A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  She’d pushed her decoy black fabric to the edge of her cutting table, but now she stared at it longingly. Then, without saying another word, she began setting out her buttons.

  Slowly, I turned back to my table. The image of my first coat—the nude-and-black one—rose in my mind. I forced it away, even as it called to me. With a motion more decisive than I felt, I cut into the pattern paper.

  I thought a full day devoted to designing would be more than enough to create a coat. Back in Shy, I’d never had such a block of time to design anything. Even on Sunday, when our pub was closed, we were scrubbing the dining room and kitchen clean and getting things ready for the coming work week. My creativity happened in stolen moments, often interrupted by the need to check the taps and wash the pint glasses. But even though we had the entire day and the following morning until noon, the minutes flew by.

  As the day ended, I stepped back to survey my coat, my neck and feet aching from the work. My fingertips were raw from hours of manipulating the heavy wool and holding the sharp edges of the brass buttons in place as I sewed them on. I didn’t dare think about my appearance, but I could tell that my hair was a mess of wisps, and my dress clung to my sweaty body. I’d long since kicked off my heels, and my feet were grubby from walking around barefoot.

  At least I wasn’t the only one who was worse for wear. Cordelia impatiently blew errant strands of hair out of her face, and Alice wiped her brow with some extra strips of her lace. All the other girls had also taken off their heels, including Kitty, who’d fretted that we weren’t supposed to. All of them except Sophie.

  I looked at the different coats. Alice’s was covered in Chantilly lace and white swan feathers. Kitty’s coat was traditional blue toile, and Cordelia’s menswear coat was in that navy fabric she’d snagged from me.

  Sophie’s stood out, as did Ky’s. Ky’s coat was a dark plum with a jagged hem and crane feathers accenting the waist. She’d stitched the word Happiness across the back of the coat and embroidered a crane just beneath it.

  “Why ‘happiness’?” Alice asked. Her voice was so girlish, she sounded much younger than she was, and, with her ringlets and bows, she looked much younger too.

  “It ties in with the crane feathers,” Ky replied. For once, her competitive manner eased, and she touched the swirling H. “In Japan, cranes are the birds of happiness.”

  “Oh, how sweet!” Alice said. “I’ve always wanted a crane. I’d tie a ribbon around its neck and walk it around the city.”

  I stared at Alice, wondering if she was serious or not. It was hard to believe her bubbly, vapid personality could be real, yet I’d never seen her act any other way.

  “This is a red-crowned crane,” Ky said sharply. “It’s not the sort of creature you’d treat in such a way.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” Alice purred. She spun around and flitted back to her coat.

  Ky rolled her eyes and carefully tied off her thread. She ran a finger around the outline of the crane, a wistful look coming over her face. Perhaps she missed Japan. I could only imagine how strange it would be to be raised in two different countries. How would one know where one belonged?

  Even though I’d never set foot outside the country (before now, the farthest I’d ever been was Talley, the small town just past Evert), I felt a strange kinship with Ky. I never belonged in Shy, and I wasn’t so sure I belonged in Avon-upon-Kynt, either. Though Ky never said as much, I understood that wistful expression. It was longing—for her old home, most likely, but maybe also for something else. A place that didn’t exist for her . . . or me.

  I turned back to my coat, forcing myself to focus. I’d made sure every stitch was precise and the fit was perfect. I’d created a strong piece, one with masterful tailoring. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the coat wasn’t quite right.

  The next day came quickly. Like the morning before, Sophie was gone when I woke up. Unlike the morning before, I managed to rise before Tilda came in, and picked out my own clothes. I’d been at Tilda’s mercy twice before and I was quite done with it. By the time she arrived, I’d decided on a simple peachy-pink-colored dress. It still wasn’t a hue I liked—the soft orangey-pink tones reminded me of a grandmother—but the design was elegant enough.

  I was so nervous that I skipped breakfast and went straight to the sewing room. A lone girl was in it: Sophie. The room was quiet aside from the soft squeak of her mannequin as she adjusted its height. The coats stood like headless (quite fashionable) ghosts.

  I walked over to mine. At least it wasn’t pink. But then, it wasn’t much more “me” than the ridiculously peachy-pink dress I stood in.

  The other girls soon came in, each one heading to her station. Nervous, tense silence filled the room as we made our final alterations.

  I thought there would be some sort of official announcement before our work time concluded and the evaluations began, but as I was tacking down the last bit of fringe on my coat, the doors to the sewing room were suddenly flung open. I jumped back, startled.

  Madame Jolène entered like a monarch at the head of a royal procession. She wore a sky-blue gown painted with red leaves and gold birds. A sheer piece of shimmering fabric draped from her shoulders, flouncing behind her with each step she took. Her presence sent my heart into my throat, and I barely managed to tie off my thread.

  Her sewing staff, in identical frilled dresses, and Francesco, who sported a hat adorned in red feathers, hurried along behind her, all jockeying for position near her. One of her designers got too close, though, and brushed her skirt. Madame Jolène didn’t turn around, but she arched one eyebrow and the entire entourage froze. She kept moving, and they immediately redoubled their efforts to get close.

  They came to the front of the room and faced us. Madame Jolène stepped forward.

  “Ladies!” Her commanding voice resonated through the sewing room. “We will evaluate your fall coats one at a time. Starting with . . .” I expected her to proceed to Ky, who was closest to her, but instead she scanned the room. “Emmaline.”

  Me? I was going first? She stepped around the rows of desks, moving lithely until she was right in front of me.

  “I—” Frantically, stupidly, I felt like I needed to say something. She held up her hand for silence and stared at my coat for a long moment. I didn’t know where to look or where to even put my hands. The quiet stretched on, everyone waiting and watching. I stood there, feeling the excruciating length of each second, desperately wanting to point out that my coat was well made and that it truly embodied the Fashion House look.

  At least I could be certain of that. The coat was thick and voluminous with gray feathers sewn around the neckline and a detachable cape. Fringe trimmed the cuffs, tacked in place with the braided cord.

  “Very . . .” Madame Jolène drew out the word. I held my breath, hoping against hope that she would love it. “Classic with subtle details.”

  My heart leaped, suspended between hope and terror.

  “Write that down,” one of her designers hissed to the other.

  “No need to write it down,” Madame Jolène said. “Ladies!” she swiveled away from me to address the other girls. “This coat is well made and has some distinctive elements, like this fringe.” She brushed the fringe with one finger, making it dance. “But this is the Fashion House Interview. Overall, there is nothing memorable about the coat, and it is quite substandard. In addition, the feathers were used in an expected way, when we wanted to see them given new life.”

  Madame Jolène’s designers nodded sternly, as though they’d been thinking the same thing the whole time.

  Nothing memorable. Quite substandard. Expected.

  I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her that I was just trying to give her what she wanted and that I could do so much better. Staring at the coat, seeing it through her eyes, I hated it more than I’d hated anything before. I wanted to will it away and replace it with the nude-and-black coat I’d originally drawn.

  “I
. . . I was trying to go for an iconic look.” My voice was as wispy as the feathers adorning my coat. Across the way, Ky smirked, while Kitty looked at me with sympathy. Alice blinked several times, as though she wasn’t quite following what was happening. “And, personally, I think that the feathers—”

  “I am not interested in your explanations, Emmaline,” Madame Jolène said. “I am only interested in your designs, and this one has spoken for itself.” Invigorated by our exchange, she turned on her heel. “Moving on!”

  She headed toward Sophie’s mannequin. I sank back against my cutting table, dully feeling its edge dig into my back. I’d wanted to come out strong for the first challenge. Win it, even. Instead, I’d turned out a mediocre coat that I wouldn’t even want to wear. And why? Because I’d listened to Tilda. She’d made me doubt myself, much more so than any of the other competitors.

  But even as I tried to blame Tilda, I couldn’t quite believe my own excuse. In the end, I was the one who’d picked out that basic navy wool, and I was the one who’d turned it into a boring coat that could hardly qualify as couture.

  “This is beautiful, Sophie.” Madame Jolène’s cool voice cut through my thoughts. Numbly, I lifted my head. Sophie’s coat was a mix of knits and lace in the buttery hues I’d seen earlier. “Exceptional color choices.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said.

  “This could work for Duchess Kent,” Madame Jolène mused, addressing one of her designers.

  “Most definitely. It would be perfect,” the woman said. Instead of looking at the coat, she watched Madame Jolène’s face, searching for approval.

  “Take the pattern and notes,” Madame Jolène said, and the designers scurried to gather up Sophie’s papers. I stared, feeling the bitter bite of jealousy.

  A soft red settled across Sophie’s fair cheeks. At first, I thought she was blushing with pride. But then her fingers twitched agitatedly, and a furrow puckered her brow. She didn’t look happy. Or proud.

  “I wasn’t quite finished with the pattern,” she said.

  Madame Jolène turned to face Sophie. A smile pulled at her lips, but her gray eyes remained as cold as ever. The reds and gold of her attire suddenly seemed more vivid, as though flaring with her displeasure.

  “Sophie,” she said, “your work is now Fashion House property. That is a critical component of being here.”

  “Of course,” Sophie murmured. She didn’t meet Madame Jolène’s gaze. Instead, she stared at her pattern.

  “And on a different note, you wear too much black.” Madame Jolène was stern. “You have white skin, black eyes, and black hair. Your appearance is much too dark for the Fashion House. I’ve included several burgundy dresses in your wardrobe. Wear them as well and accessorize with other colors.”

  The pink in Sophie’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. But Madame Jolène didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She simply swept on to Cordelia.

  Everyone watched her, but I was transfixed by Sophie. With sharp, intentional motions—the assured kind that reminded me of my mother butchering a duck—she collected her few remaining notes into a neat stack and sheltered them against her chest. Then, seemingly out of nowhere and for no reason, she looked directly at me, those enigmatic black eyes latching on to mine. I nearly ducked my head, flustered, but she simply smiled a bit and gave a half shrug.

  I was the first one to look away.

  Chapter Six

  THROUGHOUT THE NEXT WEEK, we had standard Fashion House duties. There wouldn’t be another challenge until the following Monday, and I looked forward to the change. I needed something to distract myself from the embarrassment of my boring navy coat. It was an unpleasant ache that followed me through the halls of the Fashion House.

  Kitty kept reassuring me that the coat really wasn’t that bad and, to a certain degree, she was right. The coat wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good, either.

  I tried to reassure her as well. After the first challenge, the rankings had been posted outside the sewing room, and they showed that she also hadn’t done very well. We were judged in three categories: workmanship, creativity, and how well we’d followed the theme of the challenge. Our scores, which were out of ten, totaled to create our rank. Sophie was at the top, with Ky close behind her. The other girls filled out the middle, and then Kitty and I were squarely at the bottom.

  As the first day of Fashion House duties began, I took solace in the fact that I’d registered a wakeup call—at least I’d figured that out. I would report to the fitting rooms with time to spare. I stepped down onto the landing just as Ky and Alice breezed by, coming down from their rooms on the floor above. They chatted, and I strained to hear. The biggest key to succeeding at the Fashion House Interview was to design beautiful couture. But I sensed there was more to it than just that. I needed to figure out how to fit in. How to belong, how to act like someone from the city. Ky and Alice were the epitome of city girls, and I could learn from them.

  “By the way,” Ky said. “Sophie and I are having lunch together today. You should join.”

  “Definitely,” Alice chirped. She linked her arm through Ky’s so they were walking side by side. “Also, I’ve been meaning to ask—do you have some sheepskin?”

  Sheepskin? I inched closer.

  “I have some in my room. Are your heels hurting?”

  “Yes. They’re just the prettiest things ever, but they feel like they’re made of nails.” She paused midstep to lift her skirt and extend her ankle, showcasing the heeled boot on her foot.

  “Well, we can go to my chamber after your first appointment. I have loads of sheepskin because Sophie gave me hers.”

  At the mention of my roommate’s name, I craned my neck. I’d hardly seen her since our first night—she didn’t seem to come into our chambers until the sky was turning from black to inky blue. It was perplexing, but with everything else on my mind, I hardly had time to figure it out.

  “How does she do it?” Alice asked. “She wears the highest heels all day long and she never seems to feel them.”

  “It’s because she likes to be tall,” Ky said. “Even though heaven knows she’s already the tallest girl here. And she never wears sheepskin. Says she can’t handle the thought that it might peek up out of her shoes.”

  Ky suddenly stopped, dragging Alice to a standstill with her. She looked over her shoulder at me. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d gotten much too close, and she’d sensed my presence. I took a few steps back, but it was too late. “Can I help you?” she demanded.

  “Oh, sorry.” I blushed. They glared at me with twin looks of disdain before sweeping by. As they did, they leaned into each other to whisper. They didn’t bother to make sure I couldn’t hear.

  “She’s so uncouth,” Ky said.

  “I know. It’s embarrassing, really. She’s better suited to be a maid.”

  I knew they didn’t think much of me, but hearing it out loud made my insides shrivel. I watched them go, their arms still intertwined.

  Down in the fitting room hallway, a large schedule was posted on the wall. It listed our names and individualized schedules for the day: which customers we would see and at what times. Beneath the list were the white cards for each client tucked into a corresponding pocket, specifying her measurements and wardrobe needs.

  My name was near the bottom of the alphabetized list.

  EMMALINE WATKINS, FITTING ROOM 7—

  LADY ELLEN PAIGE RAYMOND—FINAL WEDDING GOWN FITTING

  LADY MATILDA DAWSON—FINAL EVENING WEAR FITTING

  LADY ELEANOR WESTON—FINAL EVENING WEAR FITTING

  I skimmed over the other contestants’ schedules, coming to Sophie’s.

  SOPHIE STERLING, FITTING ROOM 1—

  DUCHESS EMERY CROSS—CUSTOM GOWN CONSULTATION

  All the other girls had custom gown consultations as well or, at the very least, first fittings or accessorizing appointments. I’d been given the leftovers, the nearly completed clients. My heart sank—Madame
Jolène didn’t trust me with the more complex appointments. That much was clear.

  I grabbed my clients’ measurement cards (not that I needed them) and headed down the hallway to fitting room seven. It was at the very end, and I passed the other girls to get there. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes followed me.

  They knew.

  They knew I’d failed at the first challenge and that I really was there just to improve the Fashion House image. I wanted to close the curtain of my fitting room and curl up on the upholstered bench inside. But I couldn’t. I had to keep going.

  I hoped that I would get more advanced appointments the following day. Or the next. But each morning, the schedule was the same. Last fittings for me, gown consultations for everyone else. It went on this way throughout the next week. Even on the morning of the second challenge, I stood in my fitting room with yet another final fitting. My client, Lady Ellen Paige Raymond, exclaimed, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”

  Her eyes bulged and sweat plastered her curls to her face. I was gasping for breath too. A tingling sensation shot to my wrists as I forced my fingers to loosen their grip on her corset strings.

  “No! No! Tighter!” Lady Ellen and her mother, Lady Vienna, cried in unison.

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t want to be responsible for cracking Lady Ellen’s rib cage. Not when her wedding was only four weeks away. Still, I needed to make sure the ivory silk satin bridal gown hanging on the dressing room hook would fit over Lady Ellen’s girth. According to the notes pinned to the garment bag, the dress had been sized down in hopes of Lady Ellen’s weight loss. Whoever decided on this may have been a tad too optimistic.

  “Of course she is sure!”

  Suddenly Madame Jolène was striding toward me, resplendent in a mint-and-brown Persian-inspired brocade gown. Startled, I dropped the corset strings.

  Madame Jolène slipped her spectacles into her bodice and placed her hands on either side of Lady Ellen’s waist, her rings sparkling in the dressing-room light.