A Dress for the Wicked
Page 17
“Where to, miss?” He bowed at the waist, his gaze averted. Like the other woman, he thought I was someone of note.
“I need to go to the offices of the Eagle.”
His eyebrows shot up and he straightened, lines of confusion spreading across his forehead.
“The Eagle, miss? Are you quite sure? That’s in the Republic District.”
“I’m sure.” I tried to sound confident, but his reaction shook me. Maybe I didn’t know what I was getting into. I involuntarily looked over my shoulder at the Fashion House.
“Very well. Do you have a companion?” A chaperone, he meant. Young single girls rarely traveled alone in the city.
“Not today.” Without waiting for his response, I stepped into the cab and settled on its velvet bench. The driver worriedly rubbed his hand over his face and then scratched his head. I stared straight ahead, pulling myself upright and hoping I appeared somewhat commanding. Madame Jolène and Sophie kept their spines as straight as broomsticks and their faces as frozen as ice. I adopted a similar countenance, imagining I really was someone with important business to attend and money to wield.
“All right, miss.” The driver shut the door and clambered up onto the back of the coach. It shifted with his weight, and he called to his horse. We started moving forward, and my hands shot out to grip the sides of the bench. I was really doing this. I really was being carried away from the Quarter District and to the underbelly of Avon-upon-Kynt.
“Miss!” the driver yelled to me through the window after about thirty minutes. “We’re about to leave the Quarter District. You’re certain this is where you want to go?”
“Yes,” I called back, placing a hand on the windowsill. The change in landscape was almost instantaneous as we entered the next district. Narrow brick buildings were crammed together, thin plumes of black smoke rising from smokestacks atop their roofs. Stalls made from splintery planks and stacked crates lined the streets, and vendors yelled out to the men and women bustling by in threadbare jackets, their shoulders bent against the chill.
In the Quarter District, nearly every business had a sign supporting a Fashion House Interview contestant. Here there were fewer, but if I looked, I could spot them. I noticed, with a rush of gratitude, that almost all of them were for me.
The clustered buildings and sewage in the streets were foreign to me. Shy was not a wealthy parish, but the people were proud. What little we had, we kept orderly. We didn’t have the architectural feats found in Avon-upon-Kynt, but we had open fields and forests. When I was a girl, my mother would sometimes take me to the fields just past our pub. We would lie down on a blanket and watch the clouds inch their way across the blue bowl of sky, finding different types of flowers and leaves in their shapes. We’d see a black willow leaf here, an amaryllis blooming there. The air smelled clean—not like rotting garbage and acrid smoke.
“We’re here, miss,” the hack driver called after we’d pushed through the streets for nearly an hour. He stopped the horses and climbed down from his seat to open the door. I stepped out, shivering. The chilly air had a bite to it. “That’s the office.”
He pointed with one gloved finger at a brick building. A sign hung from a rail protruding from just underneath the roof: THE EAGLE. There was, in literal fashion, an eagle painted onto the sign just underneath the text. It held a folded newspaper in its beak, and a sun rose behind its outstretched wings. The grand image was ironic considering the paper’s tendency to report on everything from extramarital affairs to ghosts.
“Be careful now. A fine girl like you has no business down here,” the driver said anxiously.
“I’m sure I’ll be all right.” I tried to sound firm, but my voice was swept away by the wind whistling down the street. He was right. I didn’t have any business down here. In fact, I was fairly certain I wasn’t even safe. There were two vagrants right outside the Eagle’s door, and they staggered into each other, one of them holding a bottle and the other flailing for it. I hesitated, ready to get back into the hack and tell the man to take me back to the Fashion House.
“Miss?” the driver prompted.
“Here.” I pressed a banknote into his hand, trying to make my movements assured. He climbed back on top of his hack, giving me one last apprehensive glance before snapping the reins over his horse’s back.
I paused for a moment, collecting myself.
“Hey, girlie!” One of the vagrants squinted at me. “What’s a fancy thing like you doing down here?”
“Come to see how the other half lives?” the other one asked, hiccupping violently and lifting the bottle up to take a sloppy drink.
Pulling my cloak tightly across my body, I walked toward the door. The two men struggled to right themselves as I approached, as if I was coming for them. I almost hesitated, but there were plenty of people around, and I couldn’t imagine they would try to hurt me in broad daylight.
“That’s a pretty dress.” Sticking his thick, dirty finger at my skirts, the first vagrant leered at me. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol emanated from him. The other one grabbed a fistful of my cloak, but I wrenched away from him.
“You think you’re too good for us?”
“Stop!” I struggled to grab the knob. “Let go!”
A few people walking by slowed to watch, but no one tried to intervene. Just as I jerked my cloak free, his other hand landed on my shoulder. I gave a petrified shriek and tried to shake him off, but his fingernails dug into my skin through my dress and cloak. His companion laughed.
“How about a kiss?” The one holding my shoulder sneered. Without even thinking, my hand balled into a fist and I cocked my free arm back from my shoulder.
“Let me go!” My fist shot forward and connected with his nose. Bright, red blood spurted from his nostrils, and he wheeled backward. His hand was still clamped around my shoulder, and his fingernails slashed down my arm as he crumpled to the ground.
With one swift motion, I reached for the door and dashed to safety inside the office. Once the door slammed shut behind me, I leaned against it, my chest heaving up and down.
I was standing in a poorly lit room. Several heavy wooden desks covered in sheets of white paper sat to my left. Each one had a light with a green shade and gold base. All the desks faced a gigantic chalkboard set on what had to be the largest easel in Avon-upon-Kynt. It was scrawled over with messy writing—phrases like “LIFE ON MARS?” “PARLIAMENT MEMBER LORD WILLIAM COTTEL SPOTTED AT THE THEATER WITH A PAINTED LADY,” and “MERMAID FOUND IN TYNE BREAKS HER SILENCE.” The room led directly into another, where an enormous printing press went all the way up to the ceiling. It whirred and clicked, its gears rotating and pumping a long line of newspapers out its far side. It looked like a metal monster that had somehow gotten itself trapped in an office building.
A tall man wearing a visor with a translucent green bill stood behind one of the desks, his fingers and hands smeared with ink. Three other men with untidy hair, cotton shirts, and corduroy trousers were next to him. They had been poring over a notebook on the desk, but upon my panicked entrance, they straightened up and stared at me, their eyebrows rising with confusion.
“Emmy?” I heard my name called over the squeaks and shrills of the printing press. Tristan stood up from where he’d been hidden behind the far side of the easel. Like the other men, his hair was a mess, his collar undone, and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. He was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all day.
“Are you all right?” He hurried over to me. “You’re bleeding!”
I glanced down at my sleeve. Red droplets of blood stained the fabric of my dress right at my shoulder. That vagrant had gouged me with his fingernails. The thought of him—of his disgusting odor and gnarled hands—racked my body with a shudder.
“I had a run-in with a gentleman outside,” I said, my voice quavering.
“With who?” Tristan’s eyes instantly darkened until they were nearly a different color. “Is he still there?”
His hands tightened into fists, and an angry, blue vein rose to the surface of his arm.
“He’s gone,” I said quickly. The last thing I needed was for this to become any bigger than it already was. I had the fearful thought of seeing a new headline scrawled across the chalkboard: “MADAME JOLÈNE’S COUNTRY CONTESTANT ATTACKED IN THE CITY BY HOMELESS PIRATE.” I wanted to make headlines, but in quite a different way.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, let’s get this taken care of. Are you here alone?”
I noticed the other men listening closely, their faces alert with interest. I could only imagine they were used to chasing every story possible. Worry edged out the panic from before. Yes, I needed the Eagle to make my plan succeed, but it would only work if everything was timed correctly. If they mentioned anywhere in the paper that I’d been seen down here, I’d be as homeless as the vagrants outside in two seconds flat.
“Don’t worry about my shoulder. I need to talk to you. Can we go somewhere else?” I murmured.
Tristan nodded immediately. “Of course. There’s a pub nearby. It isn’t nearly as nice as anything in the Quarter District, but it’s decent enough. You’re sure your shoulder is all right?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
“I’ll take a look at it once we get to the pub.”
Just as he spoke, there was a rap on the door behind me. For a second, I thought it was the vagrant, trying to get in. The thought of seeing his leering face made my stomach turn. I quickly stepped aside as the knob turned and it swung open. I expected to see the vagrant’s yellowed eyes and to be enveloped in his stink.
Instead, a well-dressed man stepped into the office. He was wearing an embossed black suit with a black overcoat, matching top hat, and neckerchief tied in a gigantic bow. As was the current style, he held a skinny black walking stick in one hand. Like me, he obviously did not belong in the Republic District. He strode to the middle of the room and surveyed the space, as though it and everything in it belonged to him. His attention landed on me, first focusing on my cloak, then my pink dress underneath, and lastly, my face. His lips twitched—in a way I’d seen before.
He was the man from the library dedication, the one who’d asked about Sophie. What was his name? Taylor. Mr. Alexander Taylor. I buried my hands in my cloak, remembering the sensation of oily lotion moistening my palms.
“Ah, the Fashion House’s little country girl. You’ve been out and about lately—I was worried Madame Jolène would keep you locked up at the Fashion House, but she’s done just what we asked.” Gone was the look of boredom that he’d had the last time he saw me—though the arrogance remained. His gaze leisurely ran the length of my body. “So, tell me, have you spoken with Miss Sophie Sterling yet?”
A new sort of fear, this one somehow more insidious than the terror I’d felt outside the office, came swiftly over me. Mutely, I shook my head.
“Funny.” He moved toward me, his steps as slinking and agile as a wolf’s. The men in the office fell silent, watching us. “Considering she’s your roommate.”
The color left my face—I could feel it draining away. As he approached, his dark form seemed to block out everyone and everything else in the office with its expanse.
“You don’t know how things work in the city,” he said, “so it’s best you learn this quickly: I brought you here, and I can just as easily have you sent away.”
A hand closed around my upper arm, and I let out a yelp of terrified surprise, twisting around to see Tristan behind me.
“Emmy is none of your concern,” he said, his eyes fixed on Mr. Taylor’s face. Gently, he moved me aside so he could step in front of me. Tension radiated from him, creating taut lines down his neck, arms, and shoulders. Mr. Taylor was much taller than Tristan, and he smiled condescendingly down at him.
“Calm down, Grafton,” he said. “I was just welcoming the country girl to the city. After all, she has the Reformists Party and me to thank for even being here. Now, I have business with you. Come, let’s talk.”
He moved off to the side of the room, away from the other reporters. He didn’t check to see if Tristan was following.
“This won’t take long,” Tristan said to me. “Do you mind waiting just a moment?”
I nodded, glad that Mr. Taylor’s attention was now on him instead of me. Tristan walked over to where Mr. Taylor waited near the printing press.
“There’s going to be a protest at the gala.” Mr. Taylor didn’t preface his news. He spoke quietly, but I could still hear him, just barely. “Nothing violent, of course. Just a few concerned Parliament members and some allies. But I thought you might want to come, considering you often cover such things.”
I listened, startled enough to forget my unease. A protest at the gala? Certainly, things were tense between Parliament, the Crown, and the Fashion House, but a protest?
“Was this something you orchestrated?” Tristan asked. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared up at Mr. Taylor, undaunted by the bigger man. “Hardly seems like something a government official should be involved in.”
“I care only about results, Grafton. How I get them is inconsequential.”
Despite his obvious dislike of Mr. Taylor, a thoughtful look entered Tristan’s eyes.
“You know the queen is close to Madame Jolène. In fact, she’ll be an honored guest at the gala.”
“This country has been ruled by the queen and her old ways long enough,” Mr. Taylor said. His low tone was tense, passionate. “The Reformists Party is ruled by the future. The protest must happen.”
Tristan nodded briskly, his hand diving into his pocket for a notepad. He quickly wrote something on it.
“All right.” He returned to his previous posture, staring up at Mr. Taylor, shoulders and chest squared. “You’ve delivered your message. I think it’s time to go.”
Mr. Taylor considered Tristan for a long moment, and then, with a smooth movement, replaced his top hat and brandished his walking stick.
“Whatever our differences, you’ll do well to align with me.” He walked past Tristan, brushing hard against his shoulder as he moved into the center of the room. “You’ll all do well to align with the Reformists Party,” he said, speaking louder to address everyone in the office.
The reporters glanced up at him, perplexed by the sudden, impromptu announcement. Unperturbed, Mr. Taylor made his way to the door, stepping outside with fluid grace.
“I hope he gets pickpocketed,” one of the reporters said as soon as the door closed behind him.
“It would serve him right, the way he walks around like he owns the place.” Another reporter joined in.
“How about we get some air?” Tristan made his way over to me. I nodded.
Tristan gestured toward the back door, and, relieved to be heading in the opposite direction from Mr. Taylor and the vagrants, I followed him out of the office.
We headed up the narrow alleyway behind the Eagle. Tristan offered me the crook of his arm as we stepped around the broken cobblestones and puddles of sewage. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up, and his bare skin was hot, his muscles flexing underneath my fingers.
“Who exactly is that man? I met him before, at a library dedication.”
“Mr. Taylor? He’s a patron of the arts and a Parliament member—very wealthy but untitled. He’s become the unofficial leader of the Reformists Party.”
“I don’t like him.”
“I don’t either,” Tristan said grimly. We walked a few paces, both of us quiet. Then I said, “I got your postcard.”
“Did you like it?” He glanced at me, his eyes nervous.
“I did.”
That made him smile all the way to the end of the alley, where we turned left. A pub sat right on the corner. THE PRINCE REGENT, the sign read. Tristan held the door for me. I let go of his arm t
o step inside, but I held on for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Inside the pub, friendly sights, smells, and sounds arose from every corner.
Hello, old friend, I thought. Heavy-handled pint glasses clinked and clunked, and the sweet smell of beer filled my nose with every inhale. A burly man was working behind the bar, filling a pint with Guinness. His motions—the way he pulled the tap and tilted the glass so a perfect white foam built over the liquid—were second nature to me.
I could easily imagine my mother moving about this pub. Yes, it was much gloomier than the Moon on the Square, but I could see her tending the bar, chatting with the customers, coming up to relieve me so I could take a break in the back even though she never did.
“Here, sit down.” Tristan motioned me to a booth built into the wall. I slid into it, glad to focus on something other than my mother. He sat down next to me. The bench was short, and our elbows brushed against each other. The warmth of his skin and the smell of his aftershave were intoxicating. “First things first.”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and eased aside the black cape so he could see my shoulder. Carefully, he started to dab at the blood. Even though his movements were assured and deliberate, his touch was a whisper, soft and gentle.
“It’s fine,” I said. His breath lightly tickled my cheek.
“It looks like a cat mauled you,” he said, his attention fixed on my shoulder. “That man ought to be arrested.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
Tristan raised his head then, and his blue eyes met mine, our faces impossibly close. I could just lean forward the tiniest bit and our lips would meet and—
Oh my. I looked away then. If I hadn’t, I would’ve been lost to him—his blue eyes, his fingers gently moving about my shoulder. I forced myself to straighten up and move back so we weren’t practically nose to nose.
“It’s strange,” I said, making my tone conversational. “There were so many people around me, but no one helped. That would never happen in Shy.”