A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  Yet . . . why hadn’t anyone done it before? The vision couldn’t appeal to me and me alone. In Britannia Secunda, where good fashion sense was akin to nationality, there had to be droves of other girls who wanted the same thing. But, as far as I knew, there had never been two fashion houses at one time.

  “It’s too bad there is only one Fashion House,” I said, trying to sound glib. “Have people tried to start others?”

  “Yes.” Sophie didn’t look up from her magazine, but I waited, hoping she wouldn’t fall into one of her strange silences again. “But Madame Jolène has the Crown’s favor. And while the Crown isn’t as powerful as it was before, it still wields lots of influence. A few fashion houses tried to spring up in the past several years, but they can never get financing from any of the banks, and the Avon-upon-Kynt Times never reports on any of their designs.”

  “So, Madame Jolène will always control fashion in Avon-upon-Kynt?”

  “Probably.” Sophie was still focused on her magazine, but she hadn’t flipped a page for a while, and her gaze didn’t move. She’d stopped reading some time ago. “Though I must say, I don’t think she’s as untouchable as it seems. If someone wore something new, or if a collection started without funding from the bank, it could gain enough traction to evade Madame Jolène’s reach.”

  “You really think it would be that easy?” I asked, my mind whirling faster than ever before with thoughts, dangerous thoughts.

  “A lot of Madame Jolène’s power comes from the impression that she has it,” Sophie said, unaware of my internal frenzy. “As it is now, though, the Fashion House is the only way to design.” She shut the magazine cover, but she didn’t pick up another one. She remained languidly lounging in the window seat. Though her body was loose and relaxed, she frowned, a line of focused attention rising between her brows. Abruptly, she looked at me. “Why?”

  “No reason,” I said quickly. What on earth was I thinking? I rubbed my aching forehead, the weight of the day descending on me. I was tired. Too tired. My anger made the idea of starting my own fashion house seem viable. But that’s all it was. An angry, exhausted fantasy. Even if it was possible, I didn’t have the means or knowledge necessary. I was new to the city, new to fashion.

  I picked up the straight pin from the floor and used it to secure my measuring tape in place on the silk. There was no time for daydreams.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE NEXT DAY, I had another press event—a knighting this time. I didn’t want to leave my silk or buttons in my chamber where someone could ruin them, so I tucked them into the rose-colored handbag assigned to my outfit and brought it with me. A few people eyed my bulging bag, but I ignored them. I’d been sabotaged once. It wasn’t going to happen again.

  The knighting included a formal dinner, so it was nighttime when I finally got into the coach to head back to the Fashion House. I struggled to work on my wedding gown in the coach, despite the way it jostled back and forth over the cobbled streets. I’d lost almost a whole day at the event.

  When I arrived at the Fashion House, I hurried up to my chamber, arms full of my silk wedding gown. There was still a bit of night left. Sophie, of course, wasn’t there, but sitting on my vanity were two white envelopes. I set the wedding gown down on the chaise longue. One envelope made sense. It would be my Fashion House pay. But the other one had a postage stamp in the corner.

  My mother.

  She had finally written me. A rush of tears sprang to my eyes, and I ran over to the vanity, snatching up the envelope so fast that I knocked over a small container of straight pins onto the floor.

  Only . . . the writing addressing it to me was a scratchy scrawl, nothing like my mother’s clear, even print. The ache flared up again, as strong as before. I lowered the envelope and the relieved tears in my eyes turned hot. For the first time since coming to the Fashion House, I couldn’t stop them, and they ran down my cheeks. I wiped them away, but they continued to spill down my face.

  I opened the envelope. There wasn’t a letter inside. Instead, there was a tourist card, the sort people buy as a souvenir on a trip. It was a glossy print of the train station, featuring the mural of Queen Catherine. Two stick figures—one a boy and the other a girl—were drawn crudely onto the image in graphite.

  I flipped it over, and the other side read,

  Emmy,

  I thought you might like to remember the mural. Also, I added us for posterity’s sake.

  —Tristan

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand and sat down on the vanity chair. I turned the card back over and stared at the two figures Tristan had sketched onto the picture. Slowly, a smile came over my face.

  He was a terrible artist. I didn’t know if it was an accident or not, but the stick people’s hands overlapped. My smile grew wider. I pictured him passing by one of those stands selling newspapers, maps, and postcards, his bright blue eyes landing on the mural card. It had made him think of me.

  I tucked the card into the vanity mirror so I could see it from anywhere in the chamber. With my eyes still fixed on it, I picked up the other envelope, the one with my pay, and slid the flap open. I was so preoccupied by thoughts of Tristan that I didn’t realize something was wrong for a few moments—that there wasn’t any money in it, just the usual white slip. I pulled the paper out, tearing the envelope in the process. Not a single bill was inside it. I read the slip.

  FASHION HOUSE INTERVIEW

  CONTESTANT: EMMALINE WATKINS

  COMPENSATION FOR ONE WEEK OF WORK

  DEDUCTIONS: BOARD, PRESS ATTIRE

  No pay at all? There had to be some mistake. I glanced at the clock. I knew Francesco and Madame Jolène dined together in her private apartments at the top of the Fashion House and that after the maids brought down their trays, they would have a glass of wine. If I went now, I could catch Francesco as he left Madame Jolène’s rooms, and he could make sure I was paid first thing in the morning.

  Then I could post the money to my mother right away.

  Quickly, I jumped to my feet. I clutched the envelope and slip in my hand, not bothering to use the banister as I rushed up the staircase. It led to the fifth floor, where Francesco’s rooms were located, but it didn’t go all the way up to Madame Jolène’s apartments. Only her private staircase went to the very top, and that was on the opposite side of the Fashion House.

  There was a small landing outside the double doors leading to Francesco’s chambers. A gas lamp gave off a weak yellow glow into the night, illuminating a zebra-hide rug, reminding me of his zebra pocket watch. The walls were covered in a bamboo print wallpaper. It gave the impression that an elephant or rhinoceros might emerge from between the stalks at any moment. I stood in the lamp’s small circle of light, my body tense and aching.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Francesco appeared on the landing, attired in a loose caftan with fur slippers. His cheeks were ruddy in the dim light and, upon seeing me, he held his arms out to me.

  “Emmaline,” he said, the thick smell of wine billowing with his breath. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” I raised the torn envelope and slip. “But I just got this and there wasn’t any money in it. I think there must have been a mistake.”

  The loose smile around his lips immediately disappeared and his chest rose and fell with a deep sigh.

  “There wasn’t a mistake. After the fashion deductions, there wasn’t any money left.”

  “Deductions?” My tenuous hold on my panic slipped even further. “But my contestant wardrobe was already taken out of the first payment.”

  “Yes. But we hadn’t tallied up your press attire yet, not to mention all the accessories. In fact, when we did, you actually owed us—quite a lot—but the Fashion House covered the rest.”

  “I owed the Fashion House?” I sputtered.

  “Well, yes,” Francesco said. “Couture is very expensive, and you need a new dress for every appearance. And we had to use outside ve
ndors for most of the hats and jewelry.”

  “This can’t be happening,” I said, more to myself than to him. Money was the last bridge between my mother and me. No, I hadn’t come to the Fashion House for the pay. But when I had it, I knew it would keep the bank at bay and ease those deep lines in my mother’s forehead. When I had it, I could justify leaving her all alone because I could still help her, still show her I loved her. “That was for the past week. Will I get paid again?”

  Francesco glanced down at the zebra hide at his feet, as though it might tell him the answer. “Things should calm down after the Parliament elections. Once they do, I’ll talk to Madame Jolène about reinstating your pay.”

  “And, until then, I work for free?”

  A long time ago, a neighbor woman had brought my mother her old china. She’d unpacked it on our kitchen counter, saying she was happy she could help others and that my mother didn’t need to thank her. I’d been just about table height then, and I was eye level to the chipped bowls, plates, and saucers she pulled out of her basket and placed on our counter.

  My mother had told her there was no need to thank her because we wouldn’t be keeping the china. The woman had gasped and sputtered, turning a strange shade of red. After she’d left—with the china packed back into her basket—my mother had bent down, put her hands on my shoulders and said, “We always have our dignity, Emmy. Always.”

  I’d allowed Madame Jolène to trot me out to the press. I’d smiled and nodded and eaten dry tea sandwiches at every luncheon, charity event, and dedication in Avon-upon-Kynt, even as my competition time was reduced to practically nothing. I’d worn pink, day in and day out. My sketches had been ruined and no one had even bothered to investigate; my brocade gown had been made without me even knowing. I’d fumed and fussed, but I’d gone on with my duties.

  Because that’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what was supposed to get me a chance to win the Fashion House Interview.

  “I know it’s frustrating,” Francesco said. “This isn’t an easy life for anyone. Not for me, not for you, not even for Madame Jolène. Just be patient, and time will sort everything out.”

  “You don’t understand. I need the money,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Madame Jolène about it tomorrow.”

  Francesco sucked in his breath, making his cheeks puff out. He held up both his hands, as though trying to stop me, even though I hadn’t moved a step since he’d arrived.

  “I wouldn’t suggest that. Madame Jolène is under a lot of pressure right now, and you should keep your head down. Just wait. Things will right themselves. They always do.” He paused. “It’s late. You should be getting your rest.”

  He brushed aside a stray strand of hair from my face. The gesture reminded me of my mother and made my throat compress. I knew I ought to thank him—he’d always been so kind to me—but, for the moment, I needed to get away.

  I should have gone back to my chamber, but I didn’t want to sit there on my vanity stool or lie in my bed, surrounded by Fashion House lavishness. I needed to walk. I needed to think. Grabbing up fistfuls of my pink skirts, I wanted to tear the dress off my body.

  I went down the staircase and passed my floor. Then, halfway down to the lobby, I stopped and sank down onto the steps. In the darkness, it seemed as though the stairs went on forever in both directions.

  Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them, my back against the railing. The Fashion House paintings loomed above my head, dark shapes against the wall. I could barely make out the images, but I knew I was sitting below the painting of Princess Amelia’s blue gown.

  How things had changed since the first time I’d passed beneath the painting. I’d known Madame Jolène didn’t want me at the Fashion House then—but I hadn’t known all the ways I’d be excluded.

  I sagged against the railing, its knobbiness hard against my shoulders. How could I stay here when I couldn’t design—and now wouldn’t even get paid? Yet how could I go anywhere else?

  Even though I could only see hints of blue paint picked up by the bit of light from the last landing, I stared up at the painting. Before, I’d seen it as my future: making gowns that shaped fashion. Now I knew the truth behind it. That it was a gorgeous gown that had empowered one woman and ruined the life of another—the duchess.

  If only there was another fashion house, one where I would be judged on my designs alone. But there wasn’t . . .

  If someone wore something new or if a collection started without funding from the bank, it could gain enough traction to evade Madame Jolène’s reach.

  . . . unless I made one.

  Earlier, when I’d thought about creating a fashion house, I’d dismissed the idea. I’d been angry. Tired. Irrational.

  But as I thought about it now, it seemed so bizarrely simple. Someone would need a well-known figure to wear their gown and get noticed by the press. They would have to start a collection without outside funding, and fast, before Madame Jolène knew about it.

  And—I did know someone. Well, not directly. But Tristan did. He’d told me so. He’d told me he was going to interview Cynthia, the blacklisted duchess. Everyone talked about her. Granted, they didn’t say very kind things, but attention was attention. If she wore an exquisite gown, something different, people would notice. And what had Tristan said? That the Eagle wasn’t under the thumb of the Crown? It certainly wasn’t a reputable paper, but everyone in Avon-upon-Kynt read it. He could write a story about Cynthia and feature her new gown. He said he always loved writing a breaking story, and this one was sure to fit the salacious nature of the Eagle. If they were resorting to writing about mermaids, then they would definitely want to write about real women with real feuds.

  But how could I contact her? Would she even agree to wear a dress by a no-name Fashion House Interview contestant? And how would I pay for the fabric?

  I violently shook my head. It was enough to dissipate the questions for the time being. One thing at a time. That’s what my mother always said when she was short on the mortgage and the sink was dripping and the stove broken. No matter how many obstacles she faced while running her business, she would somehow figure it out.

  I’d always thought that design was all I knew. But I’d spent my whole life watching my mother as she built her pub into a thriving establishment. Without realizing it, I’d seen firsthand what it took to create a business—and the freedom that came with it.

  First thing: I had to contact Tristan. I knew he worked at the Eagle—that was where I would go. Tomorrow was Saturday. Everyone would spend the day working on their wedding gowns. I would go then and see what Tristan thought about my plan.

  My plan. My racing mind settled around the thought, and I smiled into the darkness. Ever since arriving at the Fashion House, I’d been told where to go, what to do, and even what to wear—the architecture of my life plotted out by others. Yes, my plan was risky, but for once, I would answer to myself and my own will. Even though I was sitting completely still, my heart lifted in my chest, excited, breathless, skipping through its beats. The sensation rose through my body, the elated rush half dizzying lightheadedness, half intense focus.

  I’d felt that way once before. Right after I’d gone back into Madame Jolène’s tent at Evert and secured my spot at the Fashion House. It was the sort of feeling that only comes when great risks pay off. This plan hadn’t paid off yet, not in a measurable way. But I was more myself than I’d been since arriving here—and that was all I needed.

  Part II

  Chapter Twelve

  I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE hard to sneak out of the Fashion House, but it ended up being easier than I’d anticipated. I told Francesco I was coming down with a cold, and since I would be presented to the press at the gala, he told me to take a nap, saying, “Red noses don’t go with pink dresses. To bed with you, little scarecrow dresser.”

  As soon as I got to my chamber, I put on one of Sophie’s black capes, crept back down the stairs, and simply walked o
ut the front door like a client leaving an appointment. Once outside, I pulled the cape tightly around me, trying to hide my obnoxiously pink skirt.

  At some point, I really did need to talk to Francesco about getting a new wardrobe. All this pink was making me feel like a walking cupcake. I’d noticed the other girls found ways around Madame Jolène’s fashion edicts. Sophie, after all, wore black day in and day out. But then again, Sophie wasn’t a press pawn.

  The Fashion House sat directly on the street, unsheltered by gates or barriers. Leafy green ivy was neatly cropped around the long windows and, of course, around the FH insignia. Despite the dreary morning, the gold letters managed to pick up a few faltering rays of light. I’d never stood on the front steps of the Fashion House, or even on the sidewalk in front of it. When I attended events in the city, I was always picked up at the rear entrance. As I walked down the cobbled pathway toward the street, I wanted to pause and let the place seep into me through my feet, as though fashion magic ran through the ground. But shaking my head, I made myself walk briskly forward. I couldn’t get caught up in emotions, especially when I was about to do something akin to Fashion House blasphemy: attempt to contact a blacklisted client.

  “Do pardon me.” As I stood on the sidewalk, a Fashion House customer brushed by me. She inclined her head toward me and gave a polite smile even as she looked me over, sizing me up, trying to figure out if I was above or below her on the social ladder. She thought I was a Fashion House customer as well, someone wealthy enough to purchase couture.

  “Of course,” I murmured, and quickly ducked away down the sidewalk. Elegant black hacks with gold trim glided along the street like enchanted fairy-tale carriages. Most of them had small red flags attached to their doorknobs, indicating they were reserved for the day by a well-to-do customer. I saw one without a flag and quickened my pace so I was nearly jogging alongside it. I’d never hailed a hack before, and I waved my hand uncertainly at it. The driver noticed me from his position up in the back and pulled on the reins, drawing the hack to a stop. Stepping down, he opened the door and took my hand to help me into the cab.