A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “You should have heard Madame Jolène talking to Francesco last night,” Ky suddenly said, leaning forward to look at me.

  “What did she say?”

  “She was furious about your sketches. She said you’ve made this year’s competition a joke.”

  “I’ve made it a joke?”

  Kitty murmured something sympathetic in my ear, but I brushed her off.

  “Yes.” Ky smirked. I knew she was pleased by my response, and I tried to appear calm. “She said you’re a distraction and you undermine the credibility of the competition.”

  “That’s enough, Ky,” Kitty interjected. She placed a protective hand on my arm. “I’m sure that isn’t the case.”

  “Of course it is,” Cordelia cut in. “Our futures rely on this competition, but all anyone focuses on is Emmaline. You didn’t earn your spot here, but you get paraded around the city in new clothes.”

  “Do you think I want this?” My voice bounced off the high ceilings of the sewing room. “To be treated like a press puppet when all I want is to be a designer?”

  “Ladies, ladies!” Francesco swept into the room wearing a gray-and-white suit with pointed shoes embroidered with peacocks. “What on earth is going on?” He tried to look stern, but his eyes flashed with interest. He clasped his hands together, as though he was about to devour a sumptuous meal.

  “It does not matter.” Madame Jolène entered from the opposite door with her designers. She held one of her little dogs, Calliope, and another, Clio, trotted along next to her. “There is no time for petty nonsense.”

  She was dressed in a champagne gown covered in a variety of ivory lace that formed an intricate patchwork across her skirt. Though her gown was made entirely of neutrals, a huge necklace in bright pinks, teals, and corals sparkled at her throat.

  The mood of the room changed to nervous excitement, as it always did when she arrived. But as everyone quieted in anticipation, I felt like I was watching from outside Madame Jolène’s powers of enchantment.

  “The next challenge is one of the biggest,” Madame Jolène said. “It will test all your skills: design creativity, workmanship, and client management.”

  Despite myself, I was intrigued. A big challenge. My fingers twitched in anticipation of cutting, threading, and sewing.

  “We have a titled client who is engaged to be married, and she has agreed to let her wedding gown be the subject of the challenge,” Madame Jolène continued. “You will have a bit of time to ask her about her preferences and vision. You will each have three weeks to make your gown, and she will wear the winning dress at her wedding. Of course, the final version of the dress will be revised and edited by me and my design board.”

  A wedding gown! Those two words sent tingles down my spine. Back in Shy, brides wore simple white dresses to their nuptials, but in the city, weddings were exhibitions of extravagance and style. Whenever there was a big wedding, it was reported in the fashion pages with elaborate spreads detailing the bride’s attire.

  “Contestants,” Francesco said, stepping forward, “meet Lady Angelica Harrison.”

  He opened the sewing room door, and a young brunette woman stepped inside. She was dressed in one of the latest Fashion House gowns: an iridescent taffeta dress with a huge skirt. A dramatic hat with three giant plumes protruding from the brim sat atop her head.

  “Hello, ladies,” she said, smiling. “I cannot wait to see what you create for me.”

  “You may now ask Lady Harrison questions,” Francesco said.

  Ky’s hand shot up.

  “What is your vision for your wedding gown?”

  “Oh, I definitely want something unique,” Lady Harrison said. Her eyes ran over Ky’s emerald-green dress with its coral lace trim. “But not too unique. Timeless yet creative.”

  “Timeless yet creative,” Ky repeated slowly. I understood her hesitation. That didn’t tell us much.

  “Is there any area of your figure that you are a bit self-conscious about?” Alice chimed in. Her usually airy voice was a bit more serious. I’d read a few days ago that one of her sisters had gotten engaged to a lord. A very old lord. I’d asked Kitty about it, and she’d told me that Alice was one of five girls, and that their socialite mother was trying to marry them all off—that she’d trained them to have a doll-like manner to attract older, wealthy, and hopefully titled gentlemen.

  Alice, though, didn’t sound so breathy today. I understood. If she won a spot at the Fashion House, she wouldn’t have to marry a man the age of a grandfather.

  “My hips,” Lady Harrison replied. “I almost always wear A-lines.”

  “Any favorite fabrics?” I asked.

  “I like light ones.”

  “Like chiffon or organza?” I followed up, for clarification.

  “Yes. And also heavy ones.”

  Across from me, Sophie let out a small exasperated sigh, but I suppressed a smile. I’d come to realize that clients could be confusing. The other girls continued asking questions, but I stared hard at what Lady Harrison was wearing. That would provide more clues to her style than would Lady Harrison herself. Quickly, I jotted down a few notes.

  Iridescent taffeta. Statement hat. A-line bordering on ball gown.

  “All right, question time is over,” Francesco announced. “Lady Harrison will be back here in three weeks to see the designs and pick her favorite one.”

  He held his arm out to Lady Harrison and she took it, waving to us as he escorted her out. Once the door closed behind her, he smiled sympathetically at us.

  “This is an example of how challenging it can be to work with a client,” he said. “Half the time, they ask for contradicting things or say one thing and mean quite another.”

  “Which is where your skills as designers come in,” Madame Jolène cut in. Unlike Francesco, there was no understanding or sympathy in her eyes. From her position in Madame Jolène’s arms, Calliope yipped, as though to underscore the point. “It is up to you to figure out what is best for her. You will spend the rest of the day sketching, and tomorrow you will go to the Fabric Floor. I suggest you plan your time carefully. Three weeks is more than enough time to make a wedding gown, but with our upcoming events and your Fashion House duties, you will only have four full days to devote to it. Other than that, you will have to find work time around your schedules. You may begin now.”

  With that, she swept out of the room, Calliope still tucked under her arm. Francesco and her designers hurried after her.

  “Well, that was confusing,” Alice said. Her bottom lip extended in a pout. “What on earth does Lady Harrison want?”

  “It’s hardly fair,” Cordelia complained. “How can I translate my menswear-inspired look to a wedding gown? Even if I do, she won’t pick it.”

  “I have the same problem,” Ky said. “I hardly doubt she wants something I’d come up with. She wants a traditional Fashion House design.”

  “Are you surprised?” Sophie spoke from where she sat on the edge of a sewing table. “We are supposed to be aesthetically distinct but, at the end of the day, we are supposed to fit the Fashion House mold. Our unique styles will only be trotted out during the Fashion House Interview.”

  The whole time I’d been here, I’d thought I was the only limited one. But perhaps that was the thing about the Fashion House. The only one who was truly free was Madame Jolène.

  I returned to my chamber to sketch—I didn’t dare sketch around the other girls. The last thing I needed was for my sketchbook to get stolen or my designs destroyed again.

  I started out sitting in the middle of my bed but then moved to an armchair, turning it to face the window. I stared out, tracing the wispy waves of the clouds with my eyes. Their dreamy shapes floated across the sky and stirred up images in my mind, thickening to become the comforting fog that always descended on me when I designed. I tried to focus on that and not the worries that darkened my thoughts.

  For the first challenge, I’d done something much too safe. For th
e second, I’d been myself. For this one—which, so far was the most important one—I’d have to figure out a way to blend my style with the Fashion House look.

  I knew Lady Harrison wanted an A-line to balance out her figure. But that wasn’t quite right. Her proportions already were balanced. There was no need to cover her up in a huge skirt. In fact, putting her in an overly big skirt would only make her seem fuller. No. The way to go was a slim dress with dramatic folds in the fabric. It would give the impression of a big silhouette without being one.

  I drew quickly, the sketch spilling across the page. It sprang from my heart, easily, effortlessly. I was lost to it until the door opened and Tilda came in, wielding her feather duster. Immediately, I flipped my sketchbook closed. The last thing I needed was for her to weigh in.

  “I heard your sketches were destroyed,” she said, waving the duster around my vanity.

  “Yes. But Madame Jolène was still able to judge them.”

  “Oh, was she?” Tilda’s voice was airy and light, but I frowned. There was something about the way her lips tightened. She seemed . . . disappointed.

  “She quite liked them.” I watched Tilda carefully. She might not have had any real power at the Fashion House, but she was a maid, and that meant that people would talk freely around her—she was practically invisible. In fact, she might even know who destroyed my work. “You wouldn’t happen to know who did it, would you?”

  “Of course not,” she answered quickly. A little too quickly. I set my sketchbook down and stood up. She noticed my movements and lowered her feather duster, watching me warily as I approached her.

  “Are you sure?” I tried to look her in the eye, but she avoided my gaze. “Please, I could use your help. I’m—” I’m barely surviving here. The thought struck me hard. Unexpectedly so. “Please, Tilda.”

  “Don’t bother asking. I can’t help you.” For once, her voice wasn’t tinged with that fake sweet tone she always used with me. “If you can’t handle this competition, you shouldn’t be in it.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “We’re similar. I’m not from this, Tilda.” I gestured to the opulence around us.

  “I know that.” Her words were short and snippy, all artifice of sweetness gone. “That’s what makes it worse.”

  “Makes it worse?” I knew everyone else here would never deign to have such a discussion with a maid, but I was tired of doing things the Fashion House way. So far, going along with things had only gotten me limited competing time and a wardrobe of repulsively pink dresses.

  “You’re no one. If the Fashion House didn’t need you to posture for the press and you’d come to the city for a job, you’d be a maid, just like me. I have to put up with everyone else here, but I shouldn’t have to put up with you.”

  “You don’t understand.” I wanted to tell her everything, that coming here had been my lifelong dream but how, since arriving, I’d realized that the dream didn’t exist—that I was blocked at every turn, dismissed, sent this place and that to look like a “country” girl—and that most of the time, I felt like I was falling down a bottomless hole. But even though Tilda resented everyone at the Fashion House, she was more like them than I ever would be, and like them, she wouldn’t care.

  “I don’t understand what?” She challenged me with her gaze. Abruptly, I turned away and went back to my chair by the window.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.”

  She pressed her lips together in a thin line and raised her feather duster. She started dusting, and I started drawing, and there was complete silence again, a silence full of strain. My hand moved about my page, automatically filling in parts of the sketch, but all I could feel was the lump in my throat and the tears that stung the backs of my eyes.

  We were supposed to go to the Fabric Floor the next morning, but I was scheduled to attend a reading by the new poet laureate. Even though it would limit her time, Kitty agreed to pick out my fabric. I gave her a list:

  Warm ivory duchess satin

  Silk-covered buttons

  The list was sparse compared with Kitty’s, which was full of different types of laces, silks, and embroidered appliques. Ky brushed by with hers, and it was covered with words like embossed taffeta and ruffled tulle.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you anything else?” Kitty asked, frowning at my two-item list. “I can throw in some extra beads or lace.”

  “I’m sure.” And I was. It was all I needed to make the gown in my head, and that was the secret of it: it would let Lady Harrison shine and enhance her figure without the distraction of frills and laces. “But can you please make sure it’s the right shade of ivory? I want that hue that’s just between candlelight and champagne.”

  “Between candlelight and champagne,” Kitty repeated. Her brow crinkled. “I’ll do my best.”

  I nearly launched into a description of the color that I could see so clearly in my mind. But that was the thing with colors—one had to see it in person to know it. I smiled reassuringly at Kitty, but the minute she looked back down at the list, I gritted my teeth, praying desperately that somehow she would get the right materials.

  After the reading, I hurried to my chamber to see the silk that Kitty had selected for me. It waited on my bed, an ivory cutout against the blush duvet. I frowned, running my fingertips over it. It wasn’t the right shade of ivory—there was way too much yellow in it. A package of buttons sat next to it. I spilled them out across the bed, my frown deepening. The buttons matched the silk, but they were much too small. They wouldn’t look right at all. Defeated, I sat down on the edge of my bed, staring at the too-yellow silk and too-small buttons.

  Chapter Ten

  THE NEXT DAY, I wanted to start the pattern for my wedding gown, but we were scheduled for Fashion House duties because of the gala. The number of customers had doubled, and everyone was needed—including me, for once.

  I headed down to my fitting room, stepping around the handymen bringing down extra mirrors and the maids clearing out the spare dressing rooms that stored extra mannequins.

  When I got to my fitting room, I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the fresh flowers the Fashion House received every day to perfume the hallways. I pulled back the curtain to my room and stepped inside, shaking off my despondency at the silk and buttons. Every fitting room was the same—furnished with a trifold, full-length mirror, a circular pedestal, an upholstered bench pushed against the wall, and a garment hook on the wall.

  Despite the uniformity of the rooms, I’d learned the nuances of mine, how my pedestal listed just slightly to the side when anyone stepped on it and how the mirror needed to be adjusted for the best light.

  I took another breath, this one quick and short, trying to energize myself and push away my frustration. For now, I would focus on the customers, design in my head, and try to keep moving forward.

  Three appointments later, I was gritty and sweaty . . . and bleeding.

  “You’ve stabbed yourself,” said my customer, Madame Solange, staring down at me as I knelt by her hem, taking out the basting stitches.

  “Indeed,” I said, standing. A drop of red blood welled up on my fingertip. I’d impaled myself on a straight pin. I sighed. It was common to stab oneself with a needle at the Fashion House. Straight pins and sewing needles were used every day and frequently lay scattered across the tabletops and floors. But the puncture was on my sewing finger, the one I used to push needles through cloth. It would be bothersome, especially for the detail work I’d have to do on my wedding gown. I needed to start wearing thimbles, even though I hated how they felt.

  “Be careful not to get any of that on my gown.” Madame Solange sniffed.

  “I will,” I said, holding my finger away from the dupioni silk. She was right to be wary. A bloodstain on silk was impossible to get out.

  I glanced around my fitting room for some spare cloth, but I hadn’t cleared my room between appointments. I picked my way across the fitti
ng room, stepping over the mountain of wire crinolines and spools of thread littering the floor. I’d even left a few gowns wrapped in their muslin bags hanging on a hook. I held my bleeding finger aloft, terrified it would drip.

  “Tell the maid to bring me another glass of champagne while you’re out there,” Madame Solange said. I nodded and walked out into the hallway, heading for the washroom. Sometimes Madame Jolène occupied the dressing room adjacent to the washroom. The spacious, private chamber was reserved for customers who were titled or wealthy enough to warrant Madame Jolène’s attention, but not important enough to be invited to her private fitting rooms.

  The curtain to the dressing room was closed, but I heard Madame Jolène’s cool voice coming from inside.

  “Yes, we will just raise the hem a quarter of an inch. It will be perfect. The tip of your shoes will show as you walk, but when you’re standing still, the hem will extend to the floor.”

  I slowed, wondering if I should go to the washroom on the second floor. I didn’t want Madame Jolène to see me with my bleeding finger. I was trying to change the way she saw me, and bloodstains on her gowns would not curry her favor. I listened hard. Madame Jolène’s customer responded. They were obviously in conversation. If I was quiet, I could slip by without being noticed. I stepped forward, trying to be quick but noiseless. One step, two, and then—WHOOSH!

  The curtain swung back on its rings.

  I wheeled around to see Madame Jolène sweeping it aside. I stilled, finger held aloft.

  “Emmaline? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I—” I started to explain, but then stopped. I had seen something just beyond Madame Jolène, something that bewildered me. Standing behind her was a woman I didn’t recognize. I had the blurry impression of dark hair and olive skin. But beyond that she was inconsequential fuzziness; I only saw her gown.

  The woman stood there, staring at me, enfolded in a jade jacquard dress. The pattern—my pattern, the one that had bold dramatic swoops accented by smaller straighter lines—was woven into the fabric with gold thread. Soft tendrils of chiffon pulled delicately across the neckline, almost like gentle curls. I stared at my brocade gown that was somehow here, in the world, a composition in thread and fabric.