A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “The dress is designed to pull your waist in three inches.” She unwound the measuring tape circling her neck like a yellow snake and wrapped it around Lady Ellen’s circumference. “Two more inches,” she declared. “Is that a problem, Emmaline?”

  “Oh, no, of course not!” I exclaimed, my numb fingers fumbling for the corset strings.

  “You can’t be tired from doing one little corset. After all, that is a basic element of your job. Is this fundamental skill too strenuous for you?”

  “I’m not tired at all.” My already flushed face grew even hotter, until my skin was burning. The corset creaked around Lady Ellen’s width, and even though the fitting rooms were humming with the Fashion House sounds—snipping, ripping, rustling—an angry buzzing in my ears drowned it out.

  “Well, please try to make more of an effort,” Madame Jolène said. She stepped back. “Are those flats you are wearing? Where are your heels?”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, subtly trying to pull my skirts down to hide my satin flats.

  “Madame Jolène,” Lady Vienna broke in, “why is this dress too tight? This is the most important day in Ellen’s life. Everyone will be looking at her! Everyone! I can’t have her looking like a—”

  “What she is trying to say—” Lady Ellen interrupted. She had to stop to catch her breath midway through her sentence, one hand pressed to her confined midriff. “Is that I cannot . . . look like . . . a . . . fat pig in a white . . . dress. This is my day, and I will not look like a pig!” Drops of sweat flung off her face, spraying my cheeks. I didn’t dare wipe the moisture away, certain any motion would draw Madame Jolène’s attention and disapproval.

  “If you did not look good in one of my gowns,” Madame Jolène said, “I would not let you wear one.” I expected her to leave on that cutting comment, but instead she said to me, “When you are finished with Lady Ellen, report to the lobby.”

  “The lobby?” I asked. Madame Jolène had already scolded me—what else could she want?

  “Yes. Alice has been instructed to finish your appointments.”

  Without another word, she turned and continued down the hallway, swooping into the other fitting rooms to the delight of the customers and stress of the other contestants. It was her modus operandi. She came down to the fitting rooms several times a day, even though she had her own more prestigious customers. She reminded me of my mother, fully invested in her business and involved in every aspect. But while my mother lived by routine, Madame Jolène did her rounds at random times, so I never knew when she would appear to drop a scathing comment.

  As soon as I finished the appointment, I practically ran to the lobby. Nothing, not even Alice’s pouty expression at having to take over my final fittings, could distract me from wondering what awaited me.

  The lobby was empty except for Francesco. He faced one of the mirrored panels, carefully redoing the knot on his crushed-velvet bow tie.

  “Aren’t you a sweaty mess?” he said, seeing my reflection in the mirror behind him. I almost smiled. Only Francesco could say something insulting and make it sound affectionate.

  “Is Madame Jolène here?” I came to stand next to him. “She pulled me out of my fittings.”

  “Yes, she did,” he said, concentrating on the bow tie. “You need to change.”

  “Change?” I blinked at him and glanced down at my simple pink consulting dress. “But I still have other appointments.”

  “Those have been reassigned. Today you begin your other Fashion House duties.”

  “What?” Aside from the Fashion House Interview and working with clients, there weren’t any other duties. And I didn’t want there to be. As hard as my time at the Fashion House had been so far—I’d fretted I’d fallen irrevocably behind in the competition—I could feel myself sinking into its rhythm of creativity and beauty.

  “Yes. You didn’t have any yet because we were finalizing your press wardrobe.”

  “Don’t I already have a Fashion House wardrobe?” I thought about those dresses hanging upstairs in my chamber in their nauseating row of pink.

  “Oh, those dull things? Those are just your basic outfits,” Francesco said. “Every contestant receives at least five styles upon arriving here. But you get more. You will need a new dress and accessories every time you appear publicly. We aren’t outfit repeaters, darling, and every appearance is a fashion opportunity!”

  “Appear publicly?” Instantly, the knots of tension doubled in my neck. I frowned, and Francesco, seeing my expression in the mirror, stopped fussing with his bow tie to turn around.

  “Why, yes. You are here for a reason, Emmaline. The Reformists Party wants to see the Fashion House making changes, and you are one of those changes. Starting today, you’ll be attending a variety of political and social events. You won’t have to say anything, just look pretty and a little . . . provincial, if you can. And, later this week, you’ll have some interviews—we’ll give you instructions on those.”

  Cold fingers of dread wrapped around my heart. Events. Looking pretty. Not designing. How on earth would I have time to focus on the competition if I was away?

  “You should be excited. Madame Jolène herself oversaw your new looks. They are fabulous. You’ll adore the handmade rosette accents. The dresses are pink, of course, but each one is stunning.” He said the word pink quickly, as though he knew I hated it.

  “Francesco,” I said, trying to sound calm, “will I still meet with my customers?”

  “What customers?” Francesco blinked at me. “You’ve had nothing but final fittings. But don’t worry, I’ll still schedule you as many as possible.”

  “Will I have enough time for the next challenges?”

  A long pause stretched out between us, and I waited, a metallic taste in my mouth.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, the showy drama gone from his voice. He spoke simply, gently.

  “Is there a problem here?” Madame Jolène entered from the fitting-room hallway. Her spectacles sat high on her head like a delicate headpiece, and her measuring tape still hung around her neck. She kept moving toward her private staircase, as though she had no intention of stopping to hear our responses.

  “No, of course not—” Francesco quickly started to say.

  But I said, “Madame Jolène, may I have a word?”

  She stopped but didn’t turn toward me, as though she might continue walking away at any moment. One of her little dogs (Apollo, as distinguished by his leather neck ruffle) came padding into the room and, upon seeing her, hurried over to sit at her feet.

  “Yes?”

  “Francesco just told me I have additional Fashion House duties.” I spoke slowly so my voice wouldn’t waver. “I just wanted to make sure I will still have ample time for the competition—”

  “Emmaline,” Madame Jolène said, finally turning around to face me with serpentine grace. “You were brought here for a specific reason. Your first and foremost obligations are appearances and interviews.”

  I took a quick breath. I knew I’d been brought to the competition to improve the Fashion House’s image. But I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be sent out and about, or that I wouldn’t have the same time to compete as everyone else.

  “I just want to make sure it doesn’t compromise my place in the Fashion House Interview. I know my first coat was basic, but I promise I can design so much better—”

  At the word design, Madame Jolène let out one of her short, imperious laughs.

  “Dear Emmaline,” she said, “you forget your place here. Being a designer requires many skills beyond talent with a needle or sketchpad. Skills you neither understand nor possess—and certainly cannot attain in one season. Do good work, and when you are back home, you will be the better for it.”

  Back home?

  When I was little, I loved knitting together a few stitches of yarn and then pulling them so the fibrous strands came apart in a single instance. I marveled at how, with just one tug, something that was the star
t of a scarf or sock could be just a string of yarn once again.

  With those two words, back home, I was back in Shy. Only, things were different, warped. I wasn’t the little girl pulling apart the scarf. I was the yarn, suddenly becoming nothing in one second.

  Had she decided I wouldn’t get one of the designer positions? Already? No, my navy coat hadn’t been very good. But I’d been confused. Lost. I knew I could do so much better, if she just gave me the chance.

  “Why?”

  The word came out louder than I expected. Beside me, Francesco gave a wordless murmur, and Apollo cocked his head, looking from me to Madame Jolène. The question didn’t quite make sense in the context of our conversation, but she understood. The perpetually tense muscles in her face eased slightly and she tilted her head to the side, as though I were an exotic creature she had never seen before.

  “‘Why?’ is a good question. I ask it quite a bit myself. For example, why can’t I run my Fashion House the way I desire, without the interference from some young, upstart members of Parliament? I’ve worked to create an empire, and yet I’m not the ruler of it. So why, Emmaline, is a very good question. The problem is that there are few answers to the whys.”

  There was nothing harsh in her tone, but her calm voice and the sweet expression didn’t fool me. She loathed me. The realization hit me as clear as lightning across a blue sky in Shy. Maybe not me personally. But what I represented: her limitations. We stood there, staring at each other for a long moment, my blood throbbing in my ears.

  I took another quick breath and then a slower one.

  “Please,” I said. “Give me a chance to prove I belong here.”

  Slowly, she reached up one hand to touch the measuring tape around her neck. She didn’t play or fidget with it like a normal person might. She simply placed her fingers over it, her gray eyes keen and sharp. Then she said, “Of course. When it comes to picking the design positions, I choose on talent alone, as shown throughout the competition. If you are the best choice, you will be selected.”

  She turned away with such force that her skirts swept out over my shoes, and she glided toward the staircase. Apollo followed her. She paused right before the steps to gracefully collect him into her arms, her posture still somehow perfect. Then the two of them disappeared up the stairs.

  I looked at Francesco.

  “She doesn’t think I’ll be one of them, does she?” I asked. “She thinks I’ll be so busy with these events that I won’t learn enough or even have time to showcase my skills.”

  Francesco opened his mouth and then shut it. Finally, he said, “Madame Jolène will always do what is best for the Fashion House. Don’t give up.” He gave my arm a little pat, but even though he was trying to be reassuring, I saw his eyes. There wasn’t any hope in them. Only sympathy.

  He didn’t think I had a chance, and neither did Madame Jolène.

  Two hours later, I sat in the front row of a small audience, practically drowning in pink ruffles and semiprecious gemstone necklaces. The dress had a flowery print and high neck. I imagined it was Madame Jolène’s take on what a country girl might wear to a party. It was effective. Nearly everyone who saw me glanced from my face to my dress and then turned to whisper to each other about the “new country contestant.” Madame Jolène had wanted me to stand out, and she’d done a good job.

  But while the dress was an elaborate concoction of frills and lace, she hadn’t bothered to make sure it was wearable. The whole thing itched, and the sensation, combined with the dread in my stomach and knots in my neck, nearly drove me mad.

  “This library signifies the commitment of the Reformists and Classicists to work together,” a man droned on from his spot behind a podium. No one had told me what exactly the event was, but it seemed to be a dedication for a new library wing. I’d been sent alone. Francesco had hired a hack that had picked me up behind the Fashion House, the same place I’d first entered it, and whisked me the short distance from the Fashion House to this library.

  If I hadn’t been so frustrated, the trip would have been exciting. After being inside for so long, I was finally out and about in the Quarter District, the wealthiest commerce borough of Avon-upon-Kynt. We’d driven along the River Tyne, which threaded its way down the center of the city. As we’d passed auction houses, restaurants, and galleries, my eyes searched the different windows—not to look at the wares, as gleaming and glistening as those were—but to see which Fashion House Interview contestants were favored. I saw most of our names displayed on signs, but Sophie’s showed up the most, often encircled in black roses.

  I wasn’t sure whether I would see mine, but, as we’d turned past a small teashop, there it was. A sign just for me. It read: Wentworth & Co. Tea Salon Supports Emmaline Watkins, the Fashion House Interview.

  “And now, Parliament Member Richard Davies will share some thoughts,” the man up front announced, and everyone applauded as the next speaker came up.

  I couldn’t muster the will or care to clap. As I sat here, the contestants back at the Fashion House would be starting their fourth appointments of the day. They would be taking measurements, making quick sketches, cajoling customers to try a new color or new style. More importantly, they would be showing Madame Jolène that they could adapt to the Fashion House ways, that they would be a good fit for the apprenticeships. And while they were making progress in the challenge, I was here, sitting in a chair.

  Parliament Member Richard Davies, a rotund man with a receding hairline, took his place at the podium. Everything he said sounded the same as the man before. He referenced progress at least ten times and the vision of the Reformists Party approximately eight times. He cleared his throat in a most obnoxious way twice, and then finally concluded, saying, “The Parliament Wives’ Association has thoughtfully provided us with some refreshments. Let us enjoy.”

  I jumped to my feet, trying to adjust my dress so it didn’t rub against my neck and underarms quite so much. When my movements didn’t help, I sighed and surrendered to the gown’s itchy embrace and joined the line of people at the food table.

  Morosely, I picked up a small plate with an even smaller scone on it. A server offered me two different options for wine and, uncertain, I pointed to one of the bottles. I moved to the side as the people behind me pressed in, reaching for refreshments before falling into small, conversational groups. I pretended to concentrate on eating the scone and sipping at the bitter wine.

  “My dear!” I turned to see a portly, smiling woman addressing me. She’d been introduced at the very beginning as the head of the Parliament Wives’ Association and the sponsor for the event. Lady Weber, I believed her name was. “It’s a pleasure to have a Fashion House Interview candidate here. We’ve been so curious to see Madame Jolène’s new contestant—and aren’t you darling!”

  I smiled, awkwardly brushing scone crumbs from my mouth.

  “Someone requested to meet you. Come, come.” She gestured for me to follow her. I did, leaving behind my plate but taking the wine. Lady Weber led me across the library and over to a tall gentleman who stood staring up at a landscape painting, his back to us. “Mr. Taylor, this is Madame Jolène’s new country contestant.” At her introduction, the man turned around. “This, my dear, is Mr. Alexander Taylor. He’s quite a prominent fixture here in the city and a wonderful proponent of the arts. He is also a member of Parliament and the head of the Reformists Party.”

  The man held out his hand. I shifted my glass from my right to my left and took his hand, uncertain if he was going to shake it or not. Stepping closer to me, he bent at the waist and kissed it. His skin was bizarrely soft, and when he withdrew his hand, there was an oily residue on my fingers. It was some sort of fragrant, musky lotion.

  “Oh, Mrs. Clark is leaving—I must say goodbye.” Lady Weber bustled away. The man considered me with an expression that was somehow both uninterested and arrogant. He stood centered against the painting, making it seem like the gilded frame existed to showcase hi
m, not the landscape.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, clutching the stem of my glass with both hands, the sharpness of the wine suddenly more prominent on my tongue.

  Mr. Taylor seemed to be about forty. He ran his hand through his hair, as though making sure each strand was in place—which they were. He wore a double-breasted suit that was completely black, from the buttons to the cufflinks. The only touch of color came from a burgundy neckerchief tied in an elaborate knot.

  “So, you are the country girl.”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  “It was my idea to bring you here, you know. I proposed the idea to Madame Jolène as a way to advance the Reformists Party’s agenda,” he said. His eyes fixated on my ruffled dress, and he nodded, as though pleased. “You certainly look the part.”

  I should have said thank you. If it wasn’t for Mr. Taylor, I’d be back in Shy. But there was something about the way he looked at me, as though I was an object, not a person.

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “Anyway, you’ve been at the Fashion House. Have you had much interaction with Miss Sophie Sterling? She is . . .” He paused, and the indifference and arrogance vanished. When he spoke again, his tone was reverent, liturgical even. “She has black hair and eyes. True black—like obsidian or onyx.”

  I clutched my glass even harder, my hands slippery from sweat and the lotion residue. He obviously meant my roommate. Normally, if someone asked if we had a mutual acquaintance, I would answer without hesitation. But there was something disturbing about this man, something that went far beyond the rudeness of ignoring pleasantries.

  “I’ve met her,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Sophie was hardly anyone to me, and I didn’t know anything about this man, other than he was the head of the Reformists Party. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that something about him made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. “I haven’t spoken much to her, though. If I do, should I tell her that one of her suitors is inquiring after her?” At the word suitors, his lips twitched.