

  “I have to go, but come down as soon as you can.” Kitty smiled at me. I figured she meant it to be comforting, but it was the sort of pitiful smile one gives a chicken before its head is chopped off.

  Tilda followed me into my room, sighing. The soft sound sent something else through me. Anger. I turned to her as she opened my wardrobe.

  “Were you supposed to wake me up?”

  She pulled out (yet another) pink dress with an asymmetric neckline and soft ivory overlay and pursed her lips.

  “Did you put in a request?”

  “A request?” I pulled my nightgown over my head, motioning for her to hurry. Just the day before, I’d been embarrassed to be naked in front of her. Now I only cared about the seconds tick-ticking away and, with them, my Fashion House future.

  “You must register wake-up requests the night before.” Her tone was excessively innocent and she smiled sweetly at me. “Isn’t that how it works in the country, too?”

  How was I supposed to know these things? These questions were like a corset, constricting tighter and tighter around me until every bit of air was forced out of my lungs.

  With the dress over her arm, Tilda opened the top drawer of my vanity. She took out a simple daytime corset and brought it over to me, each step long and measured.

  “Hurry,” I urged, my fingers jumping around the corset, trying to help her fasten me into it.

  “I am,” she huffed, yet it seemed to take forever for her to lace up the corset strings, lift the dress over my head, and brush my hair into something resembling a decent hairstyle. “It’s the first challenge today, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, so please go faster!” I implored.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she said, twisting my hair up. “The first challenge is always the most . . . amusing. To me, anyway. Girls always try to go too big and do something impressive. They hardly ever succeed, and the results are simply hilarious.”

  “It won’t matter if I’m not there to compete.” I struggled to step into heels while she tried to push a few more pins into my locks. By then, I was sweating, and the gown stuck to my legs. “That’s enough.”

  “No accessories?” Tilda asked, eyeing me as I stumbled toward the door, grabbing my brocade sketch.

  “No time.”

  I dashed out into the hall and to the staircase. As I tried to run down the steps in heels, while also holding the brocade sketch and the banister, thoughts rose one after another in my mind. Maybe someone had told Tilda not to wake me, so I’d miss the showcase. Could it have been Sophie? Or one of the other girls?

  That was the alarming thing. Not knowing if someone was intentionally trying to force me into missteps . . . or if I simply didn’t know the ways of the city. Whatever the case, I needed to figure things out, and quick, before anything like this happened again.

  I slowed my pace once I got to the sewing room, my mind a buzzing hornet’s nest of thoughts. Perhaps I could slip in when no one was looking? Then Madame Jolène wouldn’t even know I was late. The double-wide doors to the sewing room stood open, and I cautiously peeked inside.

  The ceiling soared far above everyone’s heads. A sea of iron sewing machines anchored to cutting tables stretched out in rows. Natural light spilled into the room from a series of windows running just beneath the ceiling. While it didn’t have the glamour of the wallpapered, chandelier-lit lobby, the room was artful in its simplicity and balance.

  Sophie, Alice, Ky, Kitty, and Cordelia stood at the tables. Madame Jolène faced them, flanked by Francesco and two women from her design board—I recognized one of them as the horsehair woman from my interview. They wore matching dresses with bateau necklines.

  Standing against the far wall were a group of men in plaid shirts and denim trousers with overcoats and women in peplums and ruffled skirts. They held notepads and pens. Reporters, I assumed.

  Reporters.

  I ran my eyes over them, looking for a shock of blond hair and flash of blue eyes.

  Almost immediately, I found them—found him. The reporter from yesterday. He was standing near the back, notebook and pencil poised and ready. My heart seesawed up and down, torn between a new form of excitement and nerves.

  Focus. I tore my gaze away from him. The last thing I needed right now was to be distracted from the task at hand by a boy. Carefully, I took another quiet step forward.

  Madame Jolène wore a voluminous burgundy gown embroidered with cuttleworms and a dark-blue head wrap that covered every wisp of her hair. She must have been speaking, because the thrill of the room was palpable, and every eye was fixed on her.

  For once, her terrifyingly commanding presence worked in my favor. I took the opportunity to sidle into the room and slip up to the nearest cutting table, next to Sophie. I struggled to gather myself, so it would see
m as though I’d been there all along. It was a silly hope, when there were only six of us. But I desperately clung to it as beads of sweat rolled down my back.

  The silence in the room continued, and I cautiously glanced up. The first thing I saw was Madame Jolène’s gray eyes, leveled straight at me. I cringed, ready for her to berate me or even tell me to leave. But when she spoke, it wasn’t to me. It was to everyone else.

  “As I was saying, you will have the rest of today and tomorrow morning for the challenge.” It didn’t matter that she hadn’t outright scolded me. In fact, I might have preferred it to the dismissive derision that flitted across her face and then was gone. I stared down at my heels. I didn’t dare look at the reporter now. Madame Jolène continued.

  “You will sketch your designs in your chambers and then Francesco will escort you down to the Fabric Floor, where you will select your materials and bring them back here for the sewing portion. You will present your finished pieces at noon tomorrow. We will review your work and give feedback at that time.” There was another dramatic pause, and I looked up just in time to see her extend a hand upward. “You may begin”—she paused, and everyone leaned forward in one collective surge of excitement—“now.”

  As though released from Madame Jolène’s hold, the room burst into motion and sound. The reporters rushed forward. Most of them hurried up to Madame Jolène, asking her questions. Her design staff formed a barrier around her, and they moved like one body toward the door. Madame Jolène’s face was completely calm, as though she was alone in the room and not surrounded by a throng of reporters shouting questions at her. One or two approached Sophie and Ky.

  The rest came up to me.

  “Are you the contestant from the North?” a reporter demanded.

  “What is your design aesthetic? Is it”—another one, this one in black-and-gray striped trousers, looked me up and down—“pink?”