A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  But there was something about the way Tilda treated me. She wasn’t just familiar with me—she was rude. And, though I assumed she hadn’t meant to, it had been her words that made me doubt myself for the first challenge.

  “The next time I need you, please be here.” I didn’t speak harshly, but I channeled the voice my mother used when speaking to vendors who were late on deliveries. Not mean, but firm.

  “Of course,” Tilda said, yet she sounded flippant. She gathered my hair up in her hands. “I saw your coat.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Madame Jolène had me pack up the . . . well, the less successful coats. They were donated to charity.”

  Donated to charity. With just those three words, I was wavering on the brink of despair again. Had I really done that poorly in the first challenge? I swallowed hard, struggling to contain myself. I couldn’t give in to doubt. I wouldn’t let myself.

  “Is that so?” I evenly met Tilda’s gaze in the vanity mirror. “That’s kind of her.”

  Tilda stopped running the brush through my hair for a moment, sulky disappointment crossing her features.

  She pursed her lips and said, “Have you started on the next challenge? Last I heard, Ky and Sophie had already found all three of their items.”

  “Oh, have they?” I still sounded calm, but my stomach clenched. All three? I’d yet to find even one. I couldn’t help it—the stressed, scrambled feelings I’d experienced during the first challenge came over me, stronger than before. I shouldn’t be sitting here, getting my hair done. Desperately, I glanced around the chamber, as though I could find gowns and accessories from the Fashion House collection lying about the room.

  “Yes,” Tilda said, twisting my hair into a low bun. “And Alice has at least two.”

  She held my hair in place with one hand and pulled hairpins out of her pocket with the other. The morning light rippled off her black taffeta skirts, gleaming across the fabric like moonbeams across a nighttime sky. I stared at the effect in the vanity mirror, tilting my head to the side. A thought slowly developed in my mind.

  “Your uniform,” I said. “When was it designed?”

  “This?” Tilda glanced down at her black dress with its bobbin lace trim. “I don’t know. Madame Jolène probably designed it years ago, when she first took over the Fashion House.”

  Abruptly, I stood up, wrenching my hair out of her hand. It hurt but I barely noticed. I stepped back, looking Tilda over. Or, more precisely, looking her dress over.

  “You ruined your hair,” she complained. I ignored her and opened my vanity drawer, where I kept my Fashion House Interview sketchbook and pencils. I flipped open the book and quickly sketched the general outline of her dress: floor-length A-line gown with bobbin lace edging the cuffs, neckline, and hem. It wasn’t very functional, not with its thick fabric and wide skirts. I couldn’t imagine doing a full day’s worth of work at the pub in such a garment. And while it was pretty, it didn’t feel modern or fresh, even though most of the Fashion House maids were around my age.

  Drawing over the original dress, I drew a new one. Slimmer. Shorter. It didn’t have any lace, but it had deep pockets. When I was finished, the new gown sat within the outline of the old one.

  “There.” I would need to sketch it out again in greater detail, but it was a start—and a plan.

  “Are you redoing our uniforms?” Even though Tilda tried to sound unengaged, she leaned forward to peek at the sketch.

  “Yes. The current ones are dated and hardly functional.” I held out the drawing so she could see it. “Wouldn’t it be easier to work in a slimmer dress with a shorter hem? And wouldn’t you like it if it was a little more stylish and fresh?”

  “I don’t think that’s the point of the challenge,” Tilda protested. She reached for my hair again, and I sat down so she could finish it. “You’re supposed to improve on a Fashion House design. Like one of the dresses or accessories made for clients.”

  “But Madame Jolène did design the uniforms,” I pointed out, wincing as Tilda twisted my hair sharply into a bun and slipped the headband over my head. “So technically, it qualifies.”

  “Seems a little desperate, no?” Tilda’s snide tone came back, even as she kept staring at the redone uniform. “Perhaps you’re just worried that you don’t have time to do anything else?”

  I played with the ruffle on my interview dress. She was right, to a certain degree. But redesigning the maids’ outfit—as unorthodox as it might be—made sense for me. I knew about work and I knew about fashion. Even if I had all the time in the world to find a subject, this project would intrigue me.

  “Emmaline!” Francesco opened the chamber door and poked his head inside. “What on earth is taking you so long? Mr. Grafton is waiting for you.”

  Tilda sprayed the perfume that corresponded to the dress—an airy scent of lilacs, apples, and vanilla—from my head to my feet. It settled on my skin in a misty, aromatic cloud.

  I followed Francesco out of my chambers, carrying my sketchbook and pencil. I would need them for that thirty-minute break when I would search for my other two items. I thought Francesco might tell me to leave the sketchbook, but his head was buried in the large leather book that contained the Fashion House agenda. He didn’t say anything until we reached the stairs. “Pretend you are a rich society lady, Emmaline, and you are attending a gala. Would you want a clutch made from an edgy leather with metal trim? Or a white linen one with a gold clasp?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask,” I said, my mind still on my redesign of the maids’ outfits. “I’ve never been to a gala.”

  “The leather is navy while the linen has an embossed pattern on it,” Francesco said, ignoring my initial response.

  “Um, I suppose—”

  “The leather, right? I knew it. I just knew that was best. No boring linen.” He scribbled a note in the agenda, next to the daily schedule. I wondered if Madame Jolène knew he was using the agenda for his personal notes.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling.

  “You studied the guide of possible questions and appropriate answers, I assume?” His head remained buried in the agenda.

  “I did.” Those had been sent up that morning with directions to have them memorized in time for the interviews.

  “And what are they?”

  I blinked, my mind as hazy as the cloud of perfume Tilda had sprayed over me. I collected myself, pulling my thoughts from the day’s challenge. “The upcoming collections, how excited I am to be here, how generous Madame Jolène is to include me this season.” It was hard to say the last one in a measured tone.

  “Yes, be sure to stress that last point.” Francesco raised his head, his face mournful. “The Reformists have gotten even more impertinent. Recently, they brought a proposal to Parliament stating that the Fashion House itself should create designs for factory-produced styles.”

  “I didn’t know.” I’d never given much thought to the political aspects of the Fashion House, but the idea instantly bothered me. I couldn’t imagine the Fashion House creating cheap designs. It seemed wrong, like asking a prize racehorse to pull a plow.

  “This is an important interview, Emmaline. Fashion House Interview contestants rarely get to speak officially to the press,” Francesco said. As he spoke, his usually theatrical expression was replaced by a quiet intensity. “I’ll join you for your other two interviews, but I’ll be attending the queen at her fitting with Madame Jolène during the first one. Be sure to stress that the Fashion House has always been and will always be the future for Avon-upon-Kynt.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, wait here for a few moments. Mr. Grafton is in the main parlor.” He motioned me to the side of the hallway. “I’ll be right back. Oh, and did I mention the leather clutch would have a knuckle-duster holder?”

  He didn’t give me a chance to respond, continuing with his head buried in the daily agenda. I glanced up and down the narrow hallway and stifled a half-frust
rated, half-panicked huff. I needed to be working on my redesign, not standing here. I opened my sketchbook, balanced it against one knee, and awkwardly added gold epaulets to the shoulders and a separate choker to the neck.

  The soft mumble of conversation came from behind a thick door with a large glass doorknob. Normally, it would have been impossible to hear through it, but whoever was inside had left the door slightly ajar, and a hushed voice slipped out. It sounded strangely familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. I lowered the sketchbook, stepped closer, and stretched my neck forward so I could see through the narrow slit of space between the door and its frame.

  There was a dark-haired girl inside. She was turned away from me. All I could see was her overly straight posture, black gown, and the snow-white expanse of her neck, visible beneath a chignon of waves.

  She was facing a young man. It seemed like they knew each other well. He was tall, but the girl, in her heels, was his height. Dark blond hair fell over his forehead and he said something quietly to her, his eyes fixed on hers. His blue, blue eyes.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping.

  The reporter I’d met at the train station and had seen in the sewing room.

  A shiver ran through me, just beneath my skin, and I leaned forward even farther, trying to see his face better. His lip was healing. Only a hint of discoloration remained.

  The girl asked, “Does it hurt?”

  My heart plummeted down to my feet. I recognized this voice as well. There was only one girl with that low, cold cadence. Sophie. Was the reporter—my reporter—courting Sophie?

  “You know me,” he said. The smile I’d seen at the train station was gone, replaced by a questioning, grave expression. “A reporter’s job is dangerous. It’s not the first time a subject has punched me for asking impertinent questions.”

  “And it’s not the first time you’ve punched someone back.” Sophie moved closer to the reporter, closing the distance between them. Their bodies formed a single, strange silhouette in the middle of the room.

  “Sophie,” he said as she leaned in even closer. I held my breath and leaned in, too, as if I were Sophie. Slowly, she tilted her head forward, but just at the last moment, he stepped back, and her long fingers drifted through the air between them.

  Numbly, I returned to my former spot in the hallway. I leaned back against the wall and let out a long, slow breath just as Francesco came rushing up the stairs.

  “I had a tea tray set up,” he said, pointing to the parlor doors. “A maid will come serve it.”

  I blinked and nodded dully. I remembered how Sophie had asked me about him the night before. She’d said he was “nice.” Apparently, he was very nice to her. And what man wouldn’t be? She was as breathtaking as a crescent moon in a pitch-black sky.

  Then again, he’d stepped back. She might fancy him, but perhaps the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  “Now, where is Mr. Grafton?” Francesco put his hands on his hips and glanced around, as though he—the reporter—might be hiding behind a vase or side table.

  “I think he’s in the other room,” I said. My face flushed, and I didn’t dare look Francesco in the eye.

  “Is he with Sophie?” Francesco shook his head, his face pinched with impatience. “How unprofessional. Go in and get ready. I’ll send him in.”

  I pulled the heavy doors open and slipped into the bright, airy parlor. I walked over to the grouping of tufted Chesterfield furniture—two armchairs and a fainting couch—and settled onto the fainting couch, arranging myself so my ruffles lay neatly against my skirt. I stored my sketchbook and pencil underneath it.

  There was a window behind me, and I twisted around on the fainting couch to glance out of it, seeking the soothing familiarity of the sky. The parlor was on the second story, so it was all I could see—one square of blue, dotted with a few gray clouds. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be out there, to smell the air and feel the fingers of the wind in my hair.

  Then I could let nature overwhelm my senses and forget the reporter and Sophie.

  Impulsively, I went over to the window and placed my palm flat against the glass. If I stared straight at the sky and the perfumery’s gables across the way, I could feel like I was out there, hovering between the roofs and the sky. Almost. No matter my imagination, I was indoors and had been—aside from the short walks from hacks to buildings—since I’d arrived. And yet, I still sensed the seasons changing, how summer was slipping into fall.

  Though I tried to deny it, I was a country girl. For the first time since arriving, my hands itched for dirt in the same way they itched for pencils and sketch paper. I wanted to bury my fingers in the soil of my mother’s vegetable garden. Just last fall, she harvested a bounty of carrots, yanking them from the earth with firm hands. After a while, she sat back on her heels, a bright orange carrot in her hands, and held it up close to her face, examining it. Dirt stains ran all the way up her forearms. She stayed that way for a long time, until I asked her what she was doing. She lifted her eyes to mine, and I had never seen them so . . . full.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Emmaline,” she whispered, her voice reverent, like she was praying in church. “It’s the most beautiful thing in this whole entire world.”

  “Emmaline?” I hadn’t heard the doors open, and I jumped at the sound of my name, the image of the carrot in my mother’s dirty hands dissipating as I turned to see the reporter enter.

  I walked back to the fainting couch and settled down onto it. Instantly, I wished I’d chosen a different seat. The couch was lower than the other furniture, and its pink-and-orange rose pattern clashed with my gown’s shade of pink.

  He sat down across from me, reeking of violets.

  The door opened again, and Tilda came in. She approached, her eyes lingering longer than necessary on Tristan’s face.

  “Would you care for some tea?” she asked him as she bent over the small table and set down the silver tea tray and a small plate of petits fours.

  “Yes, please,” he said.

  She served it deftly, her hands moving quickly over the teapot. “Cream or sugar?”

  “I prefer it black.”

  She handed him the teacup, her fingers overlapping his, and she glanced at me.

  “Tea?” Her usual snide tone underscored the question. Normally, I would try to ignore it but now, in front of Tristan, the heat of embarrassment chased away the phantom sense of cold glass against my palm.

  “No, thank you.”

  “They don’t drink tea in Shy?” She glanced at Tristan in a knowing way, as though to say, This country girl is ridiculous. He frowned, and the sight made her jubilant expression dim.

  “I just don’t want any,” I said. “But thank you.”

  I stared directly at her, daring her to say or do anything else. She hesitated, seeming to consider it. Then, she set the teapot down hard on the tray and flounced out of the room, as though she was Madame Jolène herself.

  Once she was gone, Tristan took a sip of tea. I couldn’t look at him, instead staring at the way his fingers dwarfed the porcelain teacup. His knuckles were malformed, as though he’d punched something hard at some point and broken them, and there was a bit of dirt under his nails.

  “I’m Tristan Grafton,” he said, and I barely stopped myself from saying I know. For a moment, I wondered if he’d somehow forgotten all about me. “They started painting over the mural. I thought you might like to know,” he continued. “White. All white. They’ve gotten all the way up Queen Catherine’s body, so she’s a disembodied head now, Emmy.” He paused. “Or is it Emmaline? The Fashion House contacted my editor and told us we had to print your name as ‘Emmaline.’”

  So, he remembered. The canvas, the mural. My name. An inane desire to smile built up inside me, even as Sophie’s scent drifted toward my nose.

  “The name ‘Emmy’ didn’t exactly fit with the Fashion House aesthetic,” I said. “You can call me Emmy, just .
. . don’t print it.”

  My back was to the window, but Tristan’s eyes reflected the daylight back to me. The last time I’d seen him, in the sewing room, the white morning light had washed the color right out of them. But now, the day was bright, and his eyes were bluer than ever before.

  “Very well.” He wrote EMMY across the top of his notebook and underlined it. “Just a personal note for myself,” he explained. “So, how are you today?”

  “Good,” I said, wondering if this was part of the interview or just pleasantries. “Busy. I have two other interviews, so I’m worried I won’t have time for today’s competition.”

  “A Fashion House Interview contestant who doesn’t have time to compete,” he said. “That’s a sad thing indeed.”

  “Yes. And I need to do better than last time.”

  “Ah. The navy coat?”

  I winced. It made sense that he knew about the coat—the papers printed sketches of our work. I wondered if he knew that mine was so disastrous that it’d been donated to charity.

  “That was a misstep,” I sighed.

  “It’s all right. It was just one challenge. There are more to come.” The sincerity in his voice warmed me, but it couldn’t dispel my worry.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Don’t let it discourage you. I’ve seen contestants get mired down by bad evaluations—the key is to shake it off.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “That’s true. But Sophie said she’s seen your other designs and that you have talent.”

  “She did?” They talked about me. The thought zinged through me. Had he asked about me? I saw them in my mind, standing near each other yet apart, as though forces drew them together while separating them at the same time. I blurted, “Are you seeing her?”

  Instantly, warmth rushed over my cheeks. I wished, with everything inside me, that I could snatch the words back.

  “No. No, I’m not.” If he was startled by my impetuous question, he hid it well. “I did. Before. But that was some time ago, and while I wish her well, I don’t feel for her.”