“What do you think about the Reformists Party demanding your inclusion in the Fashion House Interview?” a particularly loud-voiced reporter shouted over the others.
“I . . .” Everywhere I turned, their bodies pressed up against me, their eyes hungry for my words. “I need to get by—”
I struggled to break through their circle, but they seemed to grow in strength, jostling me this way and that. Suddenly, a familiar face joined them. One with blue eyes, blond hair, and a bruised lip.
“Is it true that Madame Jolène will only be using yellow in the upcoming fall collection?” he yelled, his voice carrying over the din.
“Yellow?” the loud-voiced reporter shouted. “For fall?”
He darted away, yelling, “Madame Jolène! Wait! Just one comment.”
The other reporters followed him like bloodhounds on a scent. All of them except the blond reporter. He stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest, a lopsided smile on his bruised lips.
“Thank you,” I said self-consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Anytime,” he replied. “But you’d better get going. The challenge has already begun!”
“You’re right!” I was the only contestant still in the room. Frazzled, I gathered up my skirts. “I need to hurry.”
“Good luck,” he said. Skirts still gathered, I paused for one second longer. Light from the high windows fell across his face, turning his hair into an even lighter blond and softening the blue from his eyes so that they were as clear as water.
“I still don’t know your name,” I said.
The lopsided grin on his lips grew and evened out so it was one full smile. But just as he opened his mouth to reply, Francesco called to me from across the room.
“Emmaline! No time to chat, darling. This is a competition, not an ice cream social.” He motioned for me to go, and I obeyed.
Ky, Alice, Kitty, and Cordelia were already on the staircase by the time I crossed the lobby floor. They hurried, their steps somehow loud, even though the stairs were covered in plush carpet. I rushed after them and managed to catch up to Ky.
“Ky,” I said. “What are we supposed to design for the challenge?”
For a second, she paused. Like last night, her style was all clash and contrast yet somehow worked. Her green gown had a fleur-de-lis print, and her gold heels had actual nails driven through the leather.
“It’s a—” She suddenly cut herself off, a shrewd sharpness coming to her face. “Maybe you should go ask Madame Jolène.”
“What? Just tell me what it is.”
“You really should ask Madame Jolène. I wouldn’t want to tell you the wrong thing.” She gave me a fake, apologetic smile, as though there really was nothing she could do.
She moved past me, leaving me alone on the stair. I took a breath, trying to steady myself and calm down. This was a competition. No one was going to help me. Still, my face burned hot with frustration.
“It’s a coat,” someone said behind me. I turned, the scent of violet and witch hazel filling my nose. Sophie, her hair wrapped up into a knot at the top of her head, stood at the bottom of the stairs. “We have to design a fall coat. The only requirement is that we incorporate feathers.”
“Really?” I blinked in surprise. Cool and aloof Sophie was the last person I expected help from. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. I asked Ky, and she wouldn’t tell me.”
Sophie proceeded up the steps, coming to stand next to me on the same narrow step, her black skirts brushing against mine in a swish of cool silk. I leaned back, unnerved by her closeness. Everything about her seemed more up close. Her hair seemed blacker and her skin seemed whiter. Even her perfume suddenly seemed stronger.
“I suppose she was trying to gain some sort of competitive edge,” she said. “It’s quite funny. Some girls are so easily threatened.”
She stared evenly at me, as though waiting for a response, but I didn’t know what to say. A soft half smile crossed her mouth and then was gone. My face blazed hot again. She found me amusing. Pitiable.
With that, she continued up the stairs, leaving me behind.
When we got to our chambers, Sophie picked up her leather sketchbook and took the chaise longue. Her skirts spread around her like a pool of black water. An identical leather sketchbook sat on my vanity. Three graphite pencils, their wood encased in gold leaf, were next to it.
I picked up the sketchbook and one of the pencils, and glanced around. At home, I sketched at our dining room table. Our table was old and its rigid edges sometimes distorted my lines. I wouldn’t have that problem here, where every surface was smooth and glossy.
I sat down at the vanity and flipped back the cover of the sketchbook.
A coat. A fall coat with feathers.
I closed my eyes, like I always did right before I sketched. Usually a dreamlike fog filled my mind, one full of colors and forms. But this time, my mind was a scattered mess. I opened my eyes. Sophie sketched quickly, her hand moving assuredly across the page. She looked like a real designer, like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. The sight of her confidence made my nerves grow even more.
Focus.
Coat. Feathers.
I took a breath, a deep one that filled my lungs with air and made my chest expand. I let it out slowly and pressed my pencil tip to the page.
A slim coat.
There. That was a starting point. That was a silhouette.
Slowly, I outlined a fitted coat, one that would follow the lines of the body.
Should it be navy? Black?
Usually, I never had to ask myself these questions, because the answers always seemed to be there inside me, simply waiting to be discovered. Now I felt like I was designing outside of myself, that I was forcing myself through each step.
Nude.
I didn’t think the word so much as feel it. Yes. The coat would be nude wool and I’d cut out black leather pieces. I would sew the pieces onto the body of the coat so that, at first, it would seem like it was entirely black leather. Then, as the wearer moved, bits of the nude would show through.
I couldn’t help but smile. The mix of shiny leather with soft wool was completely me: functional yet fantastical, and articulated in the slimmest of silhouettes. I’d sew red feathers around the collar. They would stand straight up, creating a high neck. The wool would be in homage to Shy, along with red robins’ feathers.
I worked quickly, labeling which colors went where and the types of fabrics I’d use.
Our chamber door opened, and Tilda entered, holding a feather duster. She flitted about, dusting here and there. She gave Sophie a wide berth, but when she came near my vanity, she peered over my shoulder at my sketch.
“My,” she said. “That’s quite the look.”
Quite the look?
My fingers tightened involuntarily on my pencil, and I stared down at the sketch. Just moments ago, I’d thought it was strong. Creative. Me.
“You do realize you are designing for the Fashion House, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Fashion House silhouette is full. Traditional. Not all skimpy like this.” She jabbed her feather duster at my sketch. The duster emitted a gentle cloud of dust and I almost sneezed. “And nude? For the fall season?”
“Shouldn’t you be cleaning?” Sophie asked from her spot on the chaise longue. Her head was still bent over her drawing and she didn’t stop sketching. She spoke in the same commanding and impersonal tone that Madame Jolène used when addressing the maids. Tilda immediately stepped back, lowering her head.
“Yes, miss.”
She went back to dusting, and I slowly started drawing again, filling in the details on the coat. But as I did, doubts plagued me. The design was different. Too different. Tilda was right. I was designing for the Fashion House now, and my coat didn’t fit the Fashion House style at all. Tilda’s words replayed in my head. Not the ones from now but the ones from earlier.
/> 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.
Everyone already thought I was ridiculous. The last thing I needed to do was prove them right by designing something completely outside the Fashion House canon.
“Ready?” Sophie flipped her sketchbook closed.
“Ready?”
“Our sketching time is up. We need to meet Francesco on the Fabric Floor to get our materials.”
She got up, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. I picked up my sketchbook, too, and followed her out of our chamber. There wasn’t time to draw a new sketch, but I couldn’t use the nude-and-black one. Somehow, I’d have to come up with another one in my head by the time we got to the Fabric Floor. I tried to think, but my thoughts were as scattered as a child’s blocks across the floor. A plethora of silhouettes ran through my mind. Instead of flowing over me in a warm fog, they came with sharp flashes and blinking lights. Desperately, I willed them to turn into one look I could use but, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t pull one out of the chaos.
Luckily, the Fabric Floor was down in the basement of the Fashion House—it gave me more time to think. To plan.
“Are you all right, Emmaline?” Kitty asked as we gathered outside the Fabric Floor doors. “You look stressed.”
“I am.” I forced myself to smile at her. “Just trying to figure out my design.”
“Don’t worry. Trust yourself.”
I smiled a real smile. Everyone treated me coolly or with disdain. Everyone except Kitty, whose sweetness reached me through my distress.
“You’re so kind, Kitty. Everyone else is so”—I lowered my voice so only she could hear me—“intense.”
Especially now. No one chatted or even smiled. The other girls looked like soldiers readying for attack, their sketchbooks and pencils reminding me of shields and swords. Ky had wrestled her way to the spot closest to the Fabric Floor door, the epaulets on her wide-shouldered gown flashing. Cordelia came next to her, but Ky refused to give up any space.
Kitty watched them elbowing each other and quietly replied, “My family was titled, long before I was born, but we lost the title. I grew up seeing my parents look down on everyone else, even though we aren’t any different. They were always nice but in a horribly fake way. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like them. I promised myself I’d follow the rules.” She sighed. “All they want is for me to win the Fashion House Interview—they’ll do anything to move up in society.”
I’d thought everyone else in the Fashion House Interview had charmed lives. They were wealthy, after all, and established enough to be invited to the competition. But Kitty’s story about her disgraced and desperate family didn’t fit my assumptions.
“Ladies, welcome.” Francesco stood in front of the double doors leading to the Fabric Floor. “You will have twenty minutes to get any fabric, buttons, appliques, or trims. No need to worry about thread—we will provide you with the appropriate colors for your designs in the sewing room. Since this challenge includes feathers, we’ve brought in several options. You’ll find them at the back of the Fabric Floor. There are carts that you can use to collect your items.”
He turned to grasp the two knobs, pausing for dramatic emphasis. After a few beats, he flung the doors open wide and stepped aside.
For a moment, I was nearly swept away by the room. It seemed to go on forever in every direction. Rows and rows of towering shelves displayed bolts of fabric. Signs were affixed to the shelves, denoting the types of textiles. I grasped the handles of a cart and walked forward, taking in the hundreds of colors, patterns, and prints, my imagination set afire by the countless options.
The other contestants rushed past me, pushing their carts, jolting me into action. Fabric. I needed to get fabric, even if I wasn’t sure what my design was. And trim and buttons. And, oh God, feathers, too.
I spotted the sign for wool and headed there first. My eyes landed on a sumptuous navy wool with a slight herringbone pattern running through it. But, just as I reached for it, someone slipped between me and it and snatched the entire bolt off the shelf. Cordelia. She stuck it into her cart.
“I was going to use that!” I protested.
“So sorry,” she smirked. “Maybe go to the burlap aisle? I think that would be a better fit for you.”
The urge to snatch the bolt out of Cordelia’s cart rushed over me, but there wasn’t time to get into a fight with another contestant. I turned away from her, so angry that I could barely see straight. Almost blindly, I yanked a bolt of navy off the shelf. It didn’t have any print, but its texture was soft and the Fashion House always used clean, classic fabrics.
Feathers. I needed to get those next.
As Francesco said, they were at the back of the Fabric Floor. Bins displayed everything from luxurious peacock plumes to tiny swallow feathers. Ky and Alice were already elbow-deep in the bins. Their quick motions sent feathers tumbling up into the air, where they spun and drifted back down to the floor.
“Get the black crow feathers,” Ky snapped to Alice. “I’m sure Sophie will want to use those.”
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one they were trying to trip up.
“Ten minutes, ladies,” Francesco’s voice echoed through the basement. Normally, I would’ve politely waited to start digging in the bin of gray feathers that Alice was pawing through. But, in my short time in the Fashion House Interview, I’d learned. I elbowed my way next to her and grabbed some of the feathers.
“Ouch!” Alice cried out as I knocked into her. I didn’t stop. I held the feathers up to the fabric in my cart. It matched well. Maybe a little too well, but I didn’t have time to question myself. There were small sacks hanging next to the bins, and I took one, stuffing four handfuls of the feathers inside.
Now I just needed buttons and maybe some trim and I would have everything required to make a coat. My hands were slick with sweat. I didn’t know if it was from the time limit or the fact that I wasn’t even sure what I was going to design. The wheels of my cart screeched as I hurried to the side wall, where tins of buttons, trims, and appliques sat in stalls, displayed almost like fruit at the open-air market that came through Shy every spring.
Sophie stood by one of the stalls, holding up a black jet button. She turned it this way and that, as though she had all the time in the world. With a slight shake of her head, she set the button down and then picked up a black enamel one. I paused for a moment, pulled into her calmness. Her cart sat next to her, several bolts of fabric arranged neatly inside it. I glanced at my cart. My single bolt of navy wool stuck up out of it, and one of my sacks of feathers had tipped over. It was as messy and disorganized as I felt inside.
“Only five minutes left, ladies!”
Five minutes? Where on earth had the time gone? With fumbling fingers, I grabbed some brass buttons. Their sharp edges dug into my skin, but I didn’t have time to be careful. I wasn’t sure how many I needed, so I took several, dumping them into one of my feather bags. Breathing hard, I glanced around, at a loss. I needed more than buttons to adorn my coat.
Desperately, I grabbed some braided cord, a length of gunmetal-colored chain, and a spool of black fringe. Did I need more?
This is all wrong.
The thought hit me hard, and even though I shouldn’t have wasted any time, I leaned against one of the stalls. I was grabbing elements for a design that didn’t even exist. That wasn’t what designers did. It wasn’t what I did. How had I ended up like this? How had I gotten so lost?
“Two minutes, ladies! I suggest you head back to the front to avoid disqualification.” Francesco’s bellow reached through the basement. For better or for worse, everything I would use for my first Fashion House Interview challenge was in my cart, and I couldn’t change it now. As I reached the front, my heart was as heavy as an iron weight.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t shake
the feeling that I’d already lost.
The maids took our carts up to the sewing room, so when we got there, our items and sewing kits were laid out on individual cutting tables. Mannequins stood next to each table. I recognized my table instantly from my bolt of plain navy wool and mismatched assortment of buttons, cord, chain, and fringe.
The other girls streamed past me to their tables. Within moments, the room filled with the sounds of heavy sewing scissors slicing through cloth, the rustle of fabrics being unfurled, and the rattle of buttons and beads scattering across tabletops. I touched the navy wool.
Get yourself together.
Navy coat. Full skirt, voluminous collar, detachable cape trimmed with cord.
With a deliberation I didn’t feel, I picked up the heavy paper inside my sewing kit and the measuring tape and began to measure out my pattern.
Sophie’s table was nearest mine, and when I saw her unpack her materials, I stopped mid-snip, startled. Instead of the black silk, feathers, and buttons from earlier, she carefully sorted through fabrics of dusty rose, dark gold, and light brown.
“You switched your colors,” I said, unable to stop myself.
“Hardly,” she replied, picking up the pattern paper. “I had them the whole time, hidden underneath the black fabric. I didn’t want anyone to copy me.”
“Those colors are so . . .” I faltered, staring at the cornucopia of hues spread across her table. The pinks had undertones of tan and sable, while the browns were the exact shade of milky tea.
“Like fall,” Sophie finished for me. “Everyone uses dying leaves as the color inspiration for fall. They use red, orange, and black . . . but these are the true hues of fall.”
Her color scheme was warm, whispery, winsome. It made me think of a wheat field just at sunrise, when the sky is punctuated with soft pink clouds rimmed in yellow and the wheat stalks gleam like gold. Ky, though she might have tried to sabotage Sophie, hadn’t anticipated this. And neither had I. I glanced at my plain navy and my stomach twisted.
“I thought you would use black,” I said.
“If I was designing for myself, I would. And it would’ve been fantastic. But this is for the Fashion House Interview,” Sophie said, her tone turning hard and bitter. “One must go for the unexpected, obviously.”
A Dress for the Wicked Page 7